Читать книгу Two Hearts, Slightly Used - Dixie Browning, Dixie Browning - Страница 5

To a woman who had mastered the word processor, the food processor, elementary plumbing and the fine art of diplomacy under fire, there was nothing particularly intimidating about an outboard motor. Frances had watched the boy from the marina punch, poke, jiggle and shove and then steer with one arm crooked casually over the handle. And while this particular model was somewhat larger, the principles were probably pretty much the same. The main thing to remember, she reminded herself, was that once she got the thing cranked up, steering was in reverse. To go right, shove the handle left and vice versa.

As a precaution, she untied the lines before she began fiddling with the controls. It had occurred to her that once she got the engine running, she might have her hands too full to worry about undoing all those fancy little knots.

A bit of common sense was called for here. Luckily, common sense was her strong suit. Thanks to her brothers, Bill and Dennis, she had a basic knowledge of combustion engines. There was nothing particularly difficult about operating an outboard engine.

Or was it a motor? Bill had explained the difference, but she’d forgotten. She’d learned to make simple repairs on most household appliances, but she could never remember the names of all the little gizmos.

Once underway, the first thing Frances noticed was that aluminum on water reacted somewhat differently than did rubber on pavement. For one thing, it lacked gripping power. By trial and error, she managed to propel the boat into open water without coming to grief, and felt a warm glow of pride.

Really, this was no big deal at all.

The second thing she noticed was the poles, which had been stuck seemingly at random along the way, one of which was green, with a light on top, the rest being plain. Not so much as a hand-painted arrow pointing the way to Coronoke or Hatteras. She’d been so tired and so intent on reaching her destination on the way over the day before that she hadn’t paid them much attention.

Now, just to be on the safe side, she steered a wide course around each one. By the time it occurred to her that they might have something to do with marking a trail, every clenchable muscle she possessed was clenched, from her teeth right down to her toes. Three times she came within inches of plowing into a shoal and then had to fumble with the left-turn, right-turn thing.

Outboard motors, she decided, were designed either by or for a dyslexic. Her left-handed sister, Debbie, would have managed just fine!

As her destination drew near, it occurred to her that with no brakes except for an anchor that was stashed up under the pointy end of the boat, the good ship Coronoke might not be easy to park. A little test of momentum seemed indicated here. Praying she could start it again, she cut the power and carefully observed how long it took to come to a full stop.

Not too bad, she mused. But sideways? Where had that tricky little glide step come from? The handle was aimed straight forward.

Frances was still experimenting when her stomach began to growl, reminding her that her last meal had been a super-coronary special at a fast-food restaurant in Manteo early the previous afternoon. The fat content of all that beef, bacon and cheese alone had kept her functioning until now. However, a bowl of Fancy’s Fat-Free, Fiber-Filled Homemade Granola would be her first priority once she got back to the cottage.

After two more rehearsals a safe distance away from any visible obstacles, she managed to make a creditable landing at the marina without denting either boat or pier. Still slightly terrified, but extraordinarily proud of her accomplishments—considering that the last boat she’d skippered had been a rubber affair some six inches long in a claw-footed bathtub—she tied up at the pier, briefly considered tossing out the anchor for good measure and elbowed her way up onto the splintery wharf.

And then she quietly collapsed, breathing deeply of the cold, fish-and-diesel-oil-smelling air. In the distance a noisy truck rattled past, the first sign of life she’d seen all day other than the wheeling gulls that searched the dark waters of the harbor for scraps of food.

Not until the chill began to creep into her bones did she turn to the task at hand. Making several trips to her car, she loaded her various bags and boxes aboard and set out again, her mind on trying to remember which box held her coffee filters and which held her supply of granola makings.

Somewhat to her surprise the entire operation, practice maneuvers included, had taken only slightly over an hour.

* * *

Back on Coronoke, Brace stood at the end of the pier in his briefs and boots, oblivious to the raw, cutting wind, and ran through about six yards of gutter profanity. Dammit, he’d known the first time he’d set eyes on that woman that she was going to be trouble! In the first place, she had no business even being here! Keegan had sworn he would have the place to himself, otherwise he never would’ve agreed to the deal.

Evidently she’d bought his story about the lack of basic amenities. Damn good thing, too. If that hadn’t worked, he’d planned to hit her with a tale about hurricanes, tornadoes and man-eating mosquitoes and throw in a few alligators for good measure.

But dammit, why’d she have to go and steal his boat? He’d already made up his mind to ferry her back across to the marina. If there was one thing that irritated him more than a clinging, whining female, it was one of the superindependent types.

