Mail-Order Millionaire (8 page)

“I saw how he looked at me, too, just like he looks at everyone else. He works on top of this mountain, as I told you, without any people around. So when he’s around people, he looks at them more intently than other people do, that’s all. So don’t go making something out of nothing. I have no room in my life for men, and no time, either. And neither does he. You should see how he lives, completely self-sufficient and independent.”

“Yes, you told me. But you didn’t tell me he was gorgeous and to-die-for. And I’m telling you that if you don’t get back in there Mavis and Lianne, and half the other unmarried women in town, are going to be all over him.”

Miranda widened her gaze in mock horror. “Oh, no. You mean I’ll lose the last eligible man to ever cross my threshold? What do you suggest, that I invite him out here to watch the syrup harden?”

Ariel nodded enthusiastically. “Now you’re catching on.”

“If I’m catching on, don’t you think he’ll catch on, too?”

Miranda’s words hung in the air even as Ariel looked up from the pot, her gaze fastened on the door of the sugar shack and on the man who’d appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Carter,” she gushed, “you’re just in time to watch the syrup harden. If you’ll excuse me...” And before Miranda could protest, her traitorous sister had disappeared through the open door and slammed it shut behind her.

Automatically Miranda gripped the handle of the spoon and dragged it through the thickening sap.

“Can I help?” Max asked.

“Uh, sure. You can pour the syrup into these jars.” Might as well keep him busy, then they wouldn’t have to talk. She wouldn’t have to explain her overeager sister, her run-down farm or her own peculiar behavior.

Max filled the jars, set the pot down and leaned against the wall to watch Miranda as she tasted the syrup thickening into maple sugar. Her eyes closed in concentration, she licked her lips, leaving a film of sugar coating them. A shaft of desire shot through him. He wanted to taste her lips, to test her response. He’d wanted it from the first moment he’d seen her at his weather station, when she’d been windblown and wide-eyed. He’d resisted then, but now, alone in this steam-filled shack, with the snow falling silently outside, he didn’t know how much longer he could hold out.

She looked up and caught her breath at the look in his eyes. “Would you like a taste?” she asked, then instantly regretted it.

She held out the wooden spoon and he took it from her and laid it on the counter. Did he want a taste? He’d never wanted anything so much in his life. He tilted her chin with his knuckles and kissed her firmly on her sugarcoated mouth. Her hands moved to his shoulders to push him away, but never quite got around to it. Instead she closed her eyes and leaned into the kiss.

It was minutes or maybe hours when he realized they were stuck together. It was only by licking her lips and his, tongues entwined as she tried to help that they finally pulled apart. Her eyes were soft brown velvet, her face flushed either from the steam or the kiss. She was the most desirable woman he’d ever seen and one taste was not enough. He wanted more and he thought she did, too.

“I’m afraid you have the wrong idea about me,” she said, stepping back from the stove as if the heat was too much for her. “I’m really not looking for this kind of thing. When I asked you if you wanted a taste, it was just to see, to get your professional opinion.”

“Of the syrup.”

“Of course.”

He shrugged. “I really can’t tell. I’m afraid I’m going to have to have some more.”

She folded her arms across her chest and regarded him with mock outrage. Reluctantly her lips curved upward and a small giggle escaped from her throat.

His mouth stretched into a broad grin and he knew why he’d come to this party. For just this, this one moment in this small shack, with this woman smiling at him and him grinning back, a perfect moment frozen in time.

The magic lasted only a moment, until the pounding on the door of the shack and the voices demanding to know when the syrup would be ready shattered it. The door burst open and they poured in, the men in their flannel shirts, the women in Shetland sweaters and wool stretch pants. Max left the shack to make room for them and walked slowly through the cold night air, not feeling the chill or seeing the snow that fell faster and harder. He walked around to the front of the house, still in a daze, still tasting Miranda and the sugar on her lips.

He couldn’t see his car, parked somewhere at the end of the driveway, but he knew it was there and he knew he ought to find it and get out of there while he still had some remnants of self-control left. How often did he have to remind himself that such women as Miranda Morrison were off limits to him? What he should do was get into his car and drive as fast and as far away from her as he could and never come back. Never order anything from Green Mountain Merchants again. There were other mail-order companies, other complaint departments who were not manned by beautiful goddesses in form-fitting underwear. If he needed winter gear he could order it from them.

She’d understand if he left now. She probably wouldn’t even miss him with all those other people in there clamoring for her attention. He circled the house for the second time, unwilling to break his solitude by joining the merriment. He reminded himself he’d only seen her twice in his life. Then why did he feel he’d known her forever?

As he passed the back door, a snowball whizzed past his ear and he ducked and looked around. Smothered laughter came from behind a maple tree. He discovered a small boy with his hand poised to throw another snowball.

“Hey,” Max protested. “Pick on somebody your own size.”

The boy laughed aloud. “Sorry. I wasn’t aiming at you. I was trying to get my brother back.’’ A snowball hit Max in the back. “See, that’s him. Help me get him.”

