Magnolia Dawn (4 page)

“Well, look at you. A good-size wind would blow you away.” He laughed at her outrage. “Besides, what's wrong with needlework?”

“I can assure you, I have withstood much more than a
good-size wind.
And I abhor needlework.” She narrowed her eyes in challenge. “My place, my money. My call, Cousins.”

“Fine.” He threw up his hands. “Tag
along. But you'll only slow me down.”

“I'm going to enjoy proving you wrong,” she muttered. “I'm going to enjoy it a lot.”

Chapter Three

I
t irritated the hell out of him, but Anna did prove him wrong. Rush shifted his gaze to where she worked, a few feet to his left. A hundred-plus degrees on Ashland's slate roof, her T-shirt drenched with sweat, her cheeks pink with exertion, and she continued to hammer the pieces of slate in place without murmur or complaint.

Over the last few days she'd worked alongside him, worked until he was sure her muscles must be trembling with fatigue. Yet she'd never complained. She'd never demurred over a job he asked her to do.
And she most certainly hadn't slowed him down.

But she had driven him crazy. When she pulled out the high-and-mighty routine, he saw red. He'd encountered more than his share of holier-than-thou's growing up, and he wasn't about to put up with it now. And so he'd pushed at her, pushed until she, too, saw red.

And in the process he'd discovered something interesting about Ms. Annabelle Ames. When she was angry, she forgot to be cool. Or haughty. Or stiff. She came alive with heat, with passion.

That woman stirred his blood and his senses. She made him think about making love, had him wondering how she would move beneath him, if she would cry out his name, if she would lead or be led.

Even as he acknowledged the lunacy of his thoughts, his body responded to them. Rush muttered an oath. This was crazy. He wasn't an untried boy; she was neither overtly sexual nor traditionally beautiful. He wasn't interested in her. She wasn't interested in him. Hell, they could barely tolerate each other's company. And yet…

Anna paused in her hammering to wipe the sweat from her brow; as she did, the damp clingy fabric of her shirt cupped and outlined one breast. Rush gazed at the swell of cloth over flesh, awareness balling in the pit of his stomach.

He swallowed, picturing her as she'd been that morning on the gallery, remembering his arousal. Wondering again what it would be like between them.

Rush shook his head and dragged his gaze away. He picked up his drill and flipped it on. He needed to be smart. He needed to earn her trust, needed her to open up to him so he could question her. To do that he had to keep his wits about him. He couldn't be thinking about soft, warm skin or eyes the color of lapis.

Rush frowned, forcing his thoughts back to his reason for coming to Ashland. He was no closer to knowing who he was than the day he'd arrived. He needed Anna to open up, needed her willing to answer questions. He looked at her once more, frustration welling in his chest. She rarely let down her guard, he'd never seen her relaxed. And not once had she talked about herself or her family. The questions he'd asked as she'd shown him through the nearly empty house had been met with icy reserve.

And yet he'd caught her looking at him from the corner of her eye, had sensed a curiosity, an interest, that went beyond casual.

Rush made a sound of self-derision and frustration. Right. That's why she jumped if his hand or arm happened to brush against her. That's why she kept an arm's-length distance between them at all times.

“Dammit!” Anna dropped her hammer and grabbed her thumb.

“You okay?”

She yanked off her work glove and brought her thumb to her mouth, her eyes watering. “Fine.”

“Let me take a look.” He squatted down beside her, and drew her hand away from her mouth. Already her nail was turning blue. After removing his gloves, he ran his fingers gently over hers. “It looks bad.
Better put some ice on it.”

She jerked her hand away, her cheeks bright with color. “I told you, it's fine.”

He sat back on his haunches. “I don't believe I've ever met a more stubborn woman.”

She glared at him. “Down here it's considered bad manners to be so pushy.”

He laughed. “I'll take that under advisement.”

“I'll bet.” She stuck her thumb back in her mouth and lowered her gaze to the roof. “Dammit,” she said again, this time around her finger. “I broke the slate.”

He clucked his tongue. “Don't worry about it, Anna. It happens to the best of us. Even those who aren't so clumsy.”

