Sandra Field - Seducing Nell

Nell stood very still, shaken by the intimacy of his gaze, feeling as if every secret she had ever held was exposed to him. Then he said quietly, “When I was a kid, we used to pick bunches of blue—eyed grass to give to the teacher. Have you ever seen it? The flowers are like little stars that are blue and purple at the same time. Your eyes remind me of them.”

“Oh,” said Nell, feeling her cheeks grow warm and trying very hard to repress the knowledge that he was easily the most attractive man she’d ever come across.

Although that admirably succinct North American word “hunk” would express her opinion far more accurately.

With an exclamation of self—disgust, the man dropped his hands to his sides, and the mood was shattered. “You saw the caribou from the road, too. That’s why you were hidden.”

She had forgotten about the caribou. Glancing toward the bluff, she whispered, “They’ve gone.” Across her face flitted regret and the memory of that moment of shining happiness.

He said heavily, “I scared them when I fell.”

Her nostrils flared. “I expect you scared them when you jumped me. A starving wolf’s got nothing on you.”

“There aren’t any wolves in Newfoundland.”

“A bear, then,” she said pettishly.

“Bears don’t starve in the summertime.”

There was a gleam of humor deep in his dark eyes. “Hunk” also began to seem a very wishy—washy concept. Devastating? Gorgeous? Sexy? Any or all of the above? Nell said, “It might be nice if you could bring yourself to apologize. I don’t usually expect total strangers to wrap me around a chunk of granite and then shake me out like an old rug.”

“Yeah…”

As he hesitated, Nell saw that any approach to humor had fled from his features. It was interesting that “handsome” wasn’t one of the words she had come up with, she mused. His face was too rough—hewn, too individual for mere handsomeness. Too used, she added thoughtfully. Hard used. Ill—used. And for rather a long time, unless she was mistaken.

He said in a staccato voice, “I—hurt my leg a couple of months ago. I’ve done very little hiking since then. It drives me nuts when I fall down like a two—year—old.”

“Real men don’t trip over rocks?”

“Real men can at least stand on their own two feet!”

Lines of frustration had scored his face from cheek to chin. His mouth was clamped shut. He had a beautiful mouth. Nell said hastily, “Keep going—apologies at some point are supposed to include that ordinary little phrase, ‘I’m sorry.’“

“That’s why I was angry,” he snapped. “I’ve just explained it. What more do you want—a diagram?”

“That may indeed have been why you were so angry,” she snapped right back. “But it doesn’t explain why I’m going to have bruises all over my back tomorrow morning.”

“Are you French?”

“I’m from Holland. Don’t change the subject.”

“You speak English extremely well,” he said suspiciously.

“Hooray for me. Are you with the CIA? Is that why you jumped me? Or do you fancy yourself as the next James Bond?”

“No wolves in Newfoundland and no CIA, either. What the hell would they want with this chunk of rock?”

“So you’re a policeman.”

“I am not. You’re the most persistent and inquisitive female I’ve ever met.”

“Only because you’re avoiding the issue,” Nell returned pleasantly. “Out of interest, do you go around attacking everyone you meet? Or do you just pick on women who are smaller than you?” It was difficult to see exactly how tall he was because of the uneven ground, but he definitely topped her five feet eight by several inches.

He ran his fingers through his hair, thick, wavy hair, worn a little too long and as dark as peat. As dark as the caribou fur, Nell realized with an inward shiver and hurriedly continued her survey. His nose was slightly crooked, he could have done with a shave, and there were frown lines in his forehead that shouldn’t have been there. No wonder she hadn’t considered him merely handsome, Nell thought, and waited for his reply.

As if the words were being pulled from him one by one, he said, “For the past few years, I’ve been in some rough places. The kind of places where you act first and ask questions afterward. You startled me. I didn’t even take time to think.” His smile was more of a grimace.

“So I immobilized you instead.”

“You sure did.”

His eyes narrowed. “You even speak like a Canadian. Are you sure you’re Dutch?”

“I first learned English from a Canadian couple who lived in the village where I grew up,” she said shortly. “I’m still waiting.”

“What for?”

“How about this? Petronella Cornelia Vandermeer, I’m extremely sorry that I terrified you witless and I apologize for acquainting you so intimately with a granite boulder. That’d do for a start.”

He held out his hand. “Kyle Robert Marshall.”

His handshake was firm, his palm warm, and she could lose herself in those midnight blue eyes. She said, tugging at her hand, “I’m called Nell.”

As though the contact had freed something in him, Kyle added, “I’m really sorry, Nell. I must have scared you.”

She stopped tugging, letting her palm rest in his. “The word ‘psychopath’ did cross my mind.”

Although his laugh was rueful, it made him look years younger. “You reacted pretty fast yourself.”

“Just as well you moved.”

He grinned. “Just as well, indeed. I’d have been singing soprano for the rest of my life.”

His voice was a rich baritone. Nell pulled her hand free and said with careful restraint, “A mosquito has just landed under your left ear.”

He brushed it away. “I left my repellent in the van.”

“I’ve got some.” Nell bent to her haversack, passed him the little plastic bottle and found herself watching his every move as he smoothed the liquid over his throat and arms. In the course of her work, she’d met a lot of men from countries all over Europe. Sophisticated Frenchmen, sexy Italians, devastating Norwegians, hunky Hungarians. But never one to pull her to him as instinctively as this man pulled her.

As he passed her back the bottle, Kyle said, “Where’s your car? I didn’t see it on the road—one reason why you took me by surprise.”

“I don’t have one. I was hitching a ride.”

He frowned. “On your own?”

She looked around. “No one else here. Besides, didn’t you tell me there aren’t any wolves in Newfoundland?”

“Newfoundland is not peopled entirely by saints.”

“You sound like my father,” Nell flung back, then instantly wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

“Don’t tell me how to live my life—is that the message?” As she nodded, he added softly, “Trouble is, I’m used to giving orders. And used to being obeyed. So I’ll drive you wherever you’re going, Petronella Cornelia. As a rather more concrete way of apologizing.”

“And what if I say St. John’s?” The capital city was an eight—hour drive from the barrens.

“You were headed south if you got out when you first saw the barrens. The options are therefore limited. Caplin Bay, St Swithin’s, Salmon River, Drowned Island…that’s about it.”

She liked matching wits with him, Nell realized breathlessly. “Where are you going?”

“Caplin Bay.”

She bit her lip. Wendell had been going to Caplin Bay and now Kyle was. Maybe it was time she went there, too. After all, she didn’t have to take the coastal boat for Mort Harbour right away. She could camp in Caplin Bay for a couple of days. Try to plan some kind of strategy.

With a sense of taking a momentous step, she said, “I’m going to Caplin Bay, too.”