Brace had been shaving when he’d heard the outboard sputter a few times and start up. He’d gone racing down to the landing in his briefs and boots, face covered with shaving cream, in time to see her roar out of the harbor, hanging on to the stick like a chicken in a high wind. While he stood there swearing, the phone had started ringing back at the Hunt, and he’d raced back and grabbed it just in time to hear the disconnect.

Still swearing under his breath, he’d jogged back down to the landing, wondering what the devil was happening to his nice, private little retreat. No one was even supposed to know where he was except for the Keegans and Pete Bing.

He figured it was Keegan, calling to check up on things. Pete knew better than to put the screws on him at this point in their negotiations. Brace had left it at the “don’t call me, I’ll call you” stage. He still had a lot of thinking to do before he signed on with any outfit. Not that he had any doubts about Bing Aero. He had plenty, however, about the woman involved.

And Sharon would definitely be involved. Brace didn’t kid himself on that score. With Sharon, the bottom line came first; personal relationships limped in a poor second. The deal had been a straightforward one—cash on the barrelhead in exchange for a hefty bundle of stock in the privately owned corporation, a modest salary and an impressive sounding title. Eventually he would take over the design division.

It was a sweet deal for a guy who had never held down a desk in his life. Never wanted to, but now that his choices had narrowed down, it didn’t look all that bad.

Even so, he’d have to do some pretty serious thinking before tying himself up in a long-term deal. Pete had hinted at some of the experimental stuff they were doing, knowing that Brace would find it hard to turn it down, now that his test-pilot days were definitely over.

He’d been right. Brace had been up-front about the fact that he’d been approached by two other outfits and had asked for three months to make up his mind. That had been six weeks ago. The clock was still running.

And now this! Dammit, how the devil was a guy supposed to concentrate?

Scowling at the receding wake of Keegan’s red runabout, he tried to recall if he’d topped off the tank after the last couple of supply runs. Late yesterday, just before she’d showed up, he’d cruised around to the northwest side of the island to check out the three hunting blinds there. He’d run over to collect his mail, and the marina had been closed, and...

Brace swore again under his breath. The lady was beginning to get on his nerves! Thanks to her tricks, he was going to have to put one of the other boats in the water and get another outboard out of storage just to retrieve the runabout.

Stalking back up to the Hunt to finish shaving and get dressed, he told himself to cheer up. At least she was gone. That was the good news.

The bad news was that he’d been the one to chase her off, and he’d lied to achieve his ends. Even at his worst he’d never been much of a liar.

Right on schedule his conscience kicked in again. Until she’d come nosing around his private sanctuary with her holier-than-thou attitude, he hadn’t even known he possessed a conscience. So what if he hadn’t exactly welcomed her to the island? Dammit, it was for her own good! She would’ve hated it if he’d let her stay, and he’d have had to put up with her whining about the wind and the sand and the bone-aching cold. There was nothing here for a woman. Especially not for a woman alone. Women didn’t thrive in isolated outposts, they needed bright lights and lots of attention, neither of which was available on Coronoke.

And besides, dammit, she wasn’t his responsibility!

On the other hand, Keegan’s boat was.

Figuring she’d have had just about enough time to reach the marina if he’d left enough gas in the tank to get her that far, Brace grabbed a pass key off the board and jogged down the wooded trail to her cottage to be sure she hadn’t left behind so much as a single hairpin. Once she hit Highway 12, he didn’t want her to have any excuse to come back.

She hadn’t left a hairpin, she’d left a whole damn suitcase! About a years’ worth of supplies were still piled on the kitchen counter where he’d parked them the night before. By the time he found the toothbrush, the bottle of lotion in the bathroom and the gown tossed across the foot of her unmade bed, the tendons at the back of his neck were so tight his fingers wouldn’t even uncurl.

She hadn’t left. Dammit to hell and back. The miserable little sneak thief had stolen his boat and gone back for the rest of her gear! Hadn’t she heard a word he’d said?

So much for the gentlemanly approach. She wanted to play hard ball? Great. Let’s see how she liked his fast ball!

Working with practiced efficiency, Brace crammed her few scattered belongings into her suitcase, stripped the bed and crammed the sheets in on top of her clothes, then scanned the quarters for anything he might have missed.

He tossed her suitcase out onto the deck beside her laptop computer and stalked back inside for the groceries. She’d bought ‘em—she could damn well have ‘em! He only hoped she hadn’t stocked up on ice cream, because he could do without having his last clean pair of jeans leaked all over!

