Her Passionate Plan B (5 page)

Suffice it to say that
dragon
was hardly the word that came to mind.

They worked surprisingly well as a team. Having been treated for various sports-related injuries, Kell had seen the way nurses slapped tools into the palm of an attending physician. He wasn't particularly eager to have her slap anything in his hands, especially not a hammer, nails or a screwdriver, so he selected a few basic tools and tucked them under his belt, took a deep breath and started climbing.

Three rungs from the top he braced himself, held on and shifted his weight experimentally, waiting to see if
the ladder was going to settle any deeper into the damp earth. Eyeing the nearby stained-glass window, he called down, “She's one fancy house, all right. Tall, too.”

Daisy was watching him, shading her eyes with a slate shingle she'd picked up from the debris on the ground. “Be careful up there,” she warned.

“I'm always careful. What'd you say it was called, Victorian?”

“I didn't say.” Then, as if relenting, she said, “Gothic. I think.”

“Ri-ight, that's what I thought it was.” When it came to architecture, he didn't know Gothic from gator eggs.

Kell knew better than to look down. Truth was, he wasn't that great on heights. A pitcher's mound was about as high as he felt comfortable unless he was flying, preferably first class, preferably in an aisle seat and preferably with a shot of single-malt whisky in hand to settle his nerves.

Daisy steadied the ladder with both hands while he reached out to unscrew the single screw holding the gutter to the eaves. He called down to warn her to stand back just as the screw came loose and the section of copper gutter fell to the ground.

“Ouch!”

Kell twisted around to see what had happened. When the ladder tilted under him he let out a yell and sailed off to one side. They both ended up on the damp ground, with Daisy frowning at a ten-inch scrape on the outside of her leg where the falling gutter had grazed her. Kell massaged his butt and pulled out the cluster of pecans he'd landed on. The yard was littered with the damned things.

“You okay?” he asked.

“What were you doing, trying to amputate my leg?”

“I warned you to stand back.”

“You warned me after the thing was already falling.”

He stood up, flexed his limbs to be sure they were still working, then held out a hand. “Sorry, I guess my timing was off. Gutter work's a little out of my line.”

Ignoring his hand, she stood and then leaned over to examine her injury. “I'd better go put something on this. Did you break any bones when you fell?”

“I didn't fall, I jumped.” He followed her into the house. “That thing's probably going to stiffen up on you once it starts healing.”

“Jumped, ha! Nice six-point landing, though.”

“Two feet plus two hands equals four, not six. Do the math.”

“You left out the two cheeks,” she quipped, slipping through the back door he held open. Glancing over her shoulder, she grinned. “Hope you didn't bruise anything valuable.”

Well, what do you know? The lady had a sense of humor after all. He liked that in a woman, he really did. He'd been right about that mouth of hers, too. Without a lick of paint on it, she had a smile that could melt steel-belted radials.

Kell asked if she was up on her tetanus shots and she withered him with a look. “I
am
a nurse,” she reminded him. “What are you, by the way? You never did say.”

“Hungry, at the moment. Kinda tired, too, come to think of it. It's been a long day.” He didn't feel like getting into his life story, it only complicated things. He ei
ther came off sounding like a failure or a braggart, and actually, he was neither.

“Where are you staying?” Daisy uncapped a bottle of Betadine and studied the scrape on her leg.

“I spent last night at a motel out on the highway. I'm not sure, but I think the owner's name is Bates.” He leaned against a counter and watched as she carefully mopped the raw area with a damp cotton ball. “Maybe you can recommend another place, preferably one near a decent restaurant.”

“There's a motel in town, but it's been closed ever since the storm. Something about a mold problem.”

“What about restaurants? Most of the ones I saw looked closed, too. Don't folks around here eat?”

She capped the bottle and set it aside. “Most of them live around here. They don't have to rely on restaurants. There are some nice ones in Elizabeth City—motels, too. That's only about eighteen or twenty miles on the other side of Muddy Landing.”

“Yeah, I found that out when I was exploring the countryside late last night, looking for the Muddy Landing city limits.”

“Oh.” She glanced at him, then looked away, almost as if she was embarrassed by the fact that he was hungry and homeless and it was growing dark outside.

Kell did his best to look hungry and homeless until finally she broke. “Oh, for goodness' sake, I suppose if you'd like to you could spend the night here. There's certainly enough room.”

He barely managed to suppress his triumph when Faylene came in, bristling with mops, feather dusters and cleaning rags. “Plenty of rooms upstairs,” the
housekeeper declared. “None of 'em made up, but I guess I could dig out some sheets. Daisy, my bingo's at seven and I need to run home and change first, so if you're lettin' him stay, I'll do up that corner room.” She measured him with narrowed eyes. “It's got that big ol' bed. I 'speck it'll fit him all right.”

