"Well I wasn't."
"Okay, okay." She took a step backward as though she had roused an ill-tempered wild beast, which wasn't too far from the truth. "I'm going into the living room to read."
"Fine. Don't make any racket, will ya?"
"I won't."
"Say, wait!" He went after her when she turned away. "I didn't mean to snap at you like that. This is our first night here. The country is making me jittery, I guess."
"No city noise."
"Something like that. I've got it!" He snapped his fingers. "Want to play cards? I'm sure I can find a deck around here somewhere."
"I'm tired, Judd. Maybe another night.'
"Trivia? We'll make up our own questions.
You can choose the categories."
"I'd rather just read."
"Okay. That's fine. I'll help you select a book."
But as he went past her, she grabbed his arm and hauled him back. "I'll find my own book.
Quit stalling, Mackie."
"Stalling?"
"Stalling. You're stalling like a kid at bedtime.
That novel isn't going to write itself."
"Is that what you think I'm doing? Stalling to keep from starting on my book?"
"Yes."
"Geez, no wonder you never got married," he grumbled, as he turned back toward the dining room. "Who would want to marry you? You're no fun. No fun at all."
Stevie caught herself nodding off. She finally admitted defeat and laid her book on the end table.
Earlier that day she'd uncovered all the furniture in the living room. It was basic Early American, constructed largely of maple, nothing she would have decorated with herself, but in perfect keeping with the rest of the house.
She switched off the lamp and retrieved her sandals from the floor, carrying them as she crossed the wide hallway. Judd was prowling the dining room, rolling his head around his shoulders and flexing the muscles of his arms. There were several models of paper airplanes scattered about the floor. One had crashed into the drapery cornice.
"How's it coming?" She moved toward the table, glanced down at the paper in the typewriter and read what he'd written so far.
" 'Chapter One.' Very insightful."
"Very cute."
"You're a long way from a Pulitzer, Mackie."
"And you're a long way from a Grand Slam."
His words extinguished the teasing light in her eyes and caused her smile to collapse. "You're right. I am."
He swore liberally as he plowed all his fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean… I didn't think… I wasn't referring to-"
"I knew what you meant. No harm done.
What's the matter with your shoulders?"
"Nothing."
"You're wincing every time you move."
"Too much of the weed sling, I guess."
Really?" Pulling a worried face, she moved toward him and dropped her sandals onto the floor. She lifted her hands to his shoulders and squeezed the muscles lightly.
He yelped. "Ouch, damn, they hurt enough without you digging into them like that."
"You're as cranky as an old bear."
"Yeah? Well that's what I feel like. The first morning after hibernation."
"Come on upstairs. I'll give you a rubdown with this stuff that I'm never without."
She picked up her sandals again; he turned out the lamp. Together they started upstairs. "What kind of stuff?" he asked warily.
"A lotion. A sports injury specialist developed it. It's guaranteed to get rid of all stiffness and swelling."
She was several steps ahead of him. He caught the hem of her skirt and pulled her up short. She turned inquisitively.
"If it's guaranteed to do that," he drawled,
"you gotta promise not to rub it on any parts I haven't okayed first."
Snatching her skirt out of his hand, Stevie shot him a quelling look and continued upstairs. After getting the bottle of lotion from the tote bag she'd brought along, she went to his bedroom door. "Knock, knock."
"Come in."
She did…just as he was peeling off his T-shirt.
With his arms stretched high over his head, standing beneath the overhead light fixture, he was granting Stevie an unrestricted view of his body: the broad shoulders, wide chest, trim torso, narrow hips, scarred leg.
Scarred leg?
The T-shirt cleared his head. As he lowered his arms, he caught her staring at the jagged, purple scars that crisscrossed his left shin. He balled the
T-shirt into a wad and, with a hook shot, tossed it into the easy chair near the bed.
"It's not polite to stare."
The chip on his shoulder had doubled in size since she'd entered the room. She could hear the insolence in his voice, an overcompensating sarcasm.
Maybe she had accidentally happened upon Judd Mackie's one spot of vulnerability.
It would be ludicrous to pretend she hadn't seen the scars. Even if she could pull off such an act, he wouldn't fall for it and would resent her attempt. Her curiosity wasn't morbid, but sympathetic.
There was no better way to deal with the awkward situation than to be straightforward.
"What happened to your leg, Judd?"
"Compound fracture of the tibia."
Worse than she had thought. She didn't even try to hide her grimace. "How?"
"Waterskiing accident."
"When?"
"A long time ago," he answered with a mix of bitterness and sadness. He moved toward her.
She followed the progress of the scarred limb, lowering her eyes as he came closer in order to keep it in view. Judd placed his finger beneath her chin and tilted it up. "If you keep gawking, you're going to give me a complex."
"I'm sorry," she said, meaning it. "It's just that you've been wearing shorts all night and I didn't notice the scars until just now." It had been dark on the porch and his legs had been beneath the table while they ate. The angles hadn't been right at any other time.' 'It came as a shock, that's all. I wasn't prepared, didn't expect it."
"Most women find that leg incredibly sexy."
Now that she'd seen it, been stunned by it, he wanted to tease her shock away. That was fine with her. She would play along for now and ruminate later on the injury that had healed, but which remained a supersensitive spot to the seemingly invincible sportswriter.
"Oh, it's sexy alright," she told him with an impish grin. "Devilishly so. Almost as good as the hairy chest."
"No lie?"
"No lie. My mouth's watering."
"Hmm."
He lowered his eyes to her lips. His intense gaze was as stirring and provocative as his scathing prose, though in an entirely different way.
The bottom seemed to drop out of Stevie's stomach. Before she became hopelessly trapped by his stare, which seemed to be drawing her closer to him like a powerful magnet, she turned away from him and began vigorously shaking the bottle of lotion.
"Where do you want to do this?"
"I don't know," he answered in a low voice.
"How well are we going to get to know each other?"
She spun around to find him standing very close behind her, looking hungrily at her exposed neck while he played with the end of her braid. As he rubbed the silky strands between his fingers, he whispered, "There's the chair. Or there's the bed."
She flicked his hand away. "Do you want a rubdown or not?"
"I do."
"Then sit down and let's get it over with."
"I guess that means the chair," he said dryly, making an effort to keep from smiling. He pulled a straight chair from beneath a desk and straddled the seat, folding his arms over the back of it. "Have at me."
Stevie moved to stand behind him. She filled one palm with the lotion, then rubbed it against the other. However, when it came time to actually touch him, she hesitated. He had his chin propped on his stacked hands. Eventually her hesitation brought his head around.