Jennifer Greene: Can’t Say No

“All right. You want to carry all your packages and mine, too? Just to prove you’re a tough old cookie?” Bree asked.

“ Old? Eighty-five isn’t old. Now ninety-ninety starts getting up there.”

Bree laughed, casting a loving glance at her tiny grandmother. Tenacious, sassy and fiercely independent-that was Gram, who stubbornly denied her failing health, who drank sherry with her peppermint ice cream, who had spurred Bree into every mischievous escapade she’d ever been on. Often Bree thought that Gram wished her granddaughter had been just a little bit more…wicked. More interesting. More prone to trouble. As Gram had been in her youth. Bree had always had a boring tendency to be good.

At the moment, she had a definite inclination to get Gram out of the snow and wind. “Now just wait here,” Bree ordered her, as she grabbed the rest of the packages and settled Gram under the sheltering canopy of a department store entrance. “I’ll bring the car around in two seconds flat.”

In four minutes flat, she pulled up to the store, her mind more on fixing Gram’s supper than on standing in a no-parking zone. Hats bobbed, blocking her view; she stepped out of the car, intending to motion to her grandmother. Bodies seemed to be deliberately obscuring her vision, and a tiny frown flickered across her brow.

And then someone moved, and there was Gram, clutching her purse as a stranger tried to grab it. Gram, shouting, her little gray topknot all awry, her gentle features contorted, and Bree was suddenly running, running…

She managed to get her hands on the thief; her head cracked when he slammed her against a concrete wall as he made his escape. There was blood on her scalp; she could feel it, but worse than that was the crowd, where curious blank faces surrounded her as she surged frantically toward her grandmother.

A man in a navy uniform tried to shield her from the small prone body…as if anyone could possibly keep her away from Gram! Bree threw herself down, feeling her knee scrape raw through slushy cement, not caring, not believing the terrible blue-gray color of Gram’s lips, the way she was clutching her heart. “I’m afraid it’s a heart attack, miss,” someone said, and Bree said fiercely, “No!”

Gram’s face was ashen, her hand far too cool and weak in Bree’s. “The cabin,” Gram whispered. “It’s for you, Bree, when you need it. Remember…”

“You’ll be fine, ” Bree said desperately. “Don’t talk, Gram. Don’t…”

“Fight for what you want, darlin’,” Gram said. “Nothing halfway. Don’t you settle for halfway, Bree…”

Nothing could have hurt more than that machete slash of pain as Gram smiled one last time. The whine of a siren in the distance became a shriek, augmented by a terrible silent scream in Bree’s head that no one else could hear…

“Wake up. Now, honey.” Bree’s eyes flew open as a strong hand shook her shoulder and a pair of intense navy blue eyes fastened on her own. For a moment, she was totally disoriented to see a stranger’s face peering at her with such fierce concern, but then she recognized Hart Manning. And before she was fully awake, his lips had curled into an immediately relaxed smile. “Whether you know it or not, sweetheart, there isn’t a thing wrong with your vocal cords. You can scream like a banshee-in fact, you just did, in your sleep. And since you’ve deprived us both of any possible rest, you may as well buckle up. We’re landing.”

Bree’s lips parted to deliver a rejoinder, failed to produce any sound and formed a thin line to stop their trembling. Tears had collected in her eyes during the dream; she blinked them back, ducking her head to fumble with the seat belt-only to find she was draped from neck to toes in a blanket.

With a frown, she pushed the thing aside, not remembering when the blanket or the pillow behind her had appeared. For a moment, she couldn’t think at all but could only feel. Her emotions bounced from the guilt she felt for her grandmother’s death to her relief at being jolted from the endlessly recurring nightmare to…rage at the insensitive clod next to her.

Rage won out. Furiously, she fastened her seat belt. Hart, was it? Well, anyone with any heart would have at least offered her a little sympathy after a terrifying nightmare…

Of course, if he had, you would have burst into tears and embarrassed yourself no end, her mind’s voice swiftly reminded her.

“And we’d better finish putting you back together, honey…”

If there was anything Bree hated, it was someone who tossed out casual endearments like honey. After glaring up into a pair of fathomless blue eyes, she lowered her gaze and glimpsed her bone pumps, swinging back and forth from his finger. She snatched them, not remembering having removed her shoes any more than she remembered the appearance of the blanket and pillow.

A watery sun was peering through the tiny plane window, and Bree’s stomach went bump as the earth seemed to rush up at them. She put her shoes on, then hurriedly grabbed her purse and reached in for a brush and compact. What she needed was a bathroom and some soap and water; her compact mirror affirmed that three hours’ sleep hadn’t been nearly enough. Her makeup had long ago worn off: dark, bruised eyes and tousled hair confronted her, along with lips gnawed red in the process of reliving Gram’s death.

From the corner of the mirror, she glimpsed her seatmate’s expression. Her hasty brush strokes stopped. He was…staring. And the corners of his lips were just turned up, as if he’d caught her doing something intimate.

“You have someone to help you at the airport?” he asked.

Ignoring him, Bree shoved the brush back in her purse and hurriedly stood up, in a sudden rush to get off the plane, which had taxied to a stop. Hart stayed right behind her; she knew, because she could feel those navy eyes riveted on her back. And like a schoolgirl, she was conscious of bra straps showing through the silk of her blouse, of every motion of her hips… Darn it. Did her fanny sway or jiggle or bounce or whatever when she walked? She hadn’t worried about such idiotic things in years.

She forgot him for an instant as she stepped off the plane and climbed down the metal boarding ramp. Sultry heat assaulted her in dizzying, shimmering waves, and the early morning sun was almost enough to burn her eyes. Still, she could smell the mountains. A three-hour drive and she’d be in the Appalachians; there’d be woods and silence, and the trillium would just be starting to bloom. There was no softer solace than Gram’s feather bed…

Still, her fingertips touched her temples once she entered the main airport terminal. Frigid air conditioning chilled her skin; there was such terrible noise and confusion, and her heartbeat picked up the cadence of anxiety. Everything would be fine once she got to the cabin, but around people she felt isolated by an invisible glass wall, knowing she couldn’t communicate.

“So there isn’t anyone waiting for you. I should have guessed,” Hart said disgustedly.

She looked up, unaware he was still behind her until she felt his hand resting possessively on the small of her back, redirecting her steps to the right instead of the left.

“The baggage pickup is this way. You have to read the signs. You do read?” he asked conversationally. “First impressions are deceiving. I had you pegged for the efficient, self-sufficient type, if you want to know the truth. Now, do you think you can possibly cope from here?”

Depression didn’t stand a chance next to a healthy, invigorating surge of rage. Four-letter words tripped on her tongue, fell back and stuck helplessly somewhere in her throat. “Yes,” her lips formed frigidly. “I can cope just fine. Leave me alone, would you?”