Torrid Nights (3 page)

“Why are you being so friendly all of a sudden?” she demanded.

“I’m trying to treat you like a woman,” he returned lightly.

“Treat me as an equal. You have no idea of me as a woman and I doubt very seriously that you ever will. And let’s leave it that way. I’m a supervisor on a project. A statistic to you.”

He glanced at her quickly. “Really? Since when did you start trying to read minds, Ms. Scott? Because you’re terrible at it. And you’re wrong as hell about how I treat the people on my payroll. They’re more than just statistics to me, notations on some computer printout sheet.”

The tension crackled between them. Mackenna knew she was at fault for prodding him out of his apparent good humor. “So I’m still on your payroll?” she said, smiling.

“So far,” he returned with a partial smile. Suddenly, his face grew serious. “I’ll be honest with you, Ms. Scott. Since you seem to cherish honesty so much. Dressed in that very provocative nightgown and given your natural beauty, you look like a rose. You seem less hostile when you’re not in jeans, boots and a hard hat. Maybe it’s me. I’m not used to dealing with women in positions of authority. I don’t find it easy to deal with you because you don’t behave like either a woman or a man. That’s why my attitude keeps changing. You confuse me, Mackenna. Does that compute?”

Mackenna pressed her lips together. “Yes, it does. I thought you were playing a game, trying to apologize for your earlier remarks. You’ve got my file. You must have read that I was married until a year ago….” Her voice dropped from a strident tone. “I-I thought you’d changed your tone out of pity. Well, I don’t want that. I won’t have it. I didn’t want you—”

His azure eyes grew cold again. “Well, at least you and I agree on one thing. Pity is for those who can afford it. To me it’s useless, wasted emotion. And yes, I’m aware you are a widow.” He gave a tight, controlled smile. “But life goes on, doesn’t it? Just a little more hurt, one more wound. Another scar to add to the growing list. We all have them. I don’t see you as unusual.”

Mackenna stared at him. What a cold man he was! She had not wanted his pity, but a drop of compassion would have been in order. Mackenna regarded him thoughtfully. Kindnesses and compassion, she mused, were undoubtedly too much to expect from him. He couldn’t deal with too wide a range of emotions, she speculated, a twinge of compassion stirring in her heart. A man mortally wounded. By a woman? Well, whoever she was, she had really done a job on Brock Hampton—so much so that he had sealed off his emotions entirely.

“Who hurt you so much that all you can do is hurt people in return?” she asked softly.

His startled look jolted her. For a brief instant, Mackenna saw and felt his anguish. Then, just as swiftly, the tightly controlled mask slipped back over his features, erasing that trace of feeling. “Haven’t you been hurt?” he hurled back stiffly.

“Yes, of course. I still hurt from losing Ryan,” she admitted.

“I suppose you loved him?”

Mackenna searched his face for a long moment. “Yes. You don’t live with someone that closely and not love him. And I loved him well beyond that.”

“You’re a confirmed romantic,” he growled. “Life is filled with parasitic women who know how to lie to a man to get his wedding ring. So they can take his property and his money.”

“I see,” she murmured. “I’m not a romantic, Brock. I’m a realist. I understand myself well enough to know what I need in a man.”

As she whispered his name, Mackenna saw him relax slightly, noticed the drop of one shoulder, caught a softening of the glare he’d been directing at her.

“I’m sorry you had a bad marriage,” she said.

Brock glared at her. “Who said I was married?” he said. Then he lowered his eyes. “So what if I was?” he growled. “Just another scar. I make a mistake only once.”

“I see. Never to love again?”

“Love?” he spat, getting to his feet. “What the hell does that mean? Love is for idealistic women and old fools.”

“That means you’re not a fool, I suppose,” she parried just as coldly. Damn, he made her uncomfortable.

Of course, she wasn’t doing a whole lot better in setting the past aside. She thought of Sully’s endless admonitions that she lighten up and quit taking the world so seriously. He played jokes on her just to catch her off guard. To make her laugh and forget for a few pain-free minutes. She grimaced. Brock Hampton was protecting himself with walls no one could get through and she buried her pain in the building of a road. Was she really any better off than he was? She nudged her straying thoughts back to the present. Back to Brock Hampton who was silently assessing her with those electric-blue eyes.

