Love Came Just in Time (37 page)

Yes, she recognized that hair the color of sable, those spring green eyes, and the rugged, handsome face. Worn jeans hugged slim hips and long, muscular legs. A long-sleeved rugby shirt revealed muscular arms and a broad chest—and probably hid a nice, flat belly. It was a hard body, one she had only glimpsed in the general store, one she had actually thought might serve as tasty dream fodder later in front of the fire.

And then full realization hit.

Sam was anything but a Samantha.

“You!” she squeaked.

Sydney fled into the bathroom. “What in the hell are you doing here?” she shouted.

“Me?” the man yelled back. “What in the hell are
you
doing here?”

Sydney locked the door. Then she put the clothes hamper in front of it for good measure.

“This is
my
house!”

“Your house?” her unwelcome greenhorn responded, sounding more annoyed than he should have, given the circumstances. “Lady, you're losing it. You might be Sydney's girlfriend, but you can still haul your butt right out of that bathroom and get moving because he's not here right now to clean you up!”

Sydney couldn't believe her ears. “You idiot,
I'm
Sydney Kincaid and this is
my
house.”

“You're Sydney Kincaid? But Joe told me—”

Sydney wanted to scream in frustration. It was pure frustration, not fear. No, she wasn't afraid. She was never afraid. She'd faced down three grizzly bears, four groups of chauvinistic city boys, and an army of wilderness inconveniences and come out on top. A tenderfoot writer from New York was nothing compared to what she'd been up against. She pulled the rifle down from its hook over the commode, loaded it with the shells hiding in the empty can of Noxzema, and pointed it at the door.

“Joe's an old fool and I'll give him a piece of my mind just as soon as you get out of my house so I can get dressed,” she said, putting her no-nonsense-now-boys edge in her voice. “Beat it.”

“Look, lady, I've got rent paid up through December—”

“I'll give it back.” She didn't want to say it, because she certainly couldn't afford to be without a boarder over the winter. And damn Joe if he hadn't given Sam a cut rate that guaranteed Sydney would have to keep him on or starve. Her guide services were pricey, but not pricey enough to feed her much past February. She took a deep breath. “Just get your stuff and go.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” came the annoyed growl. “And since I'm going to be staying, I suggest you start wearing a few more clothes on your way to the bathroom.”

Sydney clamped her teeth together and swore silently. She cursed some more as she propped the rifle against the side of the tub and started the shower. She cursed her father for having put only one bathroom in the cabin. She cursed whatever quirk of fate had brought Samuel, not Samantha, MacLeod to Alaska to move his annoying self into her house. She cursed her situation, because she would most definitely have to make Sam go and that would leave her wallowing in very dire straits indeed.

And she finally, and most thoroughly, cursed Joe for allowing Sam into her house.

Because, despite his convenient cover as owner and operator of Smith's Dry Goods and Sundries, Joe was first and foremost a matchmaker.

And she knew she was number one on his hit list.

“DAMN WOMAN,” SAM grumbled as he flipped a chunk of butter into the pot of drained potatoes. “First she tracks mud in this morning”—he dumped in a splash of milk—“then she leaves all her gear stinking up the front room”—he jammed the beaters into the mixer—“then she does a strip-tease with clothes that ought to be burned, not washed.” He turned the mixer on and savagely beat the potatoes to a pulp. “As if I had time to baby-sit a barbarian!”

“What are you still doing here?”

The voice was as smooth and husky as whiskey and immediately brought to mind the vision of a cozy evening spent cuddling in front of the fire on a fur rug. Sam turned off the mixer and shook his head, amazed that such an appealing voice could belong to such an unappealing woman. He wanted to get to know Sydney Kincaid about as much as he wanted to get to know the porcupine that ambled across the front yard every now and then. He turned, prepared for battle.

And forgot every word of the speech he'd thrown together over the past half hour.

It was no wonder she hid under all that mud. Her hair was as dark as midnight, her skin flawless and not needing a speck of makeup to enhance its beauty. Sam put down the mixer and walked over to her, mesmerized. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so affected by the sight of a woman in a ratty bathrobe. Without thinking about it further, he put his hand under her chin, lifted her face up, and bent his head to kiss her.

And then he froze at the feel of something hard against his belly. He really wanted to believe it was the belt of her robe. Really.

“Get your hands off me,” she said in a low, rather unnervingly calm voice.

“Sure thing,” he said, lifting his hands and backing away slowly. “Don't shoot. That thing isn't loaded, is it?”

“Want to find out?”

He smiled weakly. “I'm right in the middle of cooking dinner. Filet mignon. Know what that is?”

The sound of the gun being cocked echoed in the stillness of the kitchen.”

“I guess you do,” he conceded. “Are you hungry?”

“Starved. And I get kind of cranky when I'm starved.”

“Yes, I can imagine that's true,” he said, wondering how in the world such a good-looking woman could have such a bad temper. He backed up until the counter stopped him. “Think you could put that gun away?”

She gave him an assessing glance. “Why would I want to? It isn't as if you've been very gentlemanly.”

“Well, how does ‘I can't cook under stress' sound?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you make that chocolate cake I saw today, or did you buy it?”

“I made it.”

She considered, then lowered the gun. “You won't try anything?”

The barrel was level with his groin. He looked quickly at her face and knew she realized just where she was pointing her weapon. He shook his head vigorously.

“Wouldn't think of it.”

The gun was uncocked, then lowered. “Well, then. I'm going back to change. You finish cooking.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

With a toss of her shoulder-length, unbelievably silky looking hair, she walked out of the room. Sam leaned back against the counter and blew out his breath. Sydney Kincaid was definitely not what he'd been expecting.

