The Other Side of Us (Harlequin Superromance) (6 page)

“You got another broom?” he yelled over the sound of the wind
and rain.

She blinked the rain from her eyes. Tried to get her brain to
connect with her mouth. “Yes.”

He plucked the broom from her hands. “Go grab it.”

He was gone before she could say anything more, striding to the
side of the house. He swept with long, powerful strokes, pushing water down the
side path.

For long seconds Mackenzie simply watched him, dumbfounded,
overwhelmed, grateful and terrified all at once. He glanced at her, obviously
wondering what she was doing, standing there like an idiot, and for the second
time that night she snapped into action.

Her legs felt rubbery, her back was starting to ache, but she
spun on her heel and went to find the second broom.

CHAPTER THREE

O
LIVER
GLANCED
TOWARD
the sky, willing the weather gods to take it easy
with the rain. Apparently they weren’t taking calls right now, because it
continued to pound down, relentless and seemingly unending.

He returned to sweeping, pushing water along the side of
Mackenzie’s house, the weight of the water and his efforts creating a miniature
river. He was aware of her working at the other corner of the house, a small,
sodden figure in clinging pajamas. She’d looked terrified and exhausted when
he’d arrived twenty minutes ago. As well she might be. He’d been momentarily
staggered by the amount of water pouring down her driveway when he left his
place.

The street was almost knee-deep, the storm drains clearly
overwhelmed by the volume of runoff. The laws of gravity demanded that the water
find the lowest point and it had—Mackenzie’s driveway. And, to a lesser extent,
his own. He’d already removed the grates on his own channel drains, but one
glance at the water rushing toward Mackenzie’s house had told him that her
property was in far greater danger.

Lightning cracked overhead, a violent fork that turned the
world silver. He spared the sky a glance before refocusing on his efforts, but a
few seconds later he felt a tug on his arm.

“We have to go inside,” Mackenzie yelled over the sound of the
wind and rain.

“I’m all right,” he assured her.

She didn’t let go of his arm, tugging on it with surprising
strength. “You can’t be outside in an electrical storm. It’s dangerous.”

As if to punctuate her words, the sky split in two again, a
fork of lightning spearing across the darkness. She flinched, her grip
tightening.

“Inside!”

He glanced toward her porch, where water still lapped at the
bottom step. If they stopped what they were doing, there was a very real chance
she would be inundated.

“Don’t worry about the house,” she yelled.

He let her tow him toward the porch. She released him as they
gained the shelter of the eaves and they stood side by side in the relative dry,
watching the water rush down the driveway to join the miniature lake in front of
them. Lightning lit the world again, a huge, jagged line that cut through the
darkness, and he was suddenly glad that she’d insisted they seek cover.

“You’re insured, right?” he asked, looking at her.

She had her arms wrapped around herself, and goose bumps
peppered her skin. She nodded, her face very pale.

“You’re freezing,” he said.

“So are you.”

“You should go inside.”

“And miss the floor show?”

“If it means missing out on pneumonia, sure.”

He could see her reluctance to abandon her post. He didn’t know
Mackenzie from a bar of soap, but his gut told him she wasn’t the sort of woman
who gave up on anything easily.

“You can’t do anything until the electrical storm passes,” he
said.

Her mouth flattened into a stubborn line for a second or two,
then she nodded. “Come on, then.”

He paused on the doorstep to toe off his sodden sneakers then
followed her inside, Mr. Smith hard on his heels. Mackenzie stepped into the
first room on the left—a home gym with some kind of specialized equipment, from
the look of it—and returned with an armful of towels.

“Thanks,” he said when she offered him one.

Water pooled on the floor around him. He blotted his face and
hair, then started in on his T-shirt and jeans. She did the same, briskly
toweling her hair before moving on to her chest and arms.

There was an odd intimacy to the moment—the two of them alone
in the narrow, dimly lit hall, tending to the needs of their bodies. It didn’t
help that now they were inside he was very aware of the fact that her pale gray
tank top had become semitransparent with the rain and he could see the dark
shadows of her areolaes through the thin fabric. To make things worse, her
nipples were hard from the cold, too, an almost irresistible combination for any
self-respecting heterosexual male.