Although in this weather, the stuff might not even have melted. The temperature hung in the low forties outside. The house, which had been battened down since October, felt even colder.

Once again the conscience Brace hadn’t known he possessed kicked in. She must’ve worn her clothes over the nightgown to sleep in. No blanket in evidence. According to Maudie, most cottage owners provided a few summer-weight blankets, but evidently she hadn’t known where to look.

“Dammit, nobody comes here in the dead of winter, especially not a lone female!” He automatically excepted Maudie Keegan, who had once lived alone on the island year-round as caretaker. Maudie was a different breed of cat. She was a local, used to the treacherous Outer Banks weather, which could go from mild to wild in a matter of minutes; accustomed to being without power, sometimes for days on end.

A small, all but unrecognizable voice whispered that maybe he should give the woman a second chance—show her around, clue her in on the power situation, lend her a few blankets and show her where to plug in her phone—

No way. She might not appreciate it now, but he was doing her a big favor. She’d probably thought she was coming down to some nice sunny beach resort where everything was laid out for her comfort, from cocktails to hot tubs.

Some travel agent somewhere needed to have his license yanked!

Brace took one last look around the cottage before locking up and heading down to the boat with her gear. It took four trips to haul it all. Good thing she hadn’t come prepared for an extended stay!

But his conscience still wasn’t quite ready to roll over and play dead. She’d come all the way down here, expecting the standard beach resort, and he’d more or less chased her off. It wasn’t her fault—he blamed the guy who’d given her the key. Easing the small fiberglass boat away from the pier, he decided that instead of just kissing her off and good riddance, he would take the time to suggest she catch the Ocracoke ferry, and then the Cedar Island ferry, and head on down the coast until she struck summer. Jekyll Island, or maybe St. Augustine. Hell, why not go all the way to the Keys? Plenty of sunshine, plenty of company—perfect for a single woman looking for a good time.

But whatever she was looking for, she wasn’t going to find it on Coronoke. Not alone. Not in January. Not while he had anything to say about it!

* * *

Frances watched as the marina receded silently in the distance. After poking and jiggling every appendage on the outboard, she had reached the inevitable conclusion that she was out of fuel. There was a single paddle in the boat, and she was wielding it as fast as she could, but it wasn’t working. The harder she paddled, the faster the current carried her away from the island, and the only sign of life was seven pelicans lumbering past a few feet above the surface of the water.

Was there such a thing as carrier pelicans? Maybe she could drop a note to the Coast Guard in their pouch.

How could she have done anything so stupid! She, the practical member of the Smith family—the practical member of the Jones family, for that matter. The one who had always reminded her younger siblings to take along an umbrella and to keep enough spare change on hand to call home—the one who reminded her husband and her in-laws to take their vitamins every day and cut down on their intake of fat, sodium and refined sugar.

A small green-and-red plane droned overhead, and she stood up and waggled her arms. “Help! Down here! Send help!”

When her leather-soled loafer slipped on a patch of wet aluminum, causing the runabout to lurch, she sat down rather suddenly and gripped the sides. Really, she was beginning to feel a bit discouraged. Beginning to feel, in fact, as if she were the only living human being left on earth.

Which was absurd. She had merely run out of gas. She, who was known throughout her family for advising others never to leap without first looking, and never, ever to start the day without breakfast, had committed both sins, and now look at the fix she was in! Starving to death while she was being swept out to sea.

She was mentally measuring the distance to a low, marshy strip of land some thousand feet away, assessing her chances of making it to shore before she turned into an ice cube, when she became aware of a high-pitched hum, like the drone of a distant swarm of bees.

“Oh, help,” she whimpered. Twisting around, she saw not one, but two boats racing toward her from opposite directions. “Thank you, Lord,” she said devoutly. That water had looked awfully cold and deep and swift. “I owe you big-time for this.”

As for Uncle Seymore, she had a small bone to pick with him if she ever got near a phone again. There were one or two things he’d neglected to mention concerning his precious island hideaway.

Jerry reached her first. The other boat was smaller, slower, but still headed her way at a rapid rate of speed.

“What’ja do, flood ‘er?” the gangly boy called out. His lovely teeth sparkled in the pale shaft of sunlight slanting between layers of dark clouds.

“I haven’t the slightest idea, but it’s occurred to me that I might have run out of gas. Is that likely?”

He shrugged. Pulling alongside, he slung a line onto the runabout and stepped aboard, reaching for the red tank near the stern. Frances had never felt so stupid.