He finished the mashed potatoes, pulled the steaks out from under the broiler, tossed a salad, and hastily set the table. He was just pouring water into glasses when Sydney came back into the room. She sat down at the table and started to eat. Sam couldn't believe what he was seeing. He walked around the counter and plunked down a glass of water in front of her.

“Haven't you ever heard of waiting until everyone is sitting at the table before you start eating?”

“Got to get it while it's hot,” she said, her mouth full. “And before anyone else gets to it. It's the only way to survive in the wild.”

“Well, this is civilization. We can reheat things in the microwave here.”

She ignored him. Which was just as well, to Sam's mind, because he was still trying to figure out just what in the hell he was going to do for the next three months, living with a woman whose face said “touch me” and whose actions said “do it and I'll geld you.” Oh, why had he ever decided Alaska would be a nice place to hide and write?

He really should have headed for California. Nice, warm beaches overflowing with women whose come-hither looks probably meant come hither. Trying to second-guess Miss Wilderness was too complicated for his poor overworked brain. All he wanted was to go back to his room, turn on his computer, and deal with characters he had control over. The character sitting across from him was way out of his league.

“This is all there was?”

Sam blinked at the sight of her empty plate. He looked at his housemate and blinked again.

“Where did you put it all?”

“I haven't eaten a decent meal in almost four months. Are you going to finish yours? No? Well, I'll do it for you.”

Sam watched as his plate was removed from under his nose. She finished his supper, then sat back with a sigh.

“I'm going to sleep now,” she said, putting her hand over her mouth and yawning. “Don't be here when I get up.”

“Look,” he began, “I signed a contract . . .”

“You also let a who knows what into my garage, screwed up my water heater, and cleaned my house. If that wasn't breach of contract, I don't know what is.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“I never kid.” She rose. “I sleep with a gun, so don't think about trying anything funny.”

“I'd rather waltz with an angry polar bear.”

Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “I'm sure you would. Which is just fine with me, mister. You can stay the night, but you sure as hell better be gone when I wake up.”

And without a single compliment about dinner, or even a thank-you, she left the room. Sam gritted his teeth at her rudeness. No wonder Mr. Smith had laughed so gleefully when Sam had signed his name on the dotted line. Sam had never thought to wonder why no one had wanted to board at the Kincaid house. It had been a cabin straight from one of his Sunday-morning, lots-of-snow-on-the-ground snuggling fantasies. How was he to know the snugglee would rather be snuggling with a rifle than him?

Sam sighed and rose, cleaned off the table, then made himself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Though he was tempted to stay just to irritate Sydney, he knew he was probably better off cutting his losses and leaving. But not until after Friday. He needed Sydney's kitchen for his day job. She could put up with him for a while longer.

He cleaned up the kitchen, then headed back to his room. He sat down and turned on his computer, ready to dive into chapter twenty-one.

And then he found himself staring blankly at the computer screen, distracted by the image of a beautiful woman with dark hair and pale eyes. He sighed and turned off the machine. Creation would have to wait until morning. He needed to go to bed before the day could hand him any more surprises.

Though he doubted the Fates or Mr. Smith could top what he'd been handed already.

 

 

SYDNEY WOKE, DISORIENTED. Then she realized she was in her own bed, under a toasty-warm comforter, and she smiled. There was nothing quite like coming home. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed her work so much. She never appreciated home more than she did after three or four months out in the wild.

She fumbled for her watch, wanting to know the time and the date. She flopped back on her bed and groaned. Twenty-four hours gone without a trace. She vaguely remembered a trip or two to the bathroom, trips made without encountering her housemate.

She sighed deeply and burrowed back down under the covers. Much as she wanted to kick Sam's arrogant, overbearing self right out the door, she knew she couldn't afford it. Though she was just as good a guide as any man out there, city boys were reluctant to use her. She'd had to cut her fees drastically just to get business. It was the reason she'd decided to rent her spare bedroom. Joe had assured her he would find a suitable renter. Damn him, anyway.

Well, it was either keep Sam or starve. She couldn't give him back the rent money he'd paid all up front because she'd already spent it. She hated the thought, but it looked like she was stuck with him until December.

She rolled out of bed and pulled her robe around her. She rubbed her arms vigorously as she left her bedroom and made her way to the kitchen. She was used to traveling in the dark, when necessary, and had no trouble finding her way. Or spotting the creation that sat cooling on the counter.

Cake. Sydney's mouth began to water at the sight. She wanted it to be warm, but no, that might be too much to hope for. She got a knife, for the sake of propriety, and cut herself a generous slice right out of the bottom tier. Whatever else his flaws, Sam certainly could bake rings around Sara Lee. Sydney closed her eyes and brought the slice up, then opened her mouth to bite.

“Stop!”

Her eyes flew open. She squinted into the beam of a flashlight.

“Don't move.”

Sydney stood, frozen to the spot, as the flashlight approached. The cake was very carefully and gingerly removed from her hand.

“Hey—” she protested.

“Quiet,” Sam growled. “You just ruined six hours' worth of work, lady, so right now it would be a very good idea for you to just wash your hands and go back to bed.”

“It's just cake—”

“It's a wedding cake!” Sam exploded.

“You're getting married?” This guy was certifiable.

“It's not for me! It's for Eunice and Jeremy. Tomorrow afternoon at one o'clock.”

His face was illuminated by the flashlight he held between his forearm and chest as he carefully set the slice of cake onto a plate. And she wanted to laugh.

“You make wedding cakes?”

“It pays the bills. Turn on the light. I've got major surgery to perform here.”

Sydney obediently turned on the kitchen light, then she caught an unobstructed view of Sam's face—and his furious expression. She backed up a pace in spite of herself.

“Uh, I'm sorry . . .”