He forced his gaze away and registered the vicious-looking
pink-and-red scar that ran down her left shoulder and along her upper arm to her
elbow. It was so unexpected he found himself staring. He remembered the scar on
her scalp and put two and two together—clearly, something very serious had
happened to her. Recently, too, if the pinkness of the tissue was anything to go
by.

He became aware that Mackenzie had finished drying herself and
lifted his gaze to look straight into her eyes.

Busted. Big-time. Heat singed his cheeks. He tried to find the
words to explain why he’d been gawking like a five-year-old, but before he could
open his mouth she turned away.

“There’s brandy in the kitchen.”

She disappeared up the hallway, Mr. Smith trotting after her.
Oliver followed her to an open-plan kitchen/living room at the rear of the
house. He saw that she’d draped her towel around her shoulders, effectively
covering her injury. Between avoiding ogling her breasts and getting busted
ogling her scar, he was feeling more than a little awkward, so he made a big
deal out of checking out the room while racking his brain for something to
say.

The kitchen was white and modern and pristine, the furniture in
the living area a mixture of creams and whites and raw wood. Only the stack of
magazines on the coffee table and the vase of half-dead flowers on the mantel
saved it from being magazine-shoot perfect.

“This is nice. Much better than Aunt Marion’s place,” he
said.

She opened a cupboard and pulled out two tumblers. “Scotch or
brandy?”

He didn’t drink either, but if ever an occasion called for the
lubricating effects of alcohol, this was it.

“Scotch, thanks.”

She poured a generous amount into each glass then handed one to
him.

“Thanks for your help. I appreciate it,” she said, lifting her
glass to him in an informal toast. “Above and beyond the call of duty,
especially since we hardly know each other.”

And didn’t exactly get off on the right
foot.

She didn’t say it, and neither did he, but he knew without a
doubt that they were both thinking it.

“Once I saw the street I figured you might be in trouble.” He
took a swallow and Scotch burned its way down his throat to his belly.

“Oh, right. I guess it’s flooded up there, too, huh?”

“You practically need a canoe.”

“I’ve never seen flooding like this before. And I’ve had this
place nearly ten years.”

“My guess is the drains on the street are blocked. Mind you,
when that much water comes down this quickly, most drainage systems freak
out.”

She nodded, then looked into her drink. He wondered if she was
as uncomfortable as he was, and if she was finding this conversation as stilted
and yawn inducing.

A bead of water ran down her temple and onto the curve of her
cheek. She lifted one side of the towel to rub at her hair. When she lowered it
again her hair was sticking up in spiky tufts like a little kid’s and her scar
was once again on display.

Oliver kept his gaze fixed on her face, determined not to make
the same mistake twice.

“So, um, I guess the storm woke you, too, huh?”

“I guess. I heard water running and Mr. Smith was missing from
outside my bedroom. I figured something must be up.” She lifted her drink to her
mouth and he saw that she was trembling, the fine movement making the amber
fluid shiver in the glass.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

She was pale and she was soaked and she was shaking. Patently
not fine, despite her bravado.

“This is normal. I just need a few minutes, that’s all.”

“Why don’t you humor me and take them sitting down? Because if
you keel over we’re both in big trouble, since what I know about first aid could
fit on a postage stamp.”

“How about
you
humor
me
and trust that I know my own strength?” Mackenzie
snapped.

He took an instinctive step backward, retreating from the anger
in her suddenly fierce blue eyes. This was why he’d hesitated before following
her into the house—for whatever reason, this woman and he were not destined to
get on.

“Why don’t I go check on the situation outside?” He set down
his glass and headed for the door, his mind on only one thing—escape.

“Oliver, wait,” Mackenzie said. “Please?”

There was a softness, a sincerity to her words that made him
pause on the threshold.

“That was...out of line. Hugely out of line. I’m really sorry,
okay?” she said as he faced her.

He nodded, very aware of his wet, cold clothes, keen to simply
be gone now.

She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “I was in a car
accident a year ago. A pretty bad one. I was in hospital for months, then
rehab... I guess what I’m trying to say is that people telling me how I feel or
what I can do or not do—or even if I’m okay or not—is a really hot button for
me. When you’ve been a patient for months, regaining control of your body and
your life is a precious, precious thing. That’s not an excuse, by the way, just
an explanation. You came to my rescue when you didn’t have to, and I am so, so
grateful for that. Can we rewind and erase the last sixty seconds?”

