Mail-Order Millionaire (12 page)

“Where?” she asked. But she knew. Their lips met somewhere between heaven and earth and she forgot about her foot, forgot about the syrup, forgot about everything but Max and the fire he kindled deep within her. Outside the wind came up and the temperature fell to below freezing, but inside she felt the heat from his body, heard his heart pound, and felt her heart match his, beat for beat.

He cradled her face in his hands, his hunger for her growing stronger with every kiss, until he knew he’d never get enough, not tonight, not ever. He rolled onto his side, taking her with him, and she moaned, bringing him to his senses at last. “I hurt you. I’m sorry. Got to get you to bed.”

Dazed, she looked around. “I am in bed.”

He sat up and looked down at her, at her hair tangled and fanned out around her face, her eyes unfocused, her lips as soft and dewy as dawn. But it wasn’t dawn, it was night and she ought to be in her bed instead of on top of it. His heart contracted. What kind of a jerk would take advantage of her immobility and her weakness? She’d kissed him, yes. And he’d felt her hunger, her desire leap to match his own. But how much of that was the painkiller, the wine and the TLC? Most of it, he suspected ruefully. He stood at the side of the bed. “Where’s your nightgown?”

She pointed to the chair in the corner and he tossed the soft pink garment to her. If he didn’t get out of her room soon he’d be undressing her, sliding her shirt over her head, pulling those flannel pants off her hips and settling the nightgown over her head, the soft cotton caressing her breasts as it drifted over her body and covered her long legs. He paused in the doorway.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked in a voice that sounded more like gravel than anything else.

She shook her head and he closed the door behind him.

The throbbing in her foot woke her up, as well as the smell of coffee and the sizzle of bacon from the kitchen. Her mouth watered, her stomach contracted. It was a good thing he was leaving today. Baked beans, pancakes and now bacon. She could get used to this. Usually she raced out of the house with no time for breakfast, only time to empty the buckets. She slapped her palm against her forehead. She’d almost forgotten the buckets and the sap. She slid out of bed and winced as the blood went to her foot and made it pound. After putting on her quilted robe, she sat down on the top of the landing and took the stairs one step at a time on her bottom.

He heard her coming and met her as she hit the last step. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.

She tilted her head, her eyes traveling slowly up the narrow hip-hugging blue jeans he’d arrived in, now free of mud, then across his thick natural wool sweater and finally, reluctantly, met his blue-eyed gaze. The kiss, the roll on the bed was not forgotten. It was there between them.

She felt it. He must feel it, too. She swallowed hard. “I’m going out to collect the sap as soon as I get dressed, why?”

He lowered himself to her level and looked her straight in the eye. “It’s done.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were asleep.”

Her forehead creased into a frown. “You’re taking over my farm, my kitchen and my life. What am I going to do with you?” she asked mournfully.

“The question is what are you going to do without me?” he asked, bending his knees and picking her up in his arms.

“I’ll manage,” she said, resisting the urge to throw her arms around his neck. He set her down on the kitchen chair and served her a rasher of bacon and hot buttered toast.

“How’s your foot?” he asked, taking the chair opposite hers and pouring a liberal amount of cream into his coffee.

“Fine,” she lied.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he said, looking at her over the rim of the thick mug. “I forgot about your foot.”

She concentrated on her toast. “Me, too.” It was true. She’d forgotten about her foot, but she hadn’t forgotten the reckless abandon that had overwhelmed her, the warmth of his gaze turning hot with passion, but she wasn’t sorry, although she probably should have been.

She was only sorry it had ended so abruptly with his tossing her nightgown at her. Either he had suddenly lost interest or he had more control than she did. She found herself staring at him this morning, but the look in his eyes told her nothing. He looked at her with concern, but no more than you’d show any friend whose foot had been stepped on by a horse. And instead of putting up another fight, she might as well let him drive her to the doctor if he wanted to. She didn’t look forward to tromping on the clutch in her truck with her aching foot.

After breakfast he brought his car close to the front porch. When she got dressed she left the house and hobbled down the steps with her swollen foot in a slipper and got into the front seat. And thanked him again.

“All I ever do is thank you,” she sighed, her head tilted back on the padded headrest.

“You can stop now. I don’t want to be thanked.”

She slanted a curious glance in his direction. “What do you want?”

He looked at her for a few brief seconds before turning his attention to the pockmarked road ahead. What did he want? He knew what he didn’t want. He didn’t want to return to his empty apartment and spend the week thinking about her and her syrup and her horses and her foot. “To see you get back on your feet again,” he said finally. There, that said it all and yet said nothing.

They didn’t speak again until they got to Main Street and she directed him to the doctor’s office. He parked and followed her up the stairs. The doctor wasn’t due for another fifteen minutes and the waiting room was half full of people Miranda seemed to know. After she greeted them, she looked at her watch.