“I was a fool once,” he murmured, “but never again.”

Mackenna managed a wry smile. “Frankly, I would like to be a fool again,” she confided. Why on earth was she telling him that? Yet, some of the harsh lines in his face had softened. Lines created by the stress of running his demanding business. Or had they been etched by the personal misfortune he alluded to? A bad marriage? More?

She remembered her own unhappy background all too well. Her mother had raised the four of them on a tiny income. Mackenna had done the housework after school every night, then made sure that her younger brothers and sister were fed and that they did their homework.

She glanced down at her hands, remembering. Her fingers were work-worn from the variety of tasks she had undertaken to earn money to put bread on the table. Her nails had always been short. Years ago they had been kept trim by the rigors of her newspaper route, or from scrounging through the ditches alongside the roads in search of soda bottles and aluminum cans to exchange for money. Now her work on the construction site kept them short. The small calluses that dotted her palms were testimony to her love of physical exercise. Well, it was something she and Brock had in common: they both worked themselves to the bone.

“I suppose your family encouraged your romantic outlook?” he probed darkly.

Mackenna lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. “On the contrary. My father died when I was seven and my mother refused any charity. She worked twelve hours a day and I ran the household. And held down part-time jobs on the side.” She forced a confident smile.

“I come from a very poor family, Mr. Hampton. We scraped for every mouthful of food we ate. I learned about life—real life—at a very early age. But I also learned to enjoy its positive aspects. If I had to deliver papers at five o’clock, I could enjoy the sunrise. Later, walking home, I might discover a particularly beautiful flower by the roadside, or meet up with a startled groundhog.”

He leaned back, nodding in silence. His shadowed face grew more animated. “A workhorse? Is that why you went into engineering after high school? You’d worked for so long it was the only thing you knew?”

“Partly,” she admitted, finding his voice pleasant when the harshness was gone. She was keenly aware that what she said now would determine whether or not she kept her job. She felt as if she were treading a delicate silken tightrope. She was sure that Brock Hampton was responding to her in a way very different from that in which he responded to most women. Well, she didn’t fit the mold and therefore had to sell herself on her own merits. And that’s just what she would do. It didn’t bother her. She was proud of her background. “I’ve always had a talent for fixing things,” she continued. “Maybe it started because Mom wasn’t home to repair an iron or a dripping faucet. I took the opportunity to pry and poke. I found I had a mind that drank in mechanics, math and chemistry. I majored in soils analysis at the College of Engineering at Ohio State University, and I graduated at the top of my class.”

He looked down at her open file. “And then?”

“Then I traveled. All over the world for Benson Construction Corporation. I found I liked the Far East best. I’ve kicked around this area for the last seven years.”

“You’ve built some pretty impressive roads and bridges,” he admitted gravely and then glanced up at her. “And you always brought them in ahead of schedule.” He sighed, getting up and dropping the folder on the coffee table. “That doesn’t explain why you let this road fall so far behind.”

Mackenna bridled at his implication that the delay was her fault. Compressing her full lips, she got up, suddenly wanting to pace off the excessive energy that flowed around them. She halted suddenly, remembering that she was wearing only a very provocative nightgown. Heat swept across her neck and up into her cheeks as she perceived his obvious attention to this fact.

“I’m going to get my robe,” she said abruptly. “We’ll discuss the reasons for the road problem when I return.”

Mackenna thought she caught a glint of amusement in his azure eyes as she returned to the room a few minutes later with the belt of her robe snugly wrapped about her waist.

“I rather liked what you were wearing before,” he commented lazily, a slight smile crossing his face.

“At least you’re partly human,” she retorted genially and then cringed at her hasty words.

“Indeed? You think I’m not human? Believe me, Ms. Scott, I’m very human in some areas.”

The vibration in his husky voice created a shiver down her spine, as if he had caressed her bodily with his voice. Mackenna slowed to a stop opposite him, feeling like a defenseless doe that had just happened upon a hungry wolf. His gaze stripped her, devoured her, and she shivered inwardly. What would it be like to be touched by him? To feel his hands on her body? If his voice alone could turn her into a responsive instrument, stroked by its smoldering tone, what havoc would his touch wreak?

