Hard to Handle (4 page)

“Now why would I do that? You're a big boy.”

Anticipating her reaction, he said low, “And here I thought you hadn't looked.”

Of course her gaze went straight to his lap. Harley almost laughed, especially when heat rushed into her cheeks, but he held it back.

Anastasia caught herself real quick and gave him a wry smile. “You're incorrigible.”

“Just honest.” Still watching her, he added, “Or did you really not notice?”

Refusing to acknowledge the question, she held out her hand for a platonic farewell. “Until next year, Harley.”

Harley looked at that impersonal, outstretched hand, and made up his mind.

Screw it.

On impulse, because he couldn't quite stop himself, he bent down, intending to kiss her good-bye.

Anastasia turned her face so that his mouth touched her cheek instead of her lips.

They both went still…for about three seconds.

In that blink of time, Harley registered the silky texture of her skin, the softness of her hair, the enticing scent of delicate warmth, unique to every woman.

He leaned away and studied her.

Bemused, Anastasia shook her head. “Sorry, Harley, but that's just nasty.”

Masculine ego rebelled. “Nasty?” What the hell type of insult was that?

“You've been with another woman,” she said without accusation. “I have no idea where your mouth has been, but I know I don't want it on my mouth afterward.”

Well hell. Harley felt like a kid who'd just been chastised. He was still trying to come up with a reply when she spoke again.

“Next time you think you want to kiss me, make me first on the list, and I might surprise you by being more agreeable.”

Next time?
Not likely. He wasn't entirely certain why he'd made the attempt this time. “Sure thing, Anastasia. I'll try to remember that.”

Anastasia easily read him, and laughed. “No, you won't. As soon as you leave here, you'll forget we ever had this conversation. And truthfully, Harley, so will I. Now go before this becomes memorable.”

First insulted, and now ordered out.

Again, Harley told himself that he should never have stopped in the first place. But…he had to grin at her
cajones
. He saluted her and left.

In no way did Anastasia Bradley act like any other woman he'd known. But her uniqueness only made her more off-limits, because she'd be more complex. And he didn't need any complications in his life.

This time, he'd have no distractions from his goal.

No. Definitely not.

Walking against the hard wind, Harley went to his Jeep, and he was still grinning when he got inside.

Too bad she was right, that he'd have to avoid her.

And even if he didn't, he was leaving very soon. As she'd said, it was doubtful he'd see her again anyway.

He'd drop the key in her post office box in town, and then he'd drive away.

But…having a woman so quick-witted and independent tied to his bed for a few hours would be a special treat.

If Anastasia would agree—which he doubted.

But he could think about it. And Harley knew he would.

For hours.

Maybe even days.

A
S
Harley jogged past her house on the return to his cabin, Stasia stood back from the window. At this time of year, night came early up in the hills, and with lights on inside, she'd be easily visible.

If he looked her way.

But he didn't.

He jogged twice a day, once in the morning and then again at early evening. No matter how dreadful the weather got, as long as the road crews cleared a path, he was out, pushing himself, proving his stamina.

In between the jogging, he worked out at his cabin with a modest supply of weights and portable equipment.

And around that, he visited the town and did…God knew what.

But he'd be leaving soon, very soon, and so Stasia watched through the windows for him, always anxious for a glimpse.

They hadn't spoken since that early morning three days ago.

She'd been mentally kicking her own butt ever since.

What in the world had she been thinking? It didn't matter that the intelligent side of her insisted she'd done the right thing. It didn't matter that her pride applauded her decision
not
to be another notch on his proverbial bedpost.

Harley Handleman had wanted to kiss her.

Probably the
only
time he'd ever want to kiss her.

Likely because she'd been flirting, leading him on, acting very out of character.

And she'd turned him down.

Not just saying no, but calling him
nasty.

Acid burned her stomach with the appalling memory.

She hadn't meant to flirt. But there was something about Harley that brought out her teasing nature.

Maybe it was his eyes. They were so vivid a blue, so piercing, that when he looked at her, she felt naked and had to fight the urge to conceal herself.

Or maybe it was his impressive physique. The man had strutted around in his underwear as if he did so every day, in front of presidents and popes alike.
Not
looking had been a sheer act of desperation.

He had the blond hair of a surfer, the body of an athlete, the eyes of an angel, and a charisma that could warm cold stone.

But most likely it was Harley's wounded soul that drew her. When she looked at him, when she peered beyond the rugged exterior, she knew that he'd had some ugly things in his past, hurts that hadn't gone away, memories that would haunt him forever.

He was the most capable man she'd ever met, and though he tried to hide it, also the most vulnerable. On many levels, she both liked and admired him. He was strong and self-sufficient, handsome and very fit. Relaxed and friendly.

Likable.

Okay, so he was an obvious womanizer—in a charming, quiet, understated way. The analytical part of Anastasia insisted that was a defense mechanism. Given enough time and an opportunity to delve into his personality—which would require knowing him better—she'd learn why he felt so defensive.

As a life coach, she could probably even help him.

But Harley kept his thoughts on most things to himself. He was a big, bold, gorgeous enigma.

What she knew of his sexual exploits, she'd heard from women, not him. She also heard that he never treated women poorly, didn't address them as objects, and he never deceived his way into their bedrooms.