“Thanks, I really appreciate that,” Kell said before the offer could be withdrawn. “I was thinking about buying a camper and some bedding just so I could get a decent night's sleep.”

Daisy knew the minute the invitation left her lips that she'd spoken too hastily. The way she reacted to this man on a purely physical level was totally illogical. “Although I suppose I really should check with Egbert first,” she murmured.

He barely hesitated before saying, “Blalock? Good idea. By now he's probably checked out my bona fides. Mind if I help myself to a glass of water?”

The crazy thing was, she knew very well she was being manipulated, only she couldn't quite figure out how he was doing it. How could any man who looked like a cross between George Clooney and that Joe Millionaire Evan Marriott elicit sympathy simply by asking a simple question about motels?

While Faylene put away her cleaning gear, Daisy leaned against the refrigerator and watched him down the glass of ice water he'd poured for himself. All right, so he was tall and well built—what was so unusual about that? And blue eyes were hardly uncommon. They only seemed that way because of his deep tan and his jet-black hair—not to mention eyelashes any woman would envy. As for his body—

She was a nurse, for heaven's sake. She
knew
what men's bodies looked like. Just because those old jeans of his worn low on his narrow hips happened to bag in all the right places and hug in a few others, that didn't mean what they concealed was all that special. Underneath his clothes he was probably bowlegged, chicken-breasted and hairless.

In fact, some men actually worked at being hairless to the point of shaving their heads and waxing their bodies. Personally, she'd always liked a moderate amount of hair on a man's body.

Good Lord, her brain had been taken over by an alien. “What?” she snapped.

“I said, maybe I could buy you dinner?” He set his glass in the sink. “In exchange for a place to sleep, I mean? Or we could order takeout if you're too tired to go out. I can pick it up if delivery's a problem out here.”

Daisy dropped down onto a chair, wincing as the wound on the side of her left leg protested. “I told you everything's still closed since the storm. That includes the ones that do takeout.”

“Never mind, then. I'm not really hungry. A bed I don't hang off of will be fine. This has been a long day.”

Well, shoot. If he was going to be nice about it—“Look, if you don't mind fried chicken, I've got some soaking in buttermilk in the refrigerator that needs to be cooked. How good are you at making salad?”

K
ell was a wizard at making salads, especially when the greens were bagged and the other ingredients lined up in order. Dutifully, he chopped sweet onions and bell peppers, hearing behind him the sound of hot grease spattering in a cast-iron skillet. Faylene popped in to say the room was all ready. “ESPN! I knew I'd seen you somewheres before. If she's frying chicken, make her use bacon grease, else she'll use that canoodle oil. Stuff don't have no flavor a-tall.”

“It's canola, and you'd better hurry or you'll miss your bingo,” Daisy said, but she was smiling. The two women might have different ideas of what constituted a sensible diet, but they obviously liked each other.

“My dad used to like greens boiled with bacon. Mom used to cook up a potful two or three times a week. She was a barrel racer, did I tell you that? Of course, that was
before I came along. She was known for her bean bread, too. Best in all Oklahoma.”

“Bean bread?”

They discussed the nonthreatening topic of food while Kell divided the salad between two bowls. He glanced around for whatever else needed doing just as Daisy bent over to drag something out of a lower cabinet, offering him a clear view of the back of her thighs.

There was something intimate about a woman's tan line, he mused. Most of the women he knew well enough to be familiar with their tan lines didn't have any. Daisy's tan line was about midway on her thighs.

He reminded himself that Daisy's tan line, no matter how provocative, was none of his business. At least she didn't wear stockings with her shorts like the other one. Now, there was one weird lady.

Realizing she'd caught him staring, Kell blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Legs—ah, limbs. Tree limbs, I mean. Lots of trees around here. I'll bet Uncle Harvey climbed 'em all when he was a kid. He ever talk to you about the old days?”

Without replying, she placed another drumstick in the hot grease, jumping back when it spattered. “Watch it,” he warned. “Stuff can do you some major damage. I knew a guy that got hot grease splashed in his eye.”

“Well, gee, I forgot my safety goggles.” The words dripped sarcasm, but he had her number now. Her bite wasn't nearly as bad as her bark.

Hips braced against a countertop, he crossed his legs at the ankles, watching her work. “Blalock mentioned that you'd been here for more than a year. I expect you and Uncle Harvey got to know each other pretty well.
He happen to tell you any stories about when he was a kid? Most old folks like to talk about the good old days.”

Hell, he didn't know what old folks liked to talk about. His former teammates liked to talk about cars, golf scores and women. As for the kids he worked with, they mostly bragged about what they were going to do—everything from joining the marines to building the world's biggest airplane.