Her heart beat violently against her breast as she gave him a startled look. She must be crazy! If he wanted her, it was only as a body. Someone with whom he would toy for a brief hour. And yet, she was inexorably drawn to him. Just like the prey of the cobra that lived in the jungle coastlands. The snake needed only to rear up and weave back and forth rhythmically, and the prey would stand hypnotized, waiting to be struck…. She closed her eyes momentarily, forcing her roiling emotions back beneath that lid she had kept so tightly in place since Ryan’s death. Finally, she trusted herself to speak. “You and I are exact opposites, Mr. Hampton. I find your clinical analysis of life unacceptable.”

He pursed his lips, standing with his legs slightly apart, arms folded across his chest. His look was impenetrable. “Opposites attract,” he informed her. “Who cares whether it’s for an hour or a day?”

Mackenna forced herself to sit down before her trembling knees gave her away. Had he read her mind? “That’s true,” she conceded, playing the parry-riposte game with him. “But I play for lifelong stakes. Not for stolen moments or days.”

Brock grinned broadly, letting his arms drop to his sides as he sauntered noiselessly to the chair opposite Mackenna. “That’s a shame. But it won’t stop me from trying.”

Mackenna’s eyes widened, and her lips parted. “What are you saying?” she demanded.

Again, that infuriating smile. “I’ve decided to stick around here for at least three weeks, Ms. Scott. Because of the excellent record I see in your file and because I like your spirit, I’m going to give you the opportunity to show me why the road is behind schedule. You’ll keep your job for that long, at least, or until such time as you can convince me that the schedule delays are not your fault. Frankly, you’ve aroused my curiosity about you. As a manager and as a woman.”

Mackenna rested her chin in her hand, watching him toss in his challenge. So, she mused. He thought he could break her? Make her succumb to him as so many women undoubtedly had? Okay, she would play his game. And she’d turn the tables on him, too.

“I’ll be more than happy to take you with me for sixteen hours a day, Mr. Hampton,” she said smoothly. “I’m confident that once you look at the soil base and compare it with the preliminary engineering analysis, you’ll beg me to stay and finish this road.”

He grinned. “I think I can manage the killing pace. And by the way, call me Brock. It’s less formal.”

“Then you can call me Mac,” she murmured.

He shook his head like a lordly lion. “No, it sounds too masculine. I prefer Mackenna. By the way, how the hell did you get nailed with a name like that?”

She was beginning to enjoy the teasing tone of his voice, the relaxing of his stony features. He liked a challenge as much as she did. And she realized he expected to win it. But she knew the soils-testing reports would save her job. She was going to teach him a lesson in humility over the next twenty-one days. One way or another. “My father wanted a boy,” she explained. “My parents already had the name chosen. When I turned out to be the wrong sex, they decided to use it, anyway. I like it. It’s different, and so am I.”

“You enjoy being different, don’t you?”

“Yes. I enjoy myself as a woman and as a person. How about you?” she stabbed back in the same teasing manner.

“I don’t find much to like about people in general or about myself,” he muttered, brusquely dismissing her attempt at friendliness. “Most people don’t like me, and I prefer to keep it that way.”

She remained silent, thinking over what he had said. In the coming weeks she would learn why he disliked himself and the world so much, she told herself. Perhaps if she could share some of her world with him, he would walk away richer for the experience.

Mackenna awoke feeling groggy. She hadn’t gone to bed until four-thirty and now, eyeing her wristwatch, she saw it was six o’clock. Time for a quick shower and a bite to eat before she drove to the road site. She hummed softly as she dressed in a mint-green T-shirt and jeans and ran a comb through her short hair. Today she felt happier than she had in a long while. It was due, she admitted, to the presence of Brock Hampton. And yet, she was puzzled over her response. Why was she so determined to break through those barriers he had erected? Was it compassion on her part? Simply the challenge? Or something else…. Shaking her head, she rubbed lip balm on her mouth, scooped up her freshly scrubbed hard hat, opened the door and walked quickly down the hall to the spacious veranda.

