Torrid Nights (6 page)

The pungent aroma of spicy chicken greeted them as they walked into the tent that served as a chow hall. Brock did not leave her side until he had ushered her to a long bench at one of the tables. “Sit there,” he ordered. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

A small thread of joy burgeoned in her healing heart. This was a new and interesting side of Brock Hampton. One that she knew existed but had never expected to see. Sully’s eyes betrayed his confusion over Brock’s sudden display of concern. The two men came back and joined her at the table, and Sully sat opposite Mackenna. Brock placed a plate heaped with freshly steamed vegetables, a breast of chicken stewed in a spicy sauce and a large bowl of rice in front of her. Mackenna glanced at him as he sat down beside her.

“Brock, I’m not this hungry!”

“Are you going to give me grief about this, too?” he growled.

Sully grinned. “He’s right, Mac. For once just do as the man says.”

Mackenna managed a small smile at Sully. “I’ll eat what I can.”

The singsong tempo of the Javanese language filled the tent as workers filed in for their main meal of the day. Brock missed nothing as he surveyed the mechanics coming and going. Mackenna picked at the meal, finding herself getting tired. Sully finally rose and walked around the table. “Mac, you’re goin’ back to the truck to rest,” he said. He seemed to be daring Hampton to challenge his order.

She nodded wordlessly, rising. Sully walked at her side, his hand firmly holding her arm. “Why’d you let that bastard drive you this far, Mac? You ain’t in no shape. You ought to be on that cot sleeping and regaining your strength!”

“He didn’t push me, Sully. I pushed myself. For once it’s not his fault. It’s mine,” she said, getting into the truck.

Sully shut the door. “Don’t matter. Sleep,” he ordered gruffly, brooking no argument from her.

It seemed good to stretch out on the vinyl seat, despite its thin layer of the ever-present dust. She felt sweat trickling down the side of her neck, and she was aware of the buzz of mosquitoes and the gritty texture of the dust against her cheek. Nothing mattered. She lapsed into a deep, exhausted sleep.

At some point Mackenna felt movement beneath her head. Sounds of the truck engine filtered through to her awakening senses. No longer was her cheek pressed against the plastic. Instead, it rested on the rough texture of denim stretched across a muscular thigh. Mackenna became aware of an arm resting against her reclining body. There was a jolt, and she felt fingers tightening against her waist and hip. She opened her eyes, feeling incredibly weary, and wiped the perspiration from her forehead. The instant she tried to sit upright, a hard, calloused hand pressed down on her shoulder.

“Just lie there,” Brock said huskily.

Realizing that she had been sleeping with her head on his lap, Mackenna rolled over on her back to look up at him. She tried without success to still her hammering heart. Lying against Brock, her head tucked snugly against his hip, she couldn’t ignore his intense maleness. Again, she felt an overwhelming sense of confusion. If he was such a cold man, why hadn’t he booted her off the seat? He could have awakened her when he was ready to go back to the head of the road. She stared up at him, drawn by the less tense set of his mouth. He appeared more relaxed, and the lines of tension that kept the corners of his mouth pulled inward were gone. A caressing quality was apparent in his voice; it made her shiver in response. He was a tiger in repose, still dangerous, but almost approachable now. Mackenna relaxed, stretching luxuriously, closing her eyes once again. “How long have I been out?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

Brock glanced down at her. “About six hours.”

Mackenna groaned. “Six hours? Well, thanks for letting me sleep,” she murmured.

“If I hadn’t, your mech would have ripped my head off,” he returned mock-derisively.

Mackenna opened her eyes, meeting the blue of his. For the first time she was certain of the flicker of humor in their depths, and she responded to it effortlessly. “Sully is like a father to me,” she admitted warmly. “When I started work on this road, he hovered over me. He gave me a lot of valuable advice.”

“Fortunately you listened to him,” Brock said, concentrating on the heavier traffic now using the road. “Sully’s been around the Far East for as long as I can remember, and there isn’t much he doesn’t know.” He looked at her reflectively. “At least you had the brains to listen,” he repeated.

A grin tugged at Mackenna’s lips. She was beginning to enjoy this conversation. It was remarkably devoid of the usual barbs. “Any good super will listen to those with expertise,” she demurred. “There’s a big pool of practical knowledge out there.”

“Any man would. Most women wouldn’t.” He gazed down at her.

She felt as though the breath had been stolen from her body as his azure eyes warmed, filling with an unexpected desire. Slowly, she melted beneath his caressing gaze, her lips parting. A hazy magic was being spun between them, and through it, in those few seconds, Mackenna was suddenly very aware of Brock`s feelings for her. Then, as quickly as he had allowed that impenetrable wall to crumble, he built it up again, his eyes becoming hooded, unreadable. Trying to recover from the shock, she stammered, “I’m not most women.”

