Nora Roberts - The Return Of Rafe MacKade - the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

Regan turned her head, moaned, shivered.

“All the way out, pal. Open those big blue eyes for me.”

The voice was so coaxing, she did. And found herself looking into Rafe’s.

“It wasn’t funny.”

A bit dizzy with relief, he smiled and stroked her cheek. “What wasn’t?”

“Hiding upstairs to scare me.” She blinked to bring the world back into sharp focus and discovered she was cradled on his lap on the window seat in the parlor. “Let me up.”

“I don’t think so. You’re still a little shaky on your pins. Just relax a minute.” He shifted her expertly so that her head rested in the crook of his arm.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re white as a sheet. If I had a flask, I’d pour some brandy into you. Never saw a woman faint as gracefully, though. You sort of drifted down, gave me a chance to catch you before your head knocked against the floor.”

“If you expect me to thank you, forget it.” She shoved, found him unmovable. “It’s your fault.”

“Thanks. It’s flattering to think the sight of me has a woman dropping at my feet. There.” He traced a finger down her cheek again. “That brought some color back.”

“If this is the way you do business, you can take your job and—” She ground her teeth. “Let me up.”

“Let’s try this.” Lifting her, he plopped her down on the seat beside him. “Hands off,” he added, lifting his. “Now why don’t you tell me why you’re ticked off at me?”

Pouting, she brushed at her smudged trousers. “You know very well.”

“All I know is, I walked in the door and saw you doing a swan dive.”

“I’ve never fainted in my life.” And she was thoroughly mortified that she had done so now—in front of him. “If you want me to work on this house, scaring me into unconsciousness isn’t the way to do it.”

He studied her, reached into his pocket for the cigarettes he’d given up exactly eight days before. “How did I scare you?”

“By walking around upstairs, opening and closing doors, making those ridiculous noises.”

“Maybe I should start off by telling you I got held up at the farm. I didn’t leave until fifteen minutes ago.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t blame you.” If he wasn’t going to smoke, he had to move. Rising, he strolled over to the hearth. He thought he caught a whiff of smoke, as from a fire that had recently died. “Shane was there—and so was Cy Martin. He’s mayor now.”

“I know who Cy Martin is,” she said testily.

“You should have known him in high school,” Rafe mused. “He was a complete ass. Anyway, Cy dropped by to see if Shane could plow his lane. He was still there when I left. Fifteen minutes ago. I borrowed Shane’s four-wheel to make the hill. Parked it and came to the door in time to see your eyes roll back in your head.”

He walked back to her, stripped off his coat and tucked it over her legs. “By the way, how’d you get in?”

“I—” She stared at him, swallowed. “I opened the door.”

“It was locked.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Lifting a brow, he jingled the keys in his pocket. “That’s interesting.”

“You’re not lying,” she said after a moment.

“Not this time. Why don’t you tell me what you heard?”

“Footsteps. But there was no one there.” To warm them, she tucked her hands under his coat. “Boards creaking upstairs. I started up. It was cold, bitterly cold, and it frightened me, so I went to the landing.”

“You were scared, so you went up instead of out?”

“I thought you were up there. I was going to yell at you.” Her smile was weak, but it was there. “I was furious that you’d managed to make me jump. Then I looked down the hallway. I guess I knew you weren’t there. I heard wood scrape, and a door slam hard and someone crying. Then I bolted.”

He sat beside her again, put his arm around her shoulders in a friendly squeeze. “Who wouldn’t?”

“A shot,” she remembered. “I was almost down the stairs when I heard a gunshot. It made my ears ring. Then the door opened, and lights-out.”

“I shouldn’t have been late.” Unexpectedly, he leaned over and gave her a quick, casual kiss. “Sorry.”

“That’s hardly the point.”

“The thing is, some people feel things in this place, some don’t. You struck me as the cool, practical type.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “Oh, really?”

“Single-minded,” he added with a grin. “It seems you have more imagination than I expected. Feeling better now?”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you don’t want to sit on my lap again?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

With his eyes on hers, he brushed a cobweb from her hair. “Want to get out of here?”

“Absolutely.”

He picked up his coat. “I’d like to take you somewhere.”

“That isn’t necessary. I said I was…” She stood and, as he held his ground, bumped into his chest. “Fine,” she managed.

“Business, darling.” He tucked her hair behind her ear, flicked a finger over the square-cut aquamarine at the lobe. “For the moment. I think we can find someplace a little warmer and more hospitable to hash out the details.”

That was reasonable, she decided. Perfectly sensible. “All right.”

She picked up her briefcase and walked ahead of him to the door.

“Regan?”

“Yes?”

“Your face is dirty.” He laughed at the smoldering look she shot at him, then scooped her up in his arms. Even as she stuttered a protest, he carried her over the broken porch. “Got to watch your step,” he told her, setting her on her feet next to a Jeep.

“I make a habit of it.”

“I bet you do,” he murmured as he rounded the hood.

He maneuvered his way down the lane, circled around her car and kept going.

“I thought I’d follow you,” she began.

“Since I don’t think you mean to the ends of the earth, let’s just take one car. I’ll bring you back.”

“From?”

“Home, sweet home, darling.”

In the snow, with the sun glazing the white fields, the MacKade farm was Currier and Ives pretty. A stone house with covered porch, an arched roof on the red barn, weathered outbuildings and a pair of golden dogs, barking and yipping and kicking up snow completed the scene—one that appealed to Regan.

She’d driven past the MacKade place countless times—when the fields were brown and furrowed from the plow, when they were high with hay and corn. She’d even stopped once or twice when Shane was riding his tractor, and thought how completely suited he seemed to be to the land.

She couldn’t picture Rafe MacKade in the same scene.

“You didn’t come back to farm, I imagine.”

“Hell, no. Shane loves it, Devin tolerates it. Jared looks on it as an ongoing enterprise.”

She tilted her head as he parked the Jeep beside his car. “And you?”

“Hate it.”

“No ties to the land?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I hated farming.” Rafe hopped out of the Jeep, clucking at the leaping golden retrievers. Before Regan could step down into the foot-deep snow, he’d plucked her up.

“I wish you’d stop that. I’m perfectly capable of walking through a little snow.”

“City boots. Pretty enough, though,” he commented as he carried her onto the porch. “You’ve got little feet. Stay out,” he ordered the dogs. Smoothly he opened the door, elbowed it aside and carried her in.

“Hey, Rafe, what you got there?”

Grinning, Rafe shifted Regan in his arms and winked at Shane. “Got me a female.”

“Good-looking one, too.” Shane tossed the log he held onto the fire, straightened. His eyes, the color of fog over seawater, warmed in appreciation. “Hi there, Regan.”