Obligingly Max bent over and made a snowball with his bare hands and aimed it at the outline of the older, larger boy across the yard but missed. Both boys came out in the open then, firing at each other, then at Max, getting closer with every round of white frozen missiles. They hurled insults at each other along with the snowballs. Max joined in, chuckling to himself at their colorful language, regretting having been an only child and growing up in the South where there was no snow and no snowball fights. He made another snowball, packed it hard and launched it into the darkness just for fun. But at that moment Miranda came out of the shack and it hit her on the shoulder.

“Scott, Brian?” she called. “Where are you? I sent you out for fresh snow, and you’re having a snowball fight.”

“We didn’t do it, Aunt Miranda,” they chorused. “He did.”

“Who?” she asked, peering into the darkness.

“Me,” Max answered. “Are you okay?”

“You got snow down my neck,” she remarked, and in an instant she bent over, formed a snowball and hit him square in the chest. The boys dropped the snow in their hands to watch, fascinated, while the adults acted more childish than they did.

Max stepped behind a maple tree and took advantage of the darkness to sneak up behind Miranda and grab her by the shoulders. She squirmed out of his grasp and ran into the field. Max chased her while the boys whooped and cheered them on.

Miranda stumbled on a dead limb and fell headfirst into a soft snowdrift. Max threw himself down beside her and pulled her up to face him. “You don’t fight fair,” she said breathlessly.

“That’s because I don’t know the rules,” he answered. “We don’t have this white stuff in Georgia.” Breathing hard, he brushed the snow off her face with his fingers, wishing he could kiss it off her eyebrows, eyelids and lips. There was a long silence while she looked at him expectantly, but he wasn’t sure what she expected from him. He helped her to her feet. “How’s the party going?” he asked.

“Fine. I have to get back. Some people are leaving. Do you want some coffee or anything?”

He shook his head and walked her back to the house. “Later. I’m still learning some techniques from your nephews.”

“Be careful. They’re ruthless, and their language would make a sailor blush.”

“I’ll keep my ears covered,” he promised and watched her walk up the steps to the kitchen.

Miranda stood at the front door, saying good-night to the Bensons, the Ashtons, Hank, Jerry, Linda, Marcia and dozens of others. It was like old times but different. She was an adult now, responsible for the farm and keeping it intact for future generations of Morrisons, should there be any. It was a scary thought with the farm in disrepair and no future Morrisons in sight except for her nephews, who might or might not be interested in working worn-out acreage when they grew up.

Their father, her brother-in-law, probably had other plans for them. With these thoughts tumbling around in her brain, she smiled and thanked everyone for coming. She hadn’t seen Max for half an hour and she wondered if he’d gone without saying goodbye.

She was still in a state of shock from his appearance at the party. And then there was the kiss. The kiss that had shaken her more than she cared to admit. She wondered why he hadn’t kissed her again in the field.

Before she left, Lianne hugged Miranda. “It was a wonderful party, just like old times, only better. And Max is adorable. I can’t believe you holding out on us like that.”

“I didn’t, I swear....”

“It’s so cute the way he’s buttering up your nephews out there in the snow. Oh, there he is now. See you Monday unless you’re too tired to come in if you know what I mean.” Then she was gone and so was everybody else except for Ariel, her husband and her boys, who were in their jackets teaching Max some karate moves in the living room. Ariel stood on the front porch calling her men. Then she looked up at the sky as the snowflakes fell into her open mouth.

“I may not be a weatherman,” she said loudly, “but I know when a storm is coming and I wouldn’t advise anyone to drive any distance tonight.” The boys finally jumped off the front porch and Ariel took her husband’s arm to keep from slipping on the front walk. They called their goodbyes and there was silence at last.

Miranda closed the heavy oak front door and leaned back against it. The coals glowed from the fire she’d built hours ago in the brick fireplace. There were dirty glasses and empty bowls scattered everywhere and all she wanted to do was go upstairs and soak in a hot tub, then fall into her feather bed. But outside in the snow, the sap continued to drip into the buckets and had to be collected before it overflowed. And inside she felt the tension between Max and her heat up the atmosphere, the memory of their kiss hanging in the air. It was time to leave, but he showed no signs of leaving. What should she do, what should she say?

He was gazing absently into the dying coals, his arm on the mantel above the fireplace, his dark blond hair slanted across his forehead. She pressed her palms together and moved restlessly toward the staircase. “It might be dangerous to drive to New Hampshire tonight,” she suggested.

“I think I can make it.”

Was this the moment for her to repay his hospitality by offering him a place to spend the night? No, it was not. It was the time to say good-night, politely but firmly. But before the message could get to her brain she heard herself say, “You’re welcome to stay here.” Her eyes strayed to the lumpy old couch and she knew she ought to warn him it would be the most uncomfortable night of his life, but she didn’t. She held her breath.

“OK,” he said.

“OK,” she echoed and reached into the hall closet for the extra blankets and pillow on the top shelf. Telling herself this was no big deal, she set them on the end of the couch. Many people had spent the night on that old couch. He was not the first to take refuge from the weather and he wouldn’t be the last. So there was no reason for her pulse to race, for her mind to flood with images of his long lean body trying to adapt to the lumps on the couch. She took her jacket off the coat rack and thrust her arms into the sleeves. “Make yourself comfortable.” If you can, she thought guiltily.

“Where are you going?”

“Out to empty the buckets. When the sap runs, it really runs. And it won’t last, maybe a few more weeks is all. So I have to take advantage of it.”