Jackie Braun - Saying Yes to the Boss

“God! Blow on it or something,” he begged between gritted teeth.

“That would defeat the purpose of disinfecting it.”

His eyes were watering. His hand was on fire. “I’ll take my chances. A nasty case of gangrene has to be less painful.”

He leaned over to blow on it himself. When he looked up afterward their gazes held. The air seemed to sizzle as he watched the firelight reflected in her dark eyes. She had questions, too. He saw them there. And it came as a huge relief to discover that he wasn’t the only one mired in this odd, instantaneous need.

The moment stretched before she finally looked away and muttered, “Men are such babies.”

“You’re not going to start in with that argument about how if it were up to us to give birth the human race would have ended with Adam, are you?”

No hint of feminine interest remained, but he felt sure he hadn’t imagined it. She smiled at him with the same smug superiority he’d often seen on his sisters’ faces.

“No. We both know which one is the weaker sex. Why rub it in?”

Then she ran the cotton swab of antiseptic over his broken skin again.

Dane decided to change the subject. To take his mind off the pain, he asked, “So, what have you got against developers that makes you keep a shotgun handy?”

“You mean besides the fact that the one I’ve had to deal with lately is greedy and unprincipled and only interested in buying Peril Pointe so he can tear down my home and put up condos or another high-priced resort that will make that snooty Saybrook’s on Trillium look like a pauper’s retirement community?”

She was affixing butterfly bandages across the ravaged skin of his palm during her vehement response and Dane grimaced. No way in hell he was going to admit to her that in the most basic sense of the word he was a developer or that he and his two sisters actually owned the resort she’d referred to as “that snooty Saybrook’s.”

So, when she finished her minidiatribe, he worked up what he hoped was a charming smile.

“I’ll take that wine now, please.”

THE grandfather clock chimed out the hour as they sipped their wine. It was only ten, but it seemed much later. Indeed, it felt as if hours had passed since Regina first opened the door to find a drenched and injured Dane Conlan on the other side of it. With the electricity out and no phone service for who knew how long, it was clear she wouldn’t be saying goodbye to her handsome houseguest anytime soon.

The thought had her bringing the glass of Chianti to her lips again and drinking deeply.

Two years had passed since Ree had spent an evening alone in the company of a man. The last encounter had ended with a screaming match inside a tent pitched in the Nevada desert. Actually “match” wasn’t the word for it as Ree had done all the screaming, peppering her accusations with the Italian curse words she’d heard her grandfather using when Nonna Benedetta was out of earshot. None of the verbiage had gotten a rise out of the recipient. Paul Ritter had barely managed to look up from the dusty dig log he so meticulously kept to respond.

“Let’s talk about this later, Regina.”

That had been Paul’s mantra throughout their previous five years of marriage, during which Ree had followed her archaeologist husband from one godforsaken dig site to another. Each time he’d promised this one would be the last and he would get a teaching post at a university. Ree wanted a home of her own. She wanted to start a family.

Two years later, she was legally separated and had filed for divorce. Paul had yet to sign the papers, not because he wanted to make their marriage work, but because he just hadn’t gotten around to it. She knew that because the one time she’d managed to reach him by telephone, he’d admitted as much, right after which he’d launched into an excited monologue on his team’s most recent findings. His work, once again, took precedence.

Regina hadn’t pressed the issue. Why rush failure? So she remained in limbo. Now she wondered, was that any better?

She glanced over at Dane. She barely knew him and yet in the span of a mere hour she’d already formed the opinion that he didn’t believe in postponing trouble or confrontations. No, he seemed the sort who faced whatever came along when it came along—from a sinking boat to a raging electrical storm to an angry woman aiming a firearm at his heart.

One broad shoulder poked from the afghan her grandmother had knitted a half-century earlier. Even the cover’s mauve-and-pink squares couldn’t detract from his masculinity. In the flickering light she noted the firm musculature on what she could see of his chest, arms and legs. More than good genes, it took discipline to get a body that looked like that. Ree respected discipline as long as it didn’t snuff out all spontaneity.

She glanced up then and realized he’d been watching her study him. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Are you hungry or would you rather just go to bed?”

His slow smile seemed to fan the heat that was flooding into her cheeks.

“I’m famished.”

It was Dane who spoke and yet Ree found herself moistening her lips. Another kind of appetite whetted as she repeated, “Famished.”

He winked then. “Yeah, but first I’d like to clean up a bit more, if that’s okay with you?”

She’d brought him a damp washcloth and towel after bandaging his hand, not trusting him to stand long enough at the bathroom sink to wash his face. But she could appreciate his desire to rinse off more of the grime.

“Of course.”

He leaned on her once again, putting one arm around her shoulders and holding the flashlight she’d provided in his good hand. With shuffling steps they followed the bouncing beam through the darkened house to the powder room just off the front parlor.

“Fresh hand towels are in the cabinet over the toilet,” she told him as he braced against the pedestal sink. Noting his hunched posture, she added, “I’ll wait outside the door just in case you need me.”

Ten minutes later, she helped him into one of the ladder-back chairs at the table in the home’s large kitchen. His face and upper body were freshly scrubbed, and his hair was as neat as his fingers had been able to make it. Ree hid a smile as she realized that Dane now smelled like the lavender rosettes from the guest soap dish. Then she sobered when he turned his head slightly and the rough stubble of his beard grazed her cheek. Certainly nothing else about the man could be considered remotely feminine.

She lit a few candles, including the one in the centerpiece on the table, and the scents of cinnamon and ginger mingled pleasantly as she moved about the familiar room, completely at ease despite the poor lighting. Ree had grown up in this house. Every squeaky floorboard and stubborn windowpane was committed to memory. Of all the massive house’s rooms, this was her favorite and thanks to her grandmother’s patience, Ree was a good enough cook to do it justice.

If houses had hearts, the kitchen was the Victorian’s. Life pulsed from here. That especially had been true when her grandmother was alive. Even now, as Ree stood in front of the late nineteenth-century cabinetry that unfortunately was starting to show its age, she could almost hear Nonna humming a Dean Martin tune, the blade of her knife making quick work of a bulb of garlic for pesto. It would pain her grandmother that the wood still needed resurfacing and more than a few of the door hinges begged for replacement. Ree had not been able to make those repairs or the many others the home required. Regret came swiftly, but she pushed it away. She swore she heard Nonna’s voice whispering to her that it was impolite to dwell on her own troubles when she had a guest to feed.