“So I’m finding out,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Panic tore at Mackenna’s heart. She made an effort to sit up. This time, he didn’t stop her. Running her fingers through her short-cropped hair, she tried to quell her boiling feelings. Brock glanced over at her.

“You have beautiful hair. You ought to let it grow a little longer.”

Heat swept her neck and face. She avoided his gaze, nervously moving to the other side of the cab. “Long hair out here? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’ve never seen such dark red hair, with such amber highlights. It’s as rare as you are, I guess.”

Mackenna reeled from his sudden change. One moment he was icy; the next, personable. She cast him a confused look. “What is this? Has Sully been telling you to go easy on me?”

“Do you think I said that because I feel sorry for you?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted slowly. She recognized one of the many villages along the road. They had at least another hour of driving before they made it back to camp. Looking at her watch Mackenna saw it was six-thirty.

“I’ve told you, I never feel sorry for anyone.”

“There’s a difference between compassion and pity,” she countered, leaning back on the seat, drawing one leg up against her body.

He gave her a sour look. “Not to me there isn’t. If you show a man pity, he has no incentive to rise above his troubles. If you ignore his crying, he’s forced to stand on his own two feet.”

“That’s important to you?” Mackenna asked softly. “Standing on your own two feet?”

“It’s the only way to survive.”

“Tell me, did your father rule your family with an iron hand?”

Brock gave her a cautious look. “Why?”

Mackenna rubbed her eyes, trying to force herself awake. “It’s been my experience that kids from very strict homes do one of two things.”

“Which are?”

“They either rebel, and become the exact opposite of their parents…”

“Or?”

She met and held his challenging blue eyes. “Or they become the epitome of what they hated while growing up. If your father ruled with an iron hand, so will you.”

Brock gave her a disgruntled sidelong glance, but he remained silent. Some ten minutes later, he asked, “Where’d you get all this insight, Mackenna?”

The way he rolled her name off his tongue was like a physical caress, and Mackenna warmed to it. Gathering her scattered thoughts she said, “From life. Where did you get yours?”

He managed a grin. “Same place you got yours. But we came up with different views.”

“That’s obvious.”

“An understatement,” he agreed.

Grudgingly, she returned his smile. “There’s always room for improvement, though.”

“The perennial optimist.”

She shrugged, resting her chin on her knee as she stared out the dusty windshield. “Once I was and then…” she stopped, remembering.

“And then what?” he prodded.

“Ryan’s death changed all that. Just in the past day or so I find I’m not looking at things so glumly. It’s nice, believe me. I can remember as a kid waking up in the morning bursting with joy. I wanted to take the world by storm. I could hardly wait to get out of the house and start the day. This last year, though, I didn’t even want to crawl off the cot and leave the tent. I forced myself to work despite how I felt emotionally.”

She gave a long sigh, lifting her shoulders as if to get rid of a great weight she had been carrying for too long. “It feels nice to hope again.”

Brock snorted softly. “How you’ve managed to survive this long with that brand of optimism simply amazes me.”

Mackenna laughed. “How do all of us poor creatures manage to survive in this wicked world, eh?”

“You’d better believe it.”

“Well, I’m living proof that those with positive outlooks can survive quite nicely in this world. Despite your dreary philosophy.”

He shook his head ruefully. “And I’ve got to spend two more weeks with you,” he muttered. But the words weren’t quite as bitter as usual, and Mackenna sensed the difference.

Her grin widened. “Makes you wonder which one of us will survive this ordeal, doesn’t it?” she jibed good-naturedly. He didn’t answer, but gave her a sidelong glance. And this time Mackenna detected a spark of enjoyment in those glacial-blue depths.

Instead of going back to the head of the road, Brock drove her back to the Vermeer plantation. She gave him a questioning look as they pulled into the long, white-rock driveway. “What are you doing?” she wanted to know.

“Looked at yourself in the mirror lately?” he drawled.

“No. Why?”

“You look like death warmed over. I’m dropping you off, and I’ll continue my tour of the road with Bevans. I’m sure he can explain things almost as well as you can. You stay here and get some rest.” He braked the truck near the door to the huge screened veranda. The majordomo opened it, looking at them expectantly.

Mackenna gave Brock a distrustful look as she leaned down and retrieved her hard hat. He frowned.

“What’s that look for?” he growled.