He was a gentleman. Controlled, but kind.

And considerate.

Hadn't he stopped on her birthday and spent more than an hour chopping wood? Okay, so he hadn't known it was her birthday; that just made the gesture more generous.

Maybe she could blame her birthday for the bizarre way she'd teased him. She
had
been melancholy, waking midway through the night to ruminate on mistakes that a twenty-seven-year-old woman shouldn't make.

With Harley no longer in sight, Stasia went to her couch and flopped down. She put her head back and closed her eyes. Her favorite music played from her stereo, but she barely heard it.

Had she given Harley the wrong impression? Had she led him on? Memories wrestled in her mind, making her uneasy.

Her last male client had called her awful names, the least of which was “tease.”

He blamed her for a ruined marriage, a crumbling life.

His wife, whom Stasia had never met face-to-face, blamed her, too. The poor woman had even threatened suicide.

Stasia squeezed her eyes tighter, deliberately blocking that awful remembrance.

What did Harley think of her now?

Or did he think of her at all?

Determined to stop torturing herself, Stasia got up and went through the routine of making dinner, even though she wasn't hungry. Cooking for one never took long. By the time she finished preparing and eating a chop and vegetables, the temperature had dropped even more and another storm blasted the area. Giant, wet snowflakes covered the ice, making the road invisible.

She looked at her meager pile of wood in a brass holder by the wood-burning fireplace, and resigned herself to going out. Better now, she told herself, than after her shower, when she'd only be wearing her pajamas.

Bundling up head to toe, Stasia braved the weather for the woodpile. With her arms laden, snow clinging to her nose and eyelashes, she was on her way back in when headlights cut through the dark, stormy night.

Since no one else lived on the road above her, she knew who it would be. She looked up, and seconds later, Harley's Jeep came into view.

She paused in the middle of her barren yard.

The Jeep slowed, and then stopped in front of her. Harley rolled down his window.

Stasia took one look at his frown, and issued a warning. “Don't even
think
about getting out of that Jeep, Harley. I mean it.” She adjusted her load. “I'm managing just fine on my own.”

“You look like a walking igloo.”

“Actually, it's refreshing,” she lied—and fought back an icy shiver.

He smiled, and Stasia marveled that such a handsome man could be an ultimate fighter. Sure, he had a few small scars and a definite kink in his nose. But somehow, that only added to his charm.

His blond hair, always disheveled, curled up over the rolled edges of his dark knit hat. Even in the slight illumination of her porch light, Harley's electric blue eyes shone brightly, framed by long, dark brown eyelashes. Many women would kill for eyes like that, but on Harley, they didn't look feminine so much as imposing.

“I'm leaving tonight,” he suddenly announced. “Right after a few hands of cards with the guys.”

Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach, which made no sense at all. They had nothing but a business arrangement. What he did and when he did it shouldn't matter to her at all.

But damn it, some small kernel of secret desire remained.

Covering her reaction, Stasia glanced up at the sky in doubt. “Good luck with that. I have a feeling if you hang around for long, you won't make it out of here.”

“The roads are probably clearer in town and the Jeep is good in bad weather. But it doesn't matter. I promised to give a few of the guys a chance to win back the money I've been taking from them since I got here.” He flashed a rascal's grin. “I usually go home with the pot every night.”

“So you're a card shark, huh?” His grin was enough to warm her a few degrees. “Is there anything you're not good at?”

“Yeah.” The humor faded from his expression. “A lot of things, actually.”

Stasia caught the sincerity in his lowered voice, the look in his eyes. “Like what?”

He shook his head. “We'll save that for another time.”

“I guess I'll have to take your word on it then.” With nothing left to do, Stasia nodded. “Well…until next year, Harley.”

He hesitated, staring at her, holding her captive in that awesome gaze of his until she felt the load of logs slipping. Then he straightened in his seat. “Next year, Anastasia.”

Why did that sound like a promise?

Grinning again, he said, “Now get inside before your feet freeze to the spot.” He put his window back up and pulled away.

Resisting the urge to watch his taillights fade away, Stasia headed for her porch. With Harley now gone, the entire area seemed too quiet and still—a frozen, somehow eerie wasteland.

Unsettled, she looked around, noting the moon shadows, the few hushed animal sounds. And something else.

The snap of a twig.

The crunch of steps on ice.

Her eyes widened, trying to see beyond the glow of her porch light. Tall evergreens swayed from a bitter wind, and the cold settled into her bones, making her shiver.

Probably a deer, she decided. Or a fox. Dismissing any thoughts of danger, Stasia rushed inside, dropped the wood in the bin near the stove, and secured her door.

At least her cabin was nice and toasty, and well lit.

To fight off her strange mood, she turned up her rock music and delved into researching possible clients for her next job. These days, she always did extensive research on anyone asking to hire her. No way did she ever again want to find herself in an explosive situation like her last.

A few hours later Stasia had just finished a long shower and was about to put on her pajamas when the phone rang.

Jarred from introspective thoughts, she jumped, then stuck her head out of the bathroom to grab a quick glance at the clock. She couldn't imagine who might be calling her so late. With a towel wrapped tightly around herself, she darted out and grabbed up the portable phone off her dining table.