She scanned his face, clearly waiting for his response.

He didn’t doubt her sincerity, but he still wanted to be gone.
He wasn’t up for negotiating with prickly, difficult personalities right now. He
had enough crap in his own life to deal with.

“Sure. But I should probably still check on the storm.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before lightning
flickered once again, closely followed by the clap of thunder.

She collected his glass and offered it to him. “At least finish
this before you go. Never let it be said that I drove a man screaming into the
night without letting him finish his drink first.”

“Actually, I’m not the biggest fan of Scotch.” He figured he
might as well be honest, since he had nothing to lose.

She looked dismayed. “You should have said. Why didn’t you
say?” Then she shook her head. “Don’t answer that—I know why. Because you’re a
nice guy, and I’m a harpy.”

“You’re not a harpy.”

“Yeah, I am. A harpy with a horny dog and zero social skills.”
She sank onto the arm of the sofa. “Believe it or not, before the accident I was
actually not too bad to be around. I may have even been likable.”

She looked sad, sitting there in her soggy pajamas with her
ruffled hair, her expression equal parts bemusement and regret.

“You’re not a harpy. Just a bit scary.”

She blinked, then huffed out a laugh. As he’d hoped she
would.

“Scary, huh?” she asked.

“In that intense, I’ve-had-too-many-coffees-today kind of way.”
He said it lightly and she smiled.

“You know what’s funny about that? I haven’t had a coffee for
months. Makes me feel sick now. Which is weird because I used to live on the
stuff.”

For a moment they were silent, the first easy, undemanding
moment they’d shared.

She stood. “Right, where were we? You were escaping, I
believe.”

“I was going to check outside.”

“Like I said, escaping. And who could blame you?”

She started up the hallway and Oliver followed her. The storm
seemed doubly furious after the quiet inside, but when they walked to the edge
of the porch and peered out, it was clear that the volume of water pouring down
the driveway was far less than it had been, and the water around the house had
subsided an inch or two.

Oliver tilted his head and assessed the cloud-choked sky. “You
know, I think you might be in luck. The rain is definitely easing.”

“God, I hope you’re right.”

Mr. Smith descended to the lowest dry step and crouched to
sniff at the encroaching water.

“Back from there, Smitty,” Mackenzie said.

Predictably, the dog ignored her, leaning even closer to the
water. Oliver and Mackenzie started down the steps at the same time—just as the
dog lost his balance and toppled in. To her credit, Mackenzie didn’t hesitate to
jump in barefoot after him, even though there was no risk of the dog
drowning—Mr. Smith might be on the ground-hugging side, but the flood was barely
a foot high now. She scooped up the wet dog then climbed the stairs trailing
muddy water.

“I see an RSPCA medal in your future,” Oliver couldn’t resist
saying.

“Whereas I see lots of muddy towels and a wrestle with Mr.
Smith in the bathtub.”

He decided he was ready to take his chances. A hot shower and a
warm bed were very high on his must-have list right now.

“Send up a flare if you need more help,” he said, tugging on
his shoes.

She met his eyes over Mr. Smith’s head. “I owe you,” she said
simply.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“I held a broom for five seconds.”

“You came over in the middle of the night to help out a
stranger.”

“Not much else to do when you’re awake at two in the
morning.”

She smiled faintly and shook her head. “You’re not going to
talk me out of my gratitude, so you might as well go home and get warm and worry
about what I might do to thank you.”

Since she seemed determined to feel under an obligation to him,
he simply lifted his hand in farewell and descended the stairs. He waded up the
driveway and into the street, stopping to marvel at the lake it had become. Once
the water subsided there would be a serious mess to clean up.

His feet slipping inside his shoes, he made his way home.
Thankfully, there were still embers glowing in the fire grate and he stopped to
throw on some more kindling. He stripped in the chilly bathroom, leaving his
clothes in the tub before stepping beneath the shower. He closed his eyes as
heat enveloped him. Next door, Mackenzie was probably doing the exact same
thing, standing beneath the shower, water cascading over her small, perky
breasts....