“I’d like to believe you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart,” she began slowly, measuring her words as she held his gaze. “But I also have the feeling you’re giving me a black mark for absence.”

Brock glared at her, anger tightening the granite planes of his features. “I should have known better,” he said.

Mackenna recoiled from his sudden fury. They had arrived back at square one in shattering seconds. “I told you, Brock, I’ll always be honest with you. You asked me what was going on in my head and I told you.” She turned to face him and matched his glare. “What do you expect from me? You’ve been treating us like slaves since you arrived. I know you’re waiting to put my head on a platter. Is it any wonder I have such doubts?”

He turned to stare straight ahead, his mouth a thin line. “Since I’m such a cold, cruel bastard, I suggest that you get out of this truck. Who knows? I might do something unspeakable to you.” He jammed the truck into gear. “Get going,” he said.

Mackenna opened her mouth to try to patch up the misunderstanding. But he had closed her out. She left the truck without another word, watching as he drove quickly off. Disappointed and at odds with herself, she greeted the majordomo briefly and slowly climbed the long stairway to the second floor of the dazzling plantation house.

Mackenna took a long, hot bath, soaking away the sweat and dirt of the road. As she was toweling herself dry, a maid appeared at the door with a message from Herr Vermeer. The old gentleman requested her presence in the dining room for dinner. Sighing, Mackenna pulled on her clothes.

During the meal Herr Vermeer remained at her side, concerned with her pallor. Mackenna ate what she could and then begged off, retreating to a couch in the den, a light blanket wrapped around her lower body. The combination of the bath, the wholesome meal and darkness combined to seduce her into sleep, with paperwork still in her hands.

When she awoke, only a dim table lamp remained burning in the den. The house was quiet except for the constant humming and singing of insects outside. In the silence, the noise of the front door opening and closing easily caught her attention. Groggily, Mackenna roused herself, her papers sliding from her lap onto the polished wood floor. Heavily booted footsteps echoed along the foyer. Her heartbeat quickened as the sound halted at the entrance to the den. Then, suddenly, the lights came on. Mackenna blinked against the blinding brightness as the echoing footsteps approached the couch and halted.

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” Brock said, moving over to the huge walnut desk. He threw a heavily laden clipboard onto the desktop. Turning around he assessed her keenly.

Mackenna began to retrieve the papers strewn about her feet. “I had some paperwork to finish,” she responded, her tone cool and neutral. She looked up, her heart contracting. He looked incredibly tired, with dark circles beneath his blue eyes and the shadow of a beard making his cheeks look more gaunt than usual. Strands of dark hair dipped across his lined forehead, giving him a less sinister look. Her coolness evaporated and she stood up, dropping the blanket on the couch. “You look as if you could use some rest yourself,” she said.

He shrugged heavily and ambled over to the chair behind the desk where he sat down. “Comes with the territory.”

“You’re probably starved. The cook made some delicious—”

“You can cut the mothering act.”

Mackenna froze, stunned. She stared across the expanse that separated them, disbelief etched in her widened eyes. His bitter tone was clearly a response to their earlier argument, she told herself, trying not to take his behavior to heart. She pursed her lips, holding his wearied gaze. “You don’t scare me,” she said. “Save your nasty remarks for some other woman. No matter what you think, I don’t happen to deserve them. Now if you want something to eat, I’ll be happy to get it for you. You look exhausted, and I know how grateful I always am when Herr Vermeer has a meal set aside for me when I get off the road. Now, shall I get you some food?”

They studied each other across the silence, two adversaries. Mackenna’s face flushed with heat as Brock assessed her critically. Again she had the feeling that he was undressing her with his eyes, his task made easier by the cotton nightgown and robe she wore. “You wouldn’t poison it, would you?” he asked, his eyes betraying a cold glint of humor.

Mackenna forced herself to remain calm. “No. I’d rather kill you with kindness.”

He reached for his clipboard, removing the thick sheaf of papers. “I can live with that. Thanks for the offer.”

Mackenna made her way to the kitchen feeling as if she had won a major battle. As she prepared the meal, warming it in the microwave, a new sense of peace cloaked her. Despite Brock’s sour mood, she suspected that he appreciated her efforts. Finding a lacquered Chinese tray, Mackenna ladled out the fragrant dishes and padded back into the den. Brock sat at the desk, forehead resting in his hand as he busily punched numbers into a calculator. He glanced up, his features set in a dark scowl. Almost immediately his face softened.

“Come on,” she urged, setting the tray in front of him, “the figures will all be there when you finish eating.” She had leaned close to set down the tray, her hip grazing his well-muscled body. His eyes narrowed. Nervously, she sat back down on the couch.