Herr Jan Vermeer, the plantation owner, rose from the table and greeted her warmly. Mackenna squeezed his parchment-like hand as she said good morning. She was aware of Brock’s gaze following her every move as she joined them at the table.

“Good morning, Brock,” she murmured.

“Good morning, Mackenna,” he returned, his voice a velvet vibration.

Jan looked at them, a satisfied gleam in his gray eyes. “I knew you would hit it off,” he congratulated himself.

Smiling, Mackenna quickly pared the skin from her ripe papaya. “Of course. Were there any doubts?” And she grinned wickedly at Brock across the table.

The old gentleman tugged absently at his white goatee. “Yesterday, I wasn’t so sure. Mr. Hampton seemed quite put out that you hadn’t arrived when expected….”

Mackenna shrugged. “We got it straightened out, Herr Vermeer. Don’t worry. You know how construction people are. Long on tempers and short on patience.” She laughed.

Brock had calmly resumed eating a huge bowl of oatmeal. Wisely, he said nothing. When he had finished, he pulled out a prescription bottle and dropped a white tablet into his hand, swallowing it with a gulp of orange juice. Then he asked mildly, “Taken your malaria pill today?”

Mackenna nodded. “Religiously.” She couldn’t hide the quiver in her voice. She stared down at the ripe papaya, suddenly losing her appetite.

Jan Vermeer clucked sympathetically. “Mackenna, you must eat, my girl. You’re far too thin. Really, Mr. Hampton, do you wear all your employees to the bone this way?” he asked gently.

Brock shook his head. “I told her the same thing, Herr Vermeer. Finish the fruit, Mackenna. We have a heavy schedule in front of us today.” His tone was patronizing.

Malaria.
The very word made her ill. She pushed the plate away, standing. “I`m just not hungry.” She glanced down at Herr Vermeer, noting his disapproving expression. “I promise I’ll eat tonight.” She patted his hand and picked up her hard hat. “Brock, I’ll meet you out at the truck in ten minutes.”

It was mid-August, and the sun was barely edging past the massive groves of coconut trees that embraced the plantation. Mackenna swallowed against the lump forming in her throat, throwing the hat on as soon as she let herself out the front door. All of a sudden, the day was turning sour, spewing up old, hurtful memories, and she struggled against the wall of emotions that threatened to burst and let loose a torrent of tears. Today, she didn’t notice the rays of the sun lancing downward from the azure sky or hear the call of the tropical parrots. She climbed into the truck and took her place behind the wheel.

Brock said nothing when he came out. He merely slid onto the seat and shut the door, resting his arm on the windowsill. Mackenna drove with intense concentration, her eyes narrowed on the rutted road that led to the upper elevations where the road activity was taking place. The coolness of the morning air felt good against her flushed skin, and she took a few steadying gulps, trying to ease the pain, trying to forget.

If Brock Hampton was aware of her sudden change in mood, he said nothing. Once at the base camp, he followed her about her normal morning routine. She checked in with the union stewards, gave assignments to the foremen, found out who was sick and went over the worksheets. Then she climbed back into the truck. When the sun crested the lower hills, and the humid heat of the day began to rise, she perspired freely like everyone else. Finally, near noon, she pulled over and shut off the engine of the pickup near the head of the road.

Leaning back, she took off the hard hat, placed it on the dashboard and ran her fingers through her hair. “As you can see, Brock, the soil base here is extremely soft and silty. I’m having another three feet of gravel base transported from the gravel plant, which is now sixty miles away. Come on. You can get a close look at the stuff.” She slid out of the cab, putting the hat back on. The sun’s rays burned down on her shoulders; mosquitoes and other insects buzzed incessantly around her head. Even a liberal dose of the oily, smelly repellent didn’t stop them.

Brock squatted down where she stood, picking up a handful of the dry, powdery, red soil. He ran it slowly through his fingers, grinding it to feel its consistency. Mackenna hunkered down beside him, squinting back at the men working the road equipment a quarter of a mile away. The growling roar of the D-9 Cats reverberated throughout the surrounding jungle, adding to the cacophony of birdcalls. Distractedly, she ran her hand across the surface of the soil.

“Doesn’t feel very substantial,” he muttered, letting the last of it sift through his fingers.

