and a tetanus shot.”
He stroked the scar again with his thumb, and she was potently aware of how warm and strong his fingers were, and scented faintly with lemon oil. “And after that, did anyone?”
Wordlessly, her throat clogged with an emotion she didn’t want to dwell on, she shook her head again. Her heart beat with such incredible slowness that it hurt. Her knees were weak. Her eyelids felt heavy. Warmth curled through her belly and into her thighs.
“Then it’s time, isn’t it?” He bent down from his much greater height so that his face was near hers.
She splayed a hand on his chest. “Kirk . . .this isn’t a good idea,” she whispered huskily. Apparently he didn’t agree, which was all right, because she wasn’t absolutely sure she meant what she’d said, anyway.
His lips were as firm as she remembered. He kissed her scar, warmly and tenderly, then moved on up to her lips, catching her slight gasp so that that it drew the taste of him into her mouth. His hand on the back of her neck flexed, and she tilted her head in response, opening herself to him with a shaky, trembling sigh. He swung his other arm around her, urging her onto her toes as she clung to his shoulders with both hands.
Moments later he lifted his head and slowly lowered her back to the floor. They stared at each other for a long, silent time, until she slipped under his arm and bolted.
Kirk let her go, although it was the last thing he wanted to do. He wanted to hold her, wanted to feel her heat, hear her breathing quicken.
“Be nice to her,” Lester Brown had said. “You never know what might happen. You might even learn to like her.”
Kirk pulled a face. Like her. Of course he’d probably learn to like her. Hell, he did already. Simply talking to her Friday night, starting to get to know her, had told him she was a likable woman. This morning, he’d learned he liked her quick wit and sense of humor. She didn’t whine and complain, though he was certain she’d had a tough life since her husband died. But that didn’t mean he had to lust after her. More important, it didn’t mean he had to give in to Brose’s hidden agenda. Dammit, he’d spent seven years fighting the old man on all sorts of levels, and mostly winning. Now, he was damned if he’d let him dominate from the grave. He knew exactly what Brose’s will had been geared to force him into. Marriage.
He jammed his feet into his boots, dragged his jacket on, and opened the back door. The cold cleared his head quickly after the warmth of the house—and the scent of the woman. She wasn’t his type in any way, he told himself as he strode through the crunching snow. What he had to do was forget about her altogether and stick to women who suited him better. Not only was she the wrong type and the wrong size, they lived in the same house and he’d never wanted a live-in lover before. He was a bachelor, just as Brose had been for most of his life, and that was the way he meant to keep it.
He kicked one of the big tires on the tractor and a clump of snow thudded down. He began brushing snow off the machine, then started the engine and drove it into its shed, where he should have put it Friday night. Friday night . . . Liss Tremayne . . . her bed behind her . . . Hell and damnation! Liss, in bed, was a thought he refused to dwell on. He was not taking her to bed.
He got off the tractor, flipped open the engine cover, and stared inside blindly. Liss Tremayne was a woman to stay the hell away from because he refused to play into Brose’s hands.
He snatched up a wrench to tighten a bolt that wasn’t loose. It slipped off the nut and his knuckles lost several square centimeters of skin. He cursed with undue fervor before sucking the sting out of them, then he heaved the wrench across the shed. It hit the plow blade with a satisfying clang.
* * * *
“I’m going into town,” Kirk said, after he’d finished the unnecessary monkey-wrenching on the tractor, and
He stroked the scar again with his thumb, and she was potently aware of how warm and strong his fingers were, and scented faintly with lemon oil. “And after that, did anyone?”
Wordlessly, her throat clogged with an emotion she didn’t want to dwell on, she shook her head again. Her heart beat with such incredible slowness that it hurt. Her knees were weak. Her eyelids felt heavy. Warmth curled through her belly and into her thighs.
“Then it’s time, isn’t it?” He bent down from his much greater height so that his face was near hers.
She splayed a hand on his chest. “Kirk . . .this isn’t a good idea,” she whispered huskily. Apparently he didn’t agree, which was all right, because she wasn’t absolutely sure she meant what she’d said, anyway.
His lips were as firm as she remembered. He kissed her scar, warmly and tenderly, then moved on up to her lips, catching her slight gasp so that that it drew the taste of him into her mouth. His hand on the back of her neck flexed, and she tilted her head in response, opening herself to him with a shaky, trembling sigh. He swung his other arm around her, urging her onto her toes as she clung to his shoulders with both hands.
Moments later he lifted his head and slowly lowered her back to the floor. They stared at each other for a long, silent time, until she slipped under his arm and bolted.
Kirk let her go, although it was the last thing he wanted to do. He wanted to hold her, wanted to feel her heat, hear her breathing quicken.
“Be nice to her,” Lester Brown had said. “You never know what might happen. You might even learn to like her.”
Kirk pulled a face. Like her. Of course he’d probably learn to like her. Hell, he did already. Simply talking to her Friday night, starting to get to know her, had told him she was a likable woman. This morning, he’d learned he liked her quick wit and sense of humor. She didn’t whine and complain, though he was certain she’d had a tough life since her husband died. But that didn’t mean he had to lust after her. More important, it didn’t mean he had to give in to Brose’s hidden agenda. Dammit, he’d spent seven years fighting the old man on all sorts of levels, and mostly winning. Now, he was damned if he’d let him dominate from the grave. He knew exactly what Brose’s will had been geared to force him into. Marriage.
He jammed his feet into his boots, dragged his jacket on, and opened the back door. The cold cleared his head quickly after the warmth of the house—and the scent of the woman. She wasn’t his type in any way, he told himself as he strode through the crunching snow. What he had to do was forget about her altogether and stick to women who suited him better. Not only was she the wrong type and the wrong size, they lived in the same house and he’d never wanted a live-in lover before. He was a bachelor, just as Brose had been for most of his life, and that was the way he meant to keep it.
He kicked one of the big tires on the tractor and a clump of snow thudded down. He began brushing snow off the machine, then started the engine and drove it into its shed, where he should have put it Friday night. Friday night . . . Liss Tremayne . . . her bed behind her . . . Hell and damnation! Liss, in bed, was a thought he refused to dwell on. He was not taking her to bed.
He got off the tractor, flipped open the engine cover, and stared inside blindly. Liss Tremayne was a woman to stay the hell away from because he refused to play into Brose’s hands.
He snatched up a wrench to tighten a bolt that wasn’t loose. It slipped off the nut and his knuckles lost several square centimeters of skin. He cursed with undue fervor before sucking the sting out of them, then he heaved the wrench across the shed. It hit the plow blade with a satisfying clang.
* * * *
“I’m going into town,” Kirk said, after he’d finished the unnecessary monkey-wrenching on the tractor, and
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