“Thanks,” he murmured, digging hungrily into the food. Quiet invaded the den. Mackenna relaxed, finding pleasure in the fact that Brock had put aside his work to eat. A softened smile curved her lips. He reminded her of a starved little boy who had just come in from a hard day of play.

Brock put down his chopsticks and slid the tray to one side. He looked up at her. “I spent the rest of the evening checking on diesel levels over at the main refueling station. You run a pretty tight ship,” he said, a hint of admiration in his voice. He pulled out a sheet of figures. “I had figured that with a woman in charge of the road, the problems would surface in the equipment area.”

Mackenna gritted her teeth, withholding an acid comment. “And?”

He brought out the clipboard, riffling through service records on each of the many pieces of equipment used to shape and mold the road. “I did a load-time study based on haul distance, equipment used and the rolling friction factors. I also checked the odometer records on each machine as well as the cubic yards of dirt hauled per day.”

“And what did you find?”

He gave a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Nothing.”

Mackenna fought against a smile. How typical of him to think that she, as a woman, would be unable to comprehend equipment use, time and maintenance. If she read his guarded expression correctly, he was genuinely puzzled. “Would you like my evaluation of why we fell behind?” she inquired softly.

He gave a brief nod. “Yes.”

She curled up on the couch, tugging the blanket across her legs. “First, the site that the soil analysis team chose to be the main gravel pit turned out to be inadequate. It did not yield the projected amounts.”

He tilted his head, resting his chin on his hands. “You’re the soils expert. Why did you okay that site?” he challenged.

Mackenna was actually quite proud of her handling of the job. As she relaxed into her explanation her hands moved enthusiastically, adding emphasis to her words. “The site was chosen before I was sent out. I became aware of the problem almost immediately after signing on. I went directly to the pit and retested the stone.

“If they’d bothered to test on a two-hundred-foot grid instead of a five-hundred-foot one, they’d have found that the gravel seams were insufficient,” she said, her voice tinged with disgust. “Moreover, the gravel being extracted was of only marginal hardness. When it was compacted, it deteriorated, preventing free drainage. And you know what happens when extensive fragmentation of the gravel and blocked drainage occur. You get a road that pumps.”

He nodded, appearing more at ease. “So as the construction equipment ran over the roadbed the gravel didn’t support its weight, and the road compressed, preventing adequate drainage.”

Mackenna pursed her lips. “And as soon as the weight was removed, the road rebounded. The pumping action had completely destroyed the road’s ability to handle loads of a ton or more. Which means it was damned near useless. We had to check every foot for soft spots, remove those we found, and replace it with good material. The extra time, material and equipment it took to bridge those soft pockets added time to our schedule and increased the overall cost. That’s the main reason we fell behind. And now, to compound matters, we’re running out of the main seam. Soon there will be nothing but porous rock left.”

“And what have you done about it?”

She gave him an irritated look. “You’ve only just bought out Benson Construction, so I’m sure you haven’t gone through all my letters and reports yet. I called the main office, wrote and even flew to Hong Kong to convince management of the need to find another gravel pit. That meant money and time. The old owners felt we could go with the porous rock. I argued against it because I knew the road wouldn’t stand up more than five years under wear and tear.”

“Moralistic, aren’t you?” he chided mildly.

She didn’t react to his gentle baiting. “It does come down to morals in one sense. Sure, I could build the rest of the road and it would look great…for a few years. But I’ve never believed in shoddy materials or workmanship. And I’m not about to put my name on something that isn’t going to last.”

“So what have you been doing about it behind their backs?” He allowed a hint of a smile to shadow his mouth, his eyes glimmering with mirth.

“I located another pit on my own.”

“Where’d the money come from?”

“I used savings from economies in the mechanical section to pay for the search. So no extra money went to finance it from the overall budget.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve got a solid seam of good-consistency lava rock up near Mount Bromo. It’s an active volcano situated about ten miles south of the mountain.”

“Accessibility by truck?”

“Excellent.” She rolled her eyes. “For once we didn’t have to worry about our trucks sinking to their axles in mud. I’ve used the lava rock as a base for the road.”

Brock’s features relaxed perceptibly and he seemed to be enjoying the exchange. “How soon can it be used?”

“In another week. I cut it close, but it’ll be ready.”

He leaned back, stretching like a lazy cat. “You could have been fired for pulling that stunt.”

Mackenna grinned. “I still can. So, do I lose my head now or later?”

He got up, returning the smile grudgingly. “I had my doubts until just now. You’re still in the ballpark, if that’s what you want to know.” He picked up the calculator and clipboard, walking slowly to where she sat. He looked down at her. “I still haven’t figured out your game,” he murmured huskily.

