He did so, but grudgingly, while he muttered curses beneath his breath. "How often do these twinges strike you?" he asked as he followed her into the house, bearing a tray of dirty dishes.
"Maybe once, twice a day. Really they're nothing to worry about." She filled the sink with soapy water. Each time she tried to move in any direction, she nearly stepped on him. "You're underfoot, Mackie. Why don't you be a good boy and go outside and play? Or work on your novel."
He slammed out of the kitchen, mumbling beneath his breath as he went through the shadowed rooms of the house. He knew pain when he saw it, and Stevie had been in pain. Did she think he was stupid enough to fall for her glib dismissal of it?
"A 'twinge,' my ass," he thought out loud.
She had downplayed that reminder of her illness the way he was currently de-emphasizing the swelling behind his fly. He wouldn't dare call it what it was. But what else could it be?
Stevie Corbett had been the warmest, softest thing he'd ever touched. Removing his hand from the folds of her skirt had been the hardest thing he'd ever had to do. He didn't know how he'd kept from touching her breasts just to see if they felt as fantastic as they looked.
To take his mind off how good she smelled and how badly he wanted to kiss her again and how much he ached, he carried the card table back into the dining room and set it up.
He positioned the lamp just so, adjusting the cheap lamp shade for maximum light. He replaced the typewriter and the ream of paper, stacking it and restacking it until all the edges were as straight as a knife blade. He checked the typewriter ribbon and made certain that pencils and erasers were within reach.
Then he just stood there, staring down at the card table, flexing his fingers at his sides.
'What are you doing?"
He spun around. Stevie was watching him curiously from the arched doorway.
"I'm setting up," he answered cantankerously.
"You don't just jump into writing without setting up, you know. It takes lots of preparation."
"Oh. It looked like you were just standing there, shivering in your shoes, knees knocking, afraid to start."
"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."