“Believe me, it isn’t,” she answered fervently, slowly rising.

Brock joined her, wiping his hand on his strong thighs, and then glanced down at her. “How about lunch? It’s one o’clock.”

Mackenna nodded. “Herr Vermeer has one of the servants pack me a lunch. It will be in the glove compartment. I hope he remembered you were coming along.”

Brock followed her slowly back to the truck. “You mean you wouldn’t share your lunch with me?”

Mackenna smiled distantly. Ever since their discussion in the wee hours of the morning, she had felt displaced, her reality centered vaguely on emotions of over a year ago. On Ryan’s death. And then the reference to malaria over breakfast…. She had been vaguely aware of Brock’s silence, for he said little over the last six hours as he followed her through her routine. “Of course I would,” she replied.

Brock opened the glove compartment, his brows knitting as he pulled out a plastic bag. “Looks like we share. Let’s go over to that tree and sit down. I’m getting tired of being driven. Your pickup rides like an earth-mover.”

Mackenna nodded sympathetically. Earth-moving equipment was known to be hard on a passenger’s kidneys and lower back. And it wasn’t uncommon for the operators to have health problems after ten years of using such equipment. “Okay, we’ll have a picnic,” she agreed.

Slumping against the smoothness of the palm tree, Brock joined her, his shoulder touching hers. Mackenna was busy dividing up the sandwiches and fruit when he asked, “Why aren’t you afraid of me? Most women are.”

She handed him the food. “Why? You don’t seem all that sinister.”

“You aren’t afraid I’ll attack you?”

“No.”

He caught her gaze and smiled. “And if I did?”

Mackenna bit into the sandwich. “You wouldn’t attack me.”

He resumed munching on his sandwich, turning and looking up at the graceful fronds overhead. “True,” he conceded. “But seduction is another game altogether.”

“That’s where you and I differ. Again,” she added drolly. “Seduction isn’t a game I play.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Lovemaking is a sharing between two people.”

“See, you’re just like any other woman, equating sex with love.”

Mackenna sat up, twisting around to meet his mirthful blue eyes. “You didn’t hear what I said, Brock. I’m not equating love with sex. I’m saying that when two people agree to make love it should be a give-and-take experience, not a game or a contest. Nor should sex be used as a weapon.”

He frowned. “You’re too damn smart,” he growled.

She was beginning to feel the past slipping off her shoulders, freeing her. There was something magical in the way Brock affected her. She didn’t understand the chemistry, but it was there. And right now, she was thankful for it; it took her mind off her hidden grief.

“How did we get on the subject of my sex life? I wanted to explore yours,” he muttered. “What does it take to get you to bed, Mackenna?”

He had asked it in jest, but Mackenna knew he was only half teasing. She got to her feet. Dusting off her rear she looked down at him. “You really want to know, Brock?”

He stood, towering over her. The look in his eyes was unfathomable as he studied her in silence. “That’s why I asked.”

She wavered, feeling the power that emanated from his tense body. Her own body tingled, excited and yet apprehensive under the force of his serious gaze. She ran her tongue across her lower lip. “Honesty,” she murmured finally.

“Well, we do share that. We certainly haven’t minced words.”

Mackenna shook her head. “I mean honesty of feelings. I mean when you can trust another person with your emotions, your inner thoughts. Knowing he will respect them, knowing it’s safe to be vulnerable. Because he is willing to make himself vulnerable, too.”

Brock gave her a long, hard look, but he said nothing. Quietly, they finished their lunch.

Gathering up the bags and thermos, they headed for the road. Mackenna showed Brock around. Opening a terrain map, she pointed out the next five miles to be graded. The lush, green foliage of the jungle stretched out before them. The blue of the Indian Ocean lay off to their right.

Kepi, her chief bulldozer driver, waved as she stepped off the newly graded roadbed. She raised her hand, feeling suddenly dizzy. It must be the sun, she thought, heading directly to the spot where Brock was standing. They moved back toward the truck, Mackenna’s pace slowing for the last few yards. A chill began deep in the center of her body and spread outward, making her cold. She frowned, slowing to a stop, trying to analyze her body’s confused signals. She heard the roar of the D-9 Cat, and the vibration sank into her bones. Something was wrong. She looked up, squinting as another wave of dizziness washed over her.