Mackenna lifted her chin, gravely meeting his eyes. “I don’t play games. Would you feel more comfortable if I did?”

He grinned. “A hell of a lot more comfortable. At least I’d know what to expect. Come on, let’s get to bed. We’re both bushed.”

Brock’s bedroom was next door to her own. In the hall he paused briefly. “You scored a lot of points tonight, Mackenna,” he whispered. “Good night.”

Mackenna warmed beneath his praise. “I’m sure that by tomorrow I’ll be in the doghouse again,” she returned, smiling. “Good night.”

Mackenna was surprised at how quickly she was recovering from her short bout with malaria. Had it been due to Brock’s acerbic prodding? She smiled to herself, unafraid to admit that he had such an influence on her. Even Sully had commented on the glow of liveliness in her eyes.

She grabbed her white hard hat, taking the steps down to the foyer. The morning was fresh, the pink tint of sunrise washing across the copra plantation. Brock was already in the truck, waiting for her. Mackenna glanced up at him as she walked to the passenger side.

“Good morning,” she greeted, climbing in.

Brock gave her a sour look…his usual. “Let’s wait to see what the day brings before we assign a good or bad to it, shall we?”

Mackenna laughed freely. “How can you say it isn’t a lovely morning?” She gestured to the intense pink that was slowly turning paler as the sun nudged above the horizon. “Look at that! Isn’t that the loveliest color you’ve ever seen?”

He barely gave the glowing sunrise a glance. “You are a romantic, Mackenna.”

She settled back, enjoying the lush scenery as Brock drove slowly out of the driveway. A satisfied smile crept to her lips. “Yes, and I’ll never change.” She sighed, pleased that she had noticed the beauty of their surroundings even if Brock Hampton was blind to such things. How many glorious sunrises had she missed, preoccupied with her own depression? “God,” she whispered, “it feels good to be alive!”

Brock’s glance was critical. “You look like a contented cat,” he growled.

Mackenna leaned against the door, resting her arm along the back of the seat. “Oh, no,” she said, laughing as the image of Brock as pacing tiger sprang to mind. “You’re the cat.”

One dark eyebrow lifted. Brock’s normally taut mouth softened as he digested this impulsive disclosure. “A cat? Why?” he asked, his voice husky.

Mackenna felt the flush rising to her cheeks. She gave a short, embarrassed laugh. “Just my overactive imagination,” she murmured.

Brock smiled grudgingly back. “You look very fetching when you blush, Mackenna. I’m having a terrible time remembering you’re a woman past thirty and a hardened professional engineer. Somehow you’ve sidestepped the aging process.”

Mackenna sighed contentedly as the issue of her comment was dropped. True, she thought. Every day spent with Brock made her feel freer, more childlike. It was as if she had awakened from the grips of a nightmare. “It’s simply a product of having a positive outlook on life,” she offered gently.

Brock shook his head. “No, it’s more than that.” He turned briefly, his gaze meeting her wide, green eyes. “You live life to its fullest, Mackenna.”

A furrow formed in his forehead. “And if I don’t watch it, your attitude is going to start influencing me.”

She gave a hoot of laughter. “As if that would hurt! Brock Hampton, I think you actually enjoy living in this shell of misery you’ve built around yourself.” Mackenna drew in a sharp breath, immediately sorry she had blurted out her feelings that way. Brock’s smile disappeared. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“How do you see me, Mackenna?” he asked softly.

Her heart caught in her throat and she looked away.

“Anything I say will sound judgmental, Brock. I don’t stand in judgment of anyone or—”

“You honestly believe there’s hope for me?”

Her heart contracted. She wanted desperately to reach out and touch his arm, to reassure him. “Oh, Brock,” she whispered, a catch in her tone, “there’s always hope….”

Brock gave her a measuring glance. “You know what I like about you?”

Mackenna barely shook her head. “No…”

“You never give up. I admire that quality. You don’t take no for an answer. Instead, you approach a problem on your own terms. The world could say you were wrong, but it wouldn’t matter.” He gave her a warming smile. “You run on the energy of your heart, lady. And I find that trait puzzling and incredibly intriguing at the same time.”

Mackenna watched him guardedly. A feeling of happiness began to suffuse her. His words were soothing, healing. It was true, she mused. She did run on her gut instincts, her feelings. As they drove along the service road, she turned inward, savoring Brock’s insight. For the first time, he had reached out beyond those walls to give her something positive
. There is hope, Brock Hampton,
she thought as she gazed at his craggy profile.