“I'm not clumsy,” she snapped. “I just slipped and—”

“Smashed your thumb and a piece of slate to smithereens.” He shook his head, biting back laughter. “You're right. How could I call
you
clumsy?”

“If you hadn't been staring at me…” She bit the words back, flushing.

Rush smiled, pleased that she'd been aware of his scrutiny. And he liked the way she puffed up with annoyance, like an outraged bird. “Watching me, were you?”

“Certainly not! Just aware…” She caught herself again and arched her eyebrows in mock outrage. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

“Never claimed to be.”

“Of course not.” She slipped her glove back on and picked up her hammer, as a shudder of fatigue moved across her features.

Rush touched her arm. “You're tired, Anna. Why don't we break for—”

“I don't need to break.” She shook off his hand. “And seeing as you're on the clock, I suggest you get back at it, too.”

“Nope. It's after twelve. It's bloody hot, and I'm tired.” He started toward the ladder. “If you want to stay up here and fry, fine. I'm going to get lunch.”

Without waiting for her to argue, he descended the ladder and started for the house. Anna watched him go, the desire to follow him warring with pride. Arrogant, she fumed as fatigue won out over pride, and she scooted toward the ladder. He was rude and overconfident. She didn't like him, she decided. And she certainly wasn't attracted to him.

You, Anna, are a liar.

Anna gritted her teeth. She couldn't keep her eyes off him. While they worked, she'd found herself watching him: his eyes as he studied the building, his hands as he inspected a crack or break. She found herself waiting, almost breathlessly, for him to look at her, to speak to her.

As she waited breathlessly for the response both evoked in her—the warm spot at the apex of her thighs that spread until her entire body felt lit by a hidden flame, the trembling sensation in her limbs, the fluttering of her pulse points.

Anna squeezed her eyes shut and drew in a deep breath. He scared her witless. Because he had the ability to break through all her defenses, leaving her exposed and weak. Because he made her want something that had always been just beyond her reach.

This was insanity, she told herself, opening her eyes, firming her resolve. She could overcome her feelings. Or ignore them. She'd overcome much tougher obstacles in her life.

She pulled off her work gloves, tossed them aside and quickly descended the ladder. She found him waiting for her on the front gallery. Ignoring his smug expression, she lifted her chin and moved regally past him to the front door. He followed her, and without speaking they crossed through Ashland's cavernous interior to the kitchen. Modernized in the space-age-loving late fifties and early sixties, the kitchen was an anachronism in the Civil War-era house.

“I'll make some sandwiches.”

“No, you'll sit with an ice pack and
I'll
make sandwiches.” She opened her mouth to protest, and he glared at her. “You're hurt, you're exhausted, and I may not be a gentleman, but I'm not a total cad, either.”

“I don't need—”

“Sit,” he ordered, yanking out one of the vinyl-and-chrome chairs.

She disliked being ordered about in her own home, but the thought of just sitting and doing nothing, even if only for a minute or two, was too inviting. She sank onto the chair, an involuntary sigh of pleasure slipping past her lips.

“Good girl,” he said, going to the freezer for ice. Within moments he'd put together an ice pack and handed it to her.

Her thumb throbbed. Anna held the ice to it, wincing at the pressure. She leaned her head against the chair back and shut her eyes, waiting for the ice to numb the pain.

“Know what your problem is?” Rush asked conversationally, laying out eight slices of bread.

“Tell me,” she answered dryly, not bothering to open her eyes. “I can hardly wait.”

“You're afraid to let go and be a human.”

“A woman, you mean.”

“No, I didn't mean that.” He slathered the bread with mayonnaise. “But what's wrong with being a woman?”

She peered at him from half-lifted lids. “Nothing. I like being a woman.” He turned back to the sandwiches, laying a slab of ham on each. “There're some carrot and celery sticks in the fridge,” she said, her voice wobbling with fatigue.

He made a face. “Any chips?”

“Sorry.” She watched as he piled the sandwiches on a plate and set it on the table, then went to the refrigerator for the pitcher of iced tea.

“It's okay to be weak sometimes,” he said softly, taking the seat across from hers. “To be frightened. It's part of being alive.”

A shudder ran through her, and she shook her head and met his eyes. “Not from where I'm sitting.”

