Jennifer Greene: Can’t Say No

Like the nosy man he was, he discovered the lean-to and filled the refrigerator while she was trying to figure out what to do with him. Actually, she had little choice. He was jamming the food helter-skelter on the open shelves, and she was forced to trail frantically after him to prevent cans from toppling to the floor. On second thought, she grabbed her pad and paper, jotting down, Are you crazy? I don’t want any of this food. But he wouldn’t look at the note, just grinned when they bumped hip to hip, and puttered around the pie safe until he discovered Gram’s silverware.

He lavished peanut butter on thick slices of bread, then set a plate in front of her. He dragged a chair to the table for himself, peered in one last bag and removed a bottle.

“Hooch,” he announced. “Goes well with peanut butter. There’s nothing like the local brew to clear out the cobwebs-and half of your brain cells. You’re probably some prissy wine drinker-” He paused, giving her adequate time to defend herself, and then shrugged as he picked up her sandwich. “I figured. You’re the type. Open up.”

She would have gotten peanut butter all over her closed lips if she didn’t. Her lips parted; Hart jammed in a man-sized bite of sandwich, looking very pleased with himself. She chewed rather inelegantly, having no choice, and the peanut butter sank to the base of her throat and sat there, dry and thick.

He pushed the glass of hooch in her direction. Only because she was afraid of choking on the peanut butter did she lift the glass to her lips. Swift as a cat, Hart reached over to tilt the glass a little farther, and she received a gigantic gulp of firewater that burned all the way down her throat. She glared.

Hart grinned. “Makes you sleep like a baby. Come on, now. You look middle-aged and unspeakably sanctimonious with your mouth all puckered like that. Don’t give me any moral claptrap about drinking in the middle of the day-who cares? Besides, it’s late afternoon, and we both know you’re going to bed after this anyway.”

She jammed the glass back down on the table, eyeing him warily. Coming from Hart, references to bed made her nervous.

With a frown, he let that busy hand of his snake across the table again. A very gentle forefinger flicked at a crumb on her cheek. “You know,” he said mildly, “you’re an incredibly beautiful woman, even with black streaks all over your nose. I was thinking about you all the way into town. What a pleasure it would be to have a quiet woman around for a change, one who couldn’t make demands, who couldn’t whine about commitment, who wouldn’t prattle on and on when a man was trying to think.”

She choked, and had to grab the hooch again.

“I’m not sure I can get out of my lease, as I told you. Been renting the same cabin for a number of years, but that glass trilevel place on top of your ravine is really something else. A perfect bachelor pad, with sauna, built-in stereo, the works. As the crow flies, we’d be within sight of each other, though would you believe that by the road it’s a half-hour drive around the mountain? Odd, that. Anyway, if you have any objections to having me for a neighbor, feel free to say so.” He paused, responding to the horror in her eyes with a slowly expanding smile. “I didn’t think you’d object. Here, finish this. Can you eat another sandwich?”

With the last bit of sandwich jammed in her mouth, she couldn’t have talked if…she could have talked.

She added to the list of things she detested about Hart Manning that he had no problem talking. Ceaseless, that mouth of his. Once he’d finished two more sandwiches, she thought he would leave.

Instead, he started cleaning up the remains of their makeshift lunch, then poked around the dry sink until he’d figured out how it had been converted, rambling on about the import-export business he’d inherited from his family, a firm that apparently ran itself and left him free to travel around the world. Bree didn’t have to do much reading between the lines. He clearly didn’t care that he was presenting himself as a vagabond who lived off his family in high style, or that he had a cut-and-run philosophy where women were concerned.

Trailing helplessly after him, she stopped listening, increasingly aware that she didn’t have the brawn to throw him out. As nosy as he was, he had to check every pilot light in the lean-to, examine the propane containers, fuss around the electrical box, and all the while prattle on in that sexy baritone about getting kicked out of Dartmouth way back when.

With yawns and hostile body language, she did her best to communicate boredom. Staring pointedly at the door only sent him in that direction to check the lock, frown, forage through Gram’s cabinet for oil, and fix the damn thing. “I hope you had the well checked before you came here. You should have it inspected at least once a year for ground contaminants…” He glanced back to find Bree slumped in a chair in defeat, both hands cradling a chin that was wobbling with weariness.

She gave up. She didn’t care. He could stay and talk until doomsday, and she was going to be the first recorded person in Ripley’s to fall asleep in a straight kitchen chair.

With a strange little smile, Hart crossed to the open cupboard, set a water glass in front of her and filled it halfway with hooch. “After you finish that, have to be on my way,” he said regretfully. “I’ve got a dozen arrangements to make today. I can wait until you’ve finished every drop, though, not to worry.”

He splashed a little in a glass for himself and raised it as if to toast her. The man was mad. Bree stared first at him and then at the unwanted liquor, then lifted the glass and downed it all in one choking gulp. A violent shiver of revulsion raced up and down her spine, but he’d be surprised at what she’d do to get rid of him.

Hart chuckled. Before she could give the least thought to what he was doing, his hands reached for hers, pulling her to her feet. Her legs felt like Lego blocks; her spine was trying to form an S . In some other world, she was feeling several very silly reactions to the feel of his strong brown hands on hers. It was worse when his right hand came up to push aside the strand of hair on her cheek.

“Now, I guarantee you’ll sleep without trouble this time,” he whispered. “How often do you have that nightmare, anyway?”

Her green eyes flickered up in groggy confusion; she was unsure if she had heard him correctly. At the foot of the loft steps, he draped both arms over her shoulders and leaned his forehead against hers. There was a stubble of beard on his cheeks, she noticed vaguely.

And his teeth were beautiful, straight and white. Just a hint of curling blond hair showed beneath the open throat of his shirt. His lips were even, top and bottom, oddly soft, sensually parted-and she couldn’t imagine why she was standing there staring at him.

But he seemed to be standing there staring at her. The ready smile was gone; she could feel his gaze skim possessively over the dirt streak on her cheek, the sleepiness in her eyes, the shape of her mouth. Her flesh seemed suddenly too hot, and too cold. And in that sudden silence, her heart was suddenly beating, beating, beating…

“I don’t know what on earth you’re running from, honey,” he murmured, “but life’s too darn short. You either reach out and take what you want or it’s gone. You’ve got to be that much stronger than the opposition every time or they’ll take advantage. Hear me?”

Vaguely. She was much more aware that he had tilted his head just slightly, that as he’d finished talking his mouth had stolen closer, that when he’d said his last word his lips were hovering over hers…and then taking possession.