Diana Palmer - Unlikely Lover

Mari covered her face with her hands in mingled relief and suppressed amusement. Ward Jessup was quite a man. How sad that he had such little time left. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the look on his face when he climbed out of the indoor stream, or the excited beat of her heart as she’d run from him. It was new to be chased by a man, even an ill one, and exhilarating to be uninhibited in one’s company. She’d been shy with men all her life, but she didn’t feel shy with Ward. She felt… feminine. And that was as new to her as the rapid beat of her heart.

Chapter Three

“I didn’t mean to knock you into the pool,” Mari told Ward the minute he entered the dining room.

He stopped in the doorway and stared at her from his great height. His hair was dry now, thick and straight against his broad forehead, and his wet clothes had been exchanged for dry jeans and a blue plaid shirt. His green eyes were a little less hostile than they had been minutes before.

“It isn’t a pool,” he informed her. “It’s an indoor stream. And next time, Miss Raymond, I’d appreciate it if you’d watch where the hell you’re going.”

“Yes, sir,” she said quickly.

“I told you not to let him put that stream in the living room,” Lillian gloated.

He glared at her. “Keep talking and I’ll give you an impromptu swimming lesson.”

“Yes, boss.” She turned on her heel and went back into the kitchen to fetch the rest of the food.

“I really am sorry,” Mari murmured.

“So am I,” he said unexpectedly, and his green eyes searched hers quietly. “I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

She glanced down at her shoes, nervous of the sensations that his level gaze prompted. “It’s hard to be afraid of a man with a lily pad on his head.”

“Stop that,” he grumbled, jerking out a chair.

“You might consider putting up guardrails,” she suggested dryly as she sat down across from him, her blue eyes twinkling with the first humor she’d felt in days.

“You’d better keep a life jacket handy,” he returned.

She stuck her tongue out at him impulsively and watched his thick eyebrows arch.

He shook out his napkin with unnecessary force and laid it across his powerful thighs. “My God, you’re living dangerously,” he told her.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said smartly and meant it.

“That isn’t what your Aunt Lillian says,” he observed with narrowed eyes.

She stared at him blankly. “I beg your pardon?”

“She says you’re afraid of men,” he continued. He scowled at her puzzled expression. “Because of what happened to you and your friend,” he prompted.

She blinked, wondering what her aunt had told him about that. After all, having your purse pinched by an overweight juvenile delinquent wasn’t really enough to terrify most women. Especially when she and Beth had run the offender down, beaten the stuffing out of him, recovered the purse and sat on him until the police got there.

“You know, dear,” Lillian blustered as she came through the door, shaking her head and smiling all at once. She looked as red as a beet, too. “The horrible experience you had!”

“Horrible?” Mari asked.

“Horrible!” Lillian cried. “We can’t talk about it now!”

“We can’t?” Mari parroted blankly.

“Not at the table. Not in front of the boss!” She jerked her head curtly toward him two or three times.

“Have you got a crick in your neck, Aunt Lillian?” her niece asked with some concern.

“No, dear, why do you ask? Here! Have some fried chicken and some mashed potatoes!” She shoved dishes toward her niece and began a monologue that only ended when it was time for dessert.

“I think something’s wrong with Aunt Lillian,” Mari confided to Ward the moment Lillian started back into the kitchen for the coffeepot.

“Yes, so do I,” he replied. “She’s been acting strangely for the past few days. Don’t let on you know. We’ll talk later.”

She nodded, concerned. Lillian was back seconds later, almost as if she was afraid to leave them alone together. How strange.

“Well, I think I’ll go up to bed,” Mari said after she finished her coffee, glancing quickly at Aunt Lillian. “I’m very tired.”

“Good idea,” Ward said. “You get some rest.”

“Yes,” Lillian agreed warmly. “Good night, dear.”

She bent to kiss her aunt. “See you in the morning, Aunt Lillian,” she murmured and glanced at Ward. “Good night, Mr. Jessup.”

“Good night, Miss Raymond,” he said politely.

Mari went quietly upstairs and into her bedroom. She sat by the window and looked down at the empty swimming pool with its wooden privacy fence and the gently rolling, brush-laden landscape, where cattle moved lazily and a green haze heralded spring. Minutes later there was a stealthy knock at the door, and Ward Jessup came into the room, scowling.

“Want me to leave the door open?” he asked hesitantly.

She stared at him blankly. “Why? Are you afraid I might attack you?”

He stared back. “Well, after the experience you had, I thought…”

“What experience?” she asked politely.

“The man at the shopping center,” he said, his green eyes level and frankly puzzled as he closed the door behind him.

“Are you afraid of me because of that?” she burst out. “I do realize you may be a little weak, Mr. Jessup, but I promise I won’t hurt you!”

He gaped at her. “What?”

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” she assured him. “I’m not really as bad as Aunt Lillian made me sound, I’m sure. And it’s only a red belt, after all, not a black one. I only sat on him until the police came. I hardly even bruised him—”

“Whoa,” he said curtly. He cocked his dark head and peered at her. “You sat on him?”

“Sure,” she agreed, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “Didn’t she tell you that Beth and I ran the little weasel down to get my purse back and beat the stuffing out of him? Overweight little juvenile delinquent, he was lucky I didn’t skin him alive.”

“You weren’t attacked?” he persisted.

“Well, sort of.” She shrugged. “He stole my purse. He couldn’t have known I was a karate student.”

“Oh, my God,” he burst out. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tautened. “That lying old turkey!”

“How dare you call my aunt a turkey!” she returned hotly. “After all she’s doing for you?”

“What, exactly, is she doing for me?”

“Well, bringing me here, to help you write your memoirs before…the end,” she faltered. “She told me all about your incurable illness—”

“Incurable illness?” he bellowed.

“You’re dying,” she told him.

“Like hell I am,” he said fiercely.

“You don’t have to act brave and deny it,” she replied hesitantly. “She told me that you wanted young people around to cheer you up. And somebody to help you write your memoirs. I’m going to be a novelist one day,” she added. “I want to be a writer.”

“Good. You can practice with your aunt’s obituary,” he muttered, glaring toward the door.

“You can’t do that to a helpless old lady,” she began.

“Watch me.” He was heading for the door, his very stride frightening.

“Oh, no! You can’t!” She ran after him, got in front of him and plastered herself against the door. “You’ll have to go through me.”

“Suits me, Joan of Arc,” he grumbled, catching her by the waist. He lifted her clear off the floor until she was unnervingly at eye level with him. “You sweet little angel of mercy, you.”

“Put me down or I’ll…I’ll put you down,” she threatened.

He stared amusedly into her blue eyes under impossibly thick lashes. “Will you? Go ahead. Show me how you earned that red belt.”