“Don’t tell me they don’t give you any sick leave,” he said from behind the magazine he was holding in front of his face.

“I’m going to use my sick leave to work on the farm,” she said. “I’m not going to waste it being sick.” Impatiently she started to stand up and pace around the office, but he pulled her down by the arm. She glared at him and then picked up an old farmer’s almanac and thumbed through the pages. “I’ll give him ten more minutes,” she said under her breath. But it was another half hour before the receptionist called her name and yet another before she reappeared in the waiting room. By that time he’d read and reread the same article three times and hadn’t understood a single word. When he saw her emerge from the examination room her face was almost as white as the piece of paper she was clutching in her hand.

He put his hands on her shoulders. “What is it, what did he say?”

He felt the eyes of the other patients watching them and he saw her face flush with embarrassment. She turned quickly and walked out of the office while he followed on her heels.

“It’s nothing. I just tore a few ligaments,” she said over her shoulder.

“No broken bones?”

“No.”

“What’s the prescription for?” They were on the street now, heading toward the car.

“Painkiller.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No, but if I am, I’ll get it filled.”

He took it out of her hand. “I’ll get it filled for you. Did you ask if you could go to work?”

“Of course I can go to work. As long as I keep my foot up.”

“Then what are you standing there for?” He let go of her hand and settling her in the car, drove the two blocks to the Green Merchants building, pulling up to the employee entrance. Before he’d come to a complete stop she was opening the door and getting ready to get out.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, then shook her head, realizing what she’d done—thanked him again. “Have a safe trip home.”

“I’ll be back with the pills.”

She nodded. “You can leave them at the front desk.” She closed the car door to avoid the look in his eyes, a shuttered look that made her ashamed of dismissing him as if he were her chauffeur. She told herself it was the pain and the anxiety that made her act that way, but underneath the pain was the fear that she’d become too attached to Max and too dependent on his help. Besides the obvious questions that swirled around in her head, such as how to collect syrup while staying off her foot and how to think about lost parcels and broken knapsacks and cope with the pain that wouldn’t go away, was the big question. How was she going to get along without him?

It wasn’t the work. She could hire someone to help her. It was the emotional support he provided, the kindness and the care he took with her and the farm. That kind of help couldn’t be hired.

By the time she reached her desk, Miranda had answered the question “What happened to your foot?” about a dozen times, received solicitous advice and offers for everything from a wheelchair to chicken soup. Exhausted, she fell into her chair and gratefully accepted a makeshift footrest from Lianne and Mavis before she started on the problems piled on her desk.

At lunchtime when the others left, Ariel appeared, bearing two huge deli sandwiches stacked high with thinly sliced corned beef on rye, cartons of potato salad and two bottles of fruit-flavored mineral water. Miranda switched on her answering machine, shoved the orders to one side and turned in her chair to face her sister.

“I can’t believe what happened to you,” Ariel said.

“How did you hear?”

“I’d have to be deaf not to hear. Everyone’s talking about your foot and the fact that Max spent the weekend with you.”

Miranda squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. Why, is it a secret?”

“No, of course it’s not a secret. I just don’t like being the subject of gossip.”

“It’s a small town.”

“No kidding. You should have seen the open mouths at the doctor’s office this morning.”

“What did he say?”

“Stay off my foot.”

Ariel shook her head. “I mean Max.”

“The same thing. Stay off my foot.”

Ariel unwrapped her sandwich. “All weekend long, that’s all he said?”

Miranda chewed hungrily. The pain in her foot hadn’t affected her appetite. “We were too busy working to talk. We bottled four dozen jars between us.”

Ariel’s eyes widened in admiration. “The man is too good to be true. Looks like an all-American and works like a Trojan. What else?” she demanded.

Miranda set her sandwich down. “Isn’t that enough?” All she had to do was mention his financial state and Ariel would be even more intent than she was now.

Ariel shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I do say so. What are you getting at, as if I didn’t know?”

Ariel looked around and lowered her voice. “There’s absolutely no one within one hundred feet. You can tell me what really happened. I’m your sister, for heaven’s sake.”

Miranda slid her chair toward her sister, holding a plastic spoon in one hand and her carton of potato salad in the other. “He cooked,” she said in a stage whisper, “and then, after dinner...” She paused dramatically.

“Yes, go on.”

“We went to bed.”

“Where?”

“Upstairs.”

Ariel edged her chair closer to Miranda’s. “Are you serious?”

“You don’t think I’d make him sleep on the couch, do you, after all he’d done for me?”

Speechless, Ariel shook her head. “I can’t believe it,” she said at last.

“Can’t believe I’d let him sleep in Grandma’s four-poster?”