Brock lifted his head and gave her a puzzled look. He set the clipboard down on the fender of the truck, his eyes never leaving her face. The Cat rumbled past. Mackenna forced herself to make it to the driver’s side of the pickup. Brock’s icy-blue gaze drilled into her as she sat heavily on the seat.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded.

She shook her head, closing her eyes for a moment. “I’m all right,” she murmured, unable to match the roughness in his tone. “Must be the heat….” Another chill shot through her body, and she leaned back, resting her head against the cab.

“Hey, Mac!” Sully sang out, coming around to where she sat. He glanced up at Brock, then returned his attention to her. “We got a problem with—” He hesitated, giving her a piercing look. “Mac, you all right?”

Mackenna forced herself to sit up, running her fingers through her hair. “I’m fine, Sully. What’s wrong?” She clenched her jaw, and her skin crawled with goose bumps. How could she possibly be cold?! She shook her head at the absurdity of it all. Sounds were beginning to mesh together. Brock glared at her, and Sully’s face suddenly went pale. The mechanic’s gnarled fingers gripped her upper arm.

“Mac,” he growled, moving next to her, “you’re sick. Your color’s terrible. What’s happening?” he demanded.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and suddenly Mackenna wanted to cry. She forced the tears back, giving Sully a confused look. “I-I don’t know.” Inwardly she groaned, realizing her voice was shaky and didn’t sound at all the way that of a construction supervisor should sound. Especially not with Brock Hampton only a few feet away.

“You ain’t been forgettin’ those malaria pills, have you?” Sully growled, watching her keenly. “Look, your skin’s damp and cold. You got chills?”

Blackness began to rim her vision, and Mackenna opened her mouth to say yes, but the word never came out. Suddenly, she was slipping into an abyss. Simultaneously she heard Sully’s gruff voice rise in alarm, and Brock’s voice cut like a whip through it, giving orders that were unintelligible to her….

When she awoke she was on a cot in a tent, unaware of how much time had passed. It was dark outside, she realized. Where was she?

“Mac?” a gravelly voice thundered through the cobwebs of her nightmare. “Mac, wake up! Good Lord, girl, you’re colder than hell.”

Her lids felt lead-weighted, and it took an effort to open them. Sully’s grizzled face danced above her. Her mouth was gummy and sticky. She swallowed, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. Where was Brock? Where was the truck? Why did reality seem like a dream? Her teeth chattered involuntarily, and she felt her entire body jerk in response.

Sully watched her intently for a second, his gnarled hand never leaving her shoulder. “You’ve got malaria, Mac.” His fingers tightened. “We’ve sent for some quinine pills for you.”

Mackenna heard his voice, but only one word registered: malaria. Her heart began to pound unevenly. Her head ached as if clamps were being applied to the base of her skull, the pain radiating upward toward the crown.
No,
a voice cried within her
, not malaria. Can’t get it… can’t…

She curled up tightly, aware of the chills passing through her body with regularity. It must be part of her nightmare. The nightmare of her memories…Ryan’s sickness, his death. Her body heaved softly as, through her delirium, the memories came flooding back.

The strain of malaria Ryan had contracted was a common one. It should have been easy to treat. Yet the fact that they had been so far from hospitals and so low on quinine tablets had turned the situation into one of life and death. After the malaria had lowered Ryan’s resistance, he had contracted deadly black-water fever, and he had died before they could reach a doctor. Suddenly, the raw sense of loss overwhelmed her and, as though from far away, Mackenna heard her own voice rising in uncontrollable sobs.

It seemed like hours before Sully shook her again. He and Frank Bevans placed a protective mat of plastic on the tent floor and covered it with a pile of blankets. Then they gently lifted her from the damp cot onto the clean pallet. They took five more blankets and wrapped her tightly in them. Sully remained at her side throughout the period of nausea and vomiting. Sounds meshed together, and her head ached intensely as the sound of machinery outside reverberated against the sagging tent roof. Mackenna wanted to talk, but it hurt too much to make a sound, each noise magnified like a tuning fork inside her head.