He held her gaze a moment, his own inscrutable. Then he selected a sandwich and began to eat. “How long has Ashland been your responsibility?”

“Totally mine for just over ten years. Since Daddy died. Before that…” Anna shook her head. “Never mind.”

“Before that, what?”

She selected a carrot stick, toyed with it for a moment, then tossed it down, untasted. “After Mama died, Daddy needed a
lot of help with Ashland. I was the natural choice.”

He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “And you didn't expect that?”

“No. I…I thought he had everything under control. I thought he ran things. But it was always Mama. Even when we were young. So when she died—”

“The load shifted to you.”

“Yes.”

“No other family members around to help out?”

Lowell.
Their argument came crashing back, with it a biting sense of betrayal. Anna tensed and met Rush's eyes. “You met my brother Lowell the other night. And I'm sure, after having spent a week in Ames, you know a fair bit about him. Including the fact that he has no interest in Ashland.”

“I do know that,” Rush said, toying with a teaspoon. “I was referring to other relations. Aunts, uncles, cousins. Surely you and your brother aren't the last of the Ameses.”

“But we are. Mama was the only child of only children. Daddy lost one brother when he was in his teens, the other before he and his wife had children.”

Rush frowned. “No cousins at all? It's hard to believe.”

Anna arched her eyebrows. “You must be one of those people with an army of relations.”

“Actually,” Rush said quietly, “I have no one.”

No one.
Something in the way he said the words, the look in his eyes as he'd said them, plucked at her heartstrings. She lifted her eyebrows in feigned outrage. “Mr. Cousins, I find your curiosity most untoward.”

Rush laughed. “Untoward? I didn't think people talked like that anymore.”

She laughed. “Down here we do.”

“That's right. All that highfalutin language and manners.”

“And all that Yankee care-be-damned brashness.”

“Yankee?” Rush leaned toward her, amused. “Honey, didn't anybody tell you, that war ended years ago.”

“Not down here.” She smiled and fluttered her lashes. “I was ten before I realized that
damn
and
Yankee
were two words.”

He tipped his head back and laughed. “You all don't say?”

She patted her mouth with a napkin. “It's
y'all.
And I do say.”

For a moment their eyes held, the silence between them heavy with awareness. As if uncomfortable, he caught her hand and inspected her thumb with exaggerated seriousness. After a moment, he lifted his eyes to hers. “You'll live.”

She swallowed. “I told you.”

“That you did.”

Instead of releasing her hand, he continued to hold it in his, moving his fingers over the delicate ridges of her knuckles, studying, exploring. Her pulse fluttered and heat moved languorously over her.
She told herself to draw her hand away from his; she hadn't the strength of will. She hadn't the desire.

He laced their fingers, meeting her gaze once more. How had this happened? she wondered, suddenly breathless. How had they gone from combatant to companionable? Companionable to…this? And at what point had she let down her guard and allowed him in?

She didn't know. At this moment, she didn't even care. The heat was enough, slow and sweet and sanity-stealing. It flowed over her until she felt certain she must glow with it.

He brought his free hand to her cheek. She made a small, involuntary sound of pleasure, and tipped her face into the caress. “Do you ever think about giving up, Anna?” he asked suddenly, his voice soft and thick. “Of selling Ashland and running away?”

For long moments she stared at their joined hands, then looked back at him. “No,” she whispered. “Never. I couldn't.”

He tightened his fingers; he lowered his head. Anticipation trembled through her, fear on its heels. They warred within her until anticipation won. She parted her lips.

“Anna? Anybody home? It's me, Travis.”

Anna jumped guiltily, yanking free of Rush's grasp. She looked from Rush to the kitchen doorway, reality and reason reasserting themselves. Dear God, what had she been about to do?

“In the kitchen, Trav,” she called, running a trembling hand through her hair. “Come on back.”

A moment later Travis appeared in the kitchen doorway. Dressed in an expensive business suit, a gold watch gleaming at his wrist, and his thick, dark hair graying at the temples, he presented the picture of financial success. When he caught sight of Rush, his smile faltered. For a moment he gazed silently at Rush, then turned back to her.

“I was hoping you could break to go to lunch with me,” he said quietly. “I see I'm too late.”