Cara Colter - 9 Out Of 10 Women Can't Be Wrong

She could not remember the rules or the point of the game, only that they had held the cards up on their foreheads where the other players could see them but they couldn’t see their own.

She could remember the laughter that had filled that room, that had chased that faint weariness from his face. His laughter had made him seem younger and more human. Incredibly, it had made him even more handsome than he had seemed before, and that had been plenty handsome. The moment had shone with a light almost iridescent, had stolen her breath from her lungs, and the joy of other good moments in her life had paled before the perfection of that one.

“Are you all right?”

He was looking at her closely.

“Yes,” she said. “I told you it was just a scratch.”

But she knew what a scratch could do. Four years ago he had scratched the surface of an uninitiated heart.

And that scratch had festered and grown to a wound.

“Have a seat over here, Miss Snow.”

“Call me Harrie.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Pardon?” She sat down at the chair he’d pulled out for her.

“I just can’t look at you and call you Harry.” He knelt down in front of her, completely unself-conscious, the medical kit on the ground beside him. He rolled up the leg of her jeans, without apparently noticing she had changed outfits. She found herself holding the side of the chair as if she was getting ready for takeoff.

“Fine by me, Mr. Jordan. Do you think you could make that Ms. Snow?”

He shrugged, indifferent, and didn’t invite her to call him Tyler, or Ty, as she had called him last time she was here. Looking at the top of his head, his dark hair shiny as silk, she wondered if there was any of that laughter-filled boy left in him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his eyes flicking over the white of her knuckles on the edge of her chair.

“Thank you. I know.” He hadn’t even touched her yet, for God’s sake.

The touch, when it came, was everything she had feared, everything she had braced herself for.

It was strong, infinitely competent, as he carefully cleaned the area around the scrape on her knee. The skin of his palm brushed her lower knee as he swabbed her cut, and it was leather tough, the hand of man who worked outdoors in extreme weather and handled shovels and reins and newborn calves. The hand of a man who drove big trucks and chopped wood and fixed fences.

And yet there was none of that toughness in his touch. He was careful and extremely gentle, a man, she reminded herself, who had looked after scraped knees before. And broken arms.

“There, I think I’ve got the grit out,” he said, inspecting it carefully. His breath whispered across the dampness of the skin surrounding her scrape, and she had to close her eyes against the sensation that tingled through her tummy, the insane desire to lean forward and ask him to kiss it better.

He dabbed iodine on with a cotton swab on a wand that came out of the bottle. Thankfully the application required no direct contact, and allowed her to marshal her defenses.

But then he carefully cut a square of gauze, held that over the scrape, the warmth of his hand encircling her kneecap. With his other hand he juggled the medical tape, cutting off pieces, then pressing them firmly into place, his fingertips trailing liquid fire down skin she had not really been aware was so sensitive until now.

“All done,” he announced, and Harrie wasn’t sure if she was safe or sorry. He rolled her pant leg down and got to his feet.

It was about the sexiest thing that had ever happened to her, which probably summed up her pathetic luck with the opposite sex, including her ex-husband, quite nicely.

“Thank you,” she said, and clambered to her feet, wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. “I’m fine. That was completely unnecessary. Nice. But unnecessary.”

She could feel herself getting red. Why had she said nice? “I meant kind,” she stammered, “not nice.”

She could tell he found her making the distinction amusing. Harrie could feel herself becoming exactly the same bumpkin she had been four years ago. She had to get this situation under control.

“I was just looking out for myself, Ms. Snow. I’m not real anxious to have you getting sick on the place. I don’t want to be doing any baby-sitting.”

It had been about him. She had the sudden feeling that coming back here had not been a great idea after all. He was going out of his way to make himself unlikable.

“Well, then let’s get to work, Mr. Jordan. As you know, my challenge will be to create the illusion of four seasons over the next week. I was hoping we could use the fireplace for the December shot. Hang a few stockings.”

“How do you know I have a fireplace?” he asked.

She should have known this would happen sometime. That she would let it slip that she was more familiar with him and this house than she should be.

“Your sister told me,” she lied brightly. “We tossed around the idea of how to create the seasons a little bit at the office.”

Wasn’t that just the problem with little white lies? She saw the faintest flicker in his eyes. He didn’t like that he had been discussed at the office.

Harriet had always been an absolutely terrible liar, and she could see by the long look he gave her she had not improved in that department. “I’ll just follow you around with the camera,” she said brightly. “Whatever you normally do, go ahead and do it. You won’t even know I’m there.”

“I usually have a shower right now,” he drawled, watching her.

She stared at him and gulped. She could feel a horrible wave of heat moving up her neck to her face.

“In the middle of the day?” she managed to challenge him, her voice a squeak.

“Just making sure your limits are the same as mine,” he said. “I’m a private man, Ms. Snow. I’ll let you know when it’s okay to take pictures.”

She begged herself to challenge him, to not let him back her down. She lifted her chin and said, “I don’t know, Mr. Jordan, a nice steamy shower shot would probably sell a whole pile of calendars.”

Then she spoiled the effect entirely by blushing. She gulped and looked at her feet.

She saw his booted feet move into her range of vision. She refused to look up, and then she felt that hand, so familiar to her after the knee episode, touch her chin ever so lightly.

She lifted her face to him and didn’t look away when he scanned her quizzically.

“Don’t play with fire, Ms. Snow.”

What could be more embarrassing than a full-grown mature woman being embarrassed by something so innocuous?

Something changed in his eyes. A puzzled look came into them.

She was almost sure he recognized her, or if he didn’t, something had tickled his memory, troubled him.

“They should have sent the man,” he said.

She bristled. “I happen to be very good at my job. And for your information, I’ve been a war correspondent. I’ve lived in close quarters with men in very rough conditions.”

“Really?” he said, his eyes narrowed as if he didn’t believe a word of it.

“Really,” she said coolly. “Besides, women get better shots of men, for obvious reasons.”

“I don’t find them obvious. Could you explain?”

“It’s the male preening thing. ‘Little lady, let me show you how big and strong I am.”’

He stared at her, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. He gave his head a shake. “Is there any chance we could have you out of here in less than a week?”

“Cooperating would help.”

“Can you ride a horse?”

Now this was the question she’d been dreading. She’d fallen off a horse last time she’d been here. It had been the first time she had ever ridden, and it hadn’t been the horse’s fault at all.