Which reminded Kell that he needed to get on with finding whatever there was to be found here, if anything. This dilapidated old mansion might not look much like the double-wide where Evander Magee had spent his last fifteen years and Kell had spent his first fourteen, but if there was anything here of his dad's, he intended to find it. He didn't have so much as a snapshot of either his mom or his dad. Those had burned along with everything else—his mom's trophies, the long-legged, long-billed birds his dad had whittled that shared space with a bunch of flowered plates and cups in the corner cabinet between the living room and the dining area. He couldn't really see his dad living in a house like this, but he'd like a few more days to try and get a better feel for it.

“Your uncle—that is, Mr. Snow, was physically unable to do much tree-climbing. He was born with rheumatoid arthritis. Are you finished with the salad?”

Kell waited a long, stunned moment. “You mean he was a—”

“He was a wonderful man who couldn't climb trees. Seeing you on a ladder, I'd say you weren't much good at tree-climbing, either. Now, is the salad ready?”

“Already on the table.” If he was going to make the
most of his time here, he needed to choose his topics carefully. Evidently a few areas were off-limits. “I was just thinking about some of my dad's stories about hunting bear in the Dismal Swamp. Back then, I didn't even know where the Dismal Swamp was located. Did Uncle Harvey ever mention anything about bear hunting? I doubt if it's something a guy would do alone.”

He didn't know if it was or not. Maybe if a guy needed to put meat on the table for his family…

On the other hand, folks who lived in fancy three-story houses probably didn't run short of groceries between paychecks.

“Better watch that stuff,” he said just as Daisy jumped back and grabbed her arm. She swore softly and so did Kell as he pulled her away from the danger zone. “Dammit, I warned you. Here, let me see what you've done to yourself.”

“I'm all right,” she protested, twisting away.

Holding on to her shoulders, he peered around to see the bare forearm she was clutching in front of her body. “Uh-oh, that one's going to blister.” Leading her to the sink, he turned on the faucet and held her forearm under the stream of cold water. “You got anything to put on it?”

She shot him a look that reminded him he was here on sufferance, as if he needed reminding. With her hair tickling his chin, he inhaled sharply and then had to wonder how a blend of roses and bacon grease could put him in mind of warm nights and hot, tangled sheets.

“Turn the chicken for me, will you? I'll be back in time to take it up.” She twitched her shoulders free of his hands, shoved the fork at him and headed for the door, still clutching her forearm just above the angry red burn.

Kell stared after her, liking the way she moved. Liking even more the feel of her body against his. This made twice now. He was starting to look forward to the scent of her hair and the way her body felt—the contrast between softness and firmness. If he reacted this way after only a few hours in her company, he just might have a problem by the time he headed West again. A smart man, he reminded himself, would clear out before he got hooked.

Laying aside the table fork she'd been using to turn the pieces of chicken, he searched through drawers until he found a long-handled cooking fork. Speaking of smart, any woman smart enough to be a nurse should know enough to use the right tool for the job. While he'd never claimed to be a handyman, even he knew better than to use a short-handled tool to do a long-handled job.

The chicken was browned to a turn by the time Daisy returned. Shoving him aside, she lifted each piece out and placed it on papers to drain. Leaning against the refrigerator, Kell noticed that she'd taken the time to braid her hair in a single rope that was already coming apart. Unruly hair, he mused. What else about her refused to obey the rules?

Her face was damp. Evidently she'd splashed it off, but she hadn't bothered to do any more than that. Not that she needed to. While she might not be the most beautiful woman in the world, something about her definitely made an impression.

An impression. Right. Like a big white light coming at him in a dark tunnel.

One more thing a smart man should know—to get the hell out of the way or else prepare to face the consequences.

They ate in the kitchen. Kell had yet to see a dining room, but there probably was one. Houses like this might even have two, one for family, one for company.

“I suppose you need to check out of wherever it is you're staying,” Daisy said.

Kell cut off a bite of white meat. Man, did she ever know how to fry chicken. “Uh, actually, I already did that. I'd planned to find someplace with bigger beds and softer pillows.” And maybe a gray-eyed, streaky-haired blonde to share it with me.

She glanced up then, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. He felt his face growing warm. “How many rooms did you say there were?” he asked hastily. “We never got around to finishing the tour.”

Get your mind out of the bedroom, Bubba.

“Just the usual,” she said, drizzling balsamic vinegar on her salad.

“That many, huh?” Okay, so he'd try again. Somewhat to his surprise he was far more interested in her reactions to his questions than he was in the actual answers. A house was a house was a house.

But a woman was an eternal mystery. “Do porches count as rooms?” he asked, wondering whether or not to reach for another drumstick.

“If you want to count them. Five rooms downstairs, not counting the porches, the kitchen or servants' quarters. Actually, that's only a small bedroom and a half bath with a shower.”

“Why wouldn't you count those?” Was there another conversation going on underneath the words spoken, or was it only his imagination?

She shrugged. “Count them if you want to, it hardly
matters.” She reached for her second piece of chicken and so did he.

Kell liked that in a woman—a healthy appetite. Made him wonder about her appetite in other areas.

The moment they finished, Daisy stood and started collecting the dishes. Kell lifted them from her hands. “Let me,” he said, his voice dropping half an octave. “You don't want to splash your arm.” Without thinking, he'd lapsed into the honeyed tones he used to use on attractive, available women before he'd become famous enough not to need any special tactics.

Funny thing, he mused—the good old days no longer seemed all that great.

“You mentioned bear hunting,” Daisy said as she moved around the kitchen, putting away the condiments and wiping off the table. “I think there might've been a stuffed bear's head in the library until a few years ago.” She was moving fast and talking fast, almost as if she was trying to outrun something…or someone.

“What happened to it?” He turned on the hot water, squirted a stream of liquid detergent on a plate and scoured it with the sponge. When he held it under the faucet to rinse, water splashed across the front of his shirt.

Her lips quivered on the edge of a smile. “The bear's head? I never actually saw it, but there's a lighter place on the north wall where something big used to hang. Faylene's been working here for years, and now that I think about it, I seem to remember her mentioning a bear's head that was taken down when it got the mange, or whatever happens to stuffed animals. Moths, probably.”

“If Uncle Harvey didn't shoot it, maybe my dad did. I think he was only about sixteen when he left here, but
that's old enough to hunt.” Kell dried the last of the silverware—heavy pieces with an
S
on the handle. “Hmm,” he said, holding up an ornate salad fork. “An
M
would have been nice, but I guess that's too much to hope for.”

Daisy felt almost sorry for the man. If Kell wanted to find some connection to a place, a man or a family, who was she to deny him? It was only smart to learn about your genetic background. Not that she was particularly eager to meet the woman who had given birth to her thirty-six years ago. The woman who kept her for nearly three years before abandoning her in the ladies' room of a shopping mall with a note pinned to her snow-suit that read, “Her name is Daisy and I can't keep her.” She'd been adopted soon after that, but that hadn't worked out, either.

Kell's voice dropped back into that same chocolate-covered-gravel range he'd tried on her before. “How you feeling now? Does your arm hurt? Leg stiffening up on you?”

Daisy knew what he was up to. Trying to soften her up so she'd let him poke and pry until he found something he could twist into an excuse to hang around until he was declared a legitimate heir and could compete with the historical society for whatever was left. In this case it would be loser take all. Between age, more than a century of storms and what she suspected were termites, it was going to take a fortune to keep the place from crumbling into the ground. Thank goodness it wasn't her worry. Kell, Egbert and the historical society could fight it out.

Straightening away from the counter, she refrained
from glancing at her two injuries. She really must be tired. She'd never been particularly accident-prone before. “I'm feeling just fine,” she said briskly. “Thank you.”

He shot her a skeptical look as he draped the dish towel over the rack and smoothed it out. Rather than meet his eyes, she watched his hands straightening the damp linen to military precision. He really did have nice hands. Square palms, long fingers, clean, neatly trimmed nails.

Not that there was anything at all wrong with Egbert's hands, she quickly reminded herself. They were exactly what one would expect of a white-collar worker: pale, soft—softer than hers, in fact—and flawlessly manicured.

“I don't know about the hunting regulations around here, but even if my dad was too young to get a license, I'm pretty sure he never broke any serious laws. He was basically a good guy.”

And so are you, Daisy admitted silently, surprising herself with the thought. “How many times have you washed dishes before this?”

“What, you're not impressed by my technique?” He teased her with a smile and she stared, mesmerized, at his mouth.

“Technique. Is that what you call it? Squirting each piece individually with detergent and then holding it under the faucet to rinse?”

“Hey, if I was doing something wrong, you should've told me.”

“I didn't say it was wrong, only different.”

“You don't like my style. That hurts.”

“I doubt it,” she said dryly. The trouble was, she
liked his style a little too much, considering she'd known him only a matter of hours. Inviting him to stay had definitely been a mistake. Evidently being physically tired and emotionally drained was starting to affect her judgment.

She'd give him tonight, she vowed silently. Tomorrow she'd find some way to uninvite him.

They reached for the light switch at the same time. Their fingers brushed and she snatched hers back.
Damn, damn, damn!