Well...yes, she had. And quite recently. But that was another story. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble. And by the way, aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

Before he could answer, the other boat pulled alongside, and the same tall, scowling man who had tried to run her off the island the night before was there. She hadn’t gotten a good look at his face then, but there was no mistaking that tall, rangy physique.

Embarrassed, she stole a quick glance at him. Forbidding was the first word that came to mind. Mad as the dickens was the next. And yet there was something oddly compelling about the set of his features that had nothing at all to do with his expression.

He was scowling—or maybe it was a permanent condition. It occurred to Frances that it was probably a good thing Jerry had reached her first. She wouldn’t trust Flint-Face not to stuff her into a sack and throw her overboard.

“She ran outta gas,” Jerry said cheerfully.

“If she’d asked before stealing my boat,” Flint-Face retorted, “I would have warned her to check the levels first.”

Frances resented being talked around, as if she weren’t even there. “I’m sure you would,” she snapped. “You warned me about everything else. As for stealing your boat, it was the only one there, and I was told there was a boat for the use of the cottagers.” Without waiting for a response, she turned to the younger man. “Jerry, do you know anything about generators? Could I possibly persuade you to—”

“I’ll take care of it,” Flint-Face cut in. His voice reminded her of the ropes she’d used to tie up at the marina. Hard, rough, showing definite signs of wear, but none of weakness.

“Sure thing. He can check you out, ma’am. Prob’ly won’t need it, though. Power’s been real steady lately.” He switched tanks and offered to fill the spare and leave it at the marina to be collected later, and Frances shrugged and left them to it.

At least she was no longer in danger of drifting out to sea. Jerry had thrown out an anchor, and Flint-Face kept his motor idling against the current. She waited, appreciating the sun’s meager warmth on her cold backside while the two men fiddled with hoses and tanks and stainless steel fittings.

Finally Flint-Face shut off his outboard and tied his smaller boat behind her larger one, which meant, she surmised with an inward groan, that she would have the dubious pleasure of his company for the run back to the island.

Jerry veered off with a cheerful wave, sending a spray of icy water over the bow of the red runabout where Frances huddled. Sighing, she wiped the salt from her eyes. Thanks, Jerry, she thought wryly. I needed that. Having mastered so many new skills in a single morning, never mind that she’d run out of gas, her ego might have been inclined to come creeping out of hiding for the first time since she’d learned that her entire eleven-year marriage had been one giant fiasco.

“By the way, I don’t believe we ever got around to introductions, did we? I’m Frances Smith Jones.” She addressed the lean, rigid back, which was bent over the controls.

Silence.

Fine! If he wanted to remain anonymous, that was just fine with her. If there was one thing she was no longer interested in, it was men. Not under any circumstances. Not in this lifetime!

The outboard sputtered and caught again. As it settled down to a steady roar, the tall, scowling man turned and seated himself in the stern, facing her. It occurred to Frances that his eyes were exactly the color she’d always imagined an iceburg to be. Clear gray, without a glimmer of warmth. Every bit as hard as flint, if not as opaque.

As for the rest of him, it was...interesting, she decided. Jaw far too aggressive, cheekbones far too angular—there was something odd in the angle of them, too, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. As for his mouth, at the moment it looked as if he’d just bitten into a lemon. She was tempted to smile at him, just for meanness.

His nose was beautiful. Under the pale, watery sunlight, she could see a fine network of scars on the left side of his face, but before she could even wonder about it, he said, “Ridgeway. What the hell did you think you were doing, stealing a boat when you don’t even have sense enough to check the levels?”

Quite suddenly the headache she’d been ignoring all morning clamped down like a hat that was three sizes too small. Through clenched teeth, she said, “I didn’t steal your boat, Mr. Ridgeway. I borrowed it. I was told on good authority that the boats were for the use of the cottage owners and renters. As for checking levels—I assume you mean the gas tank—you’re right. I should have checked. Next time I will. I seldom make the same mistake twice.”

He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again and looked away. Fortunately the roar of the outboard precluded any further conversation, which gave Frances plenty of time to wonder what the luggage she had left back at the cottage was doing in the boat they were towing.

And then they swerved sharply and headed toward the marina. “Wait!” she yelled above the noise. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“The marina!”

“But I’ve already been there! I want to go back to the cottage!”

“No way, lady. Come back in a few months.”

It was impossible to argue over a roaring outboard. Irked beyond bearing, her head pounding furiously, Frances crawled back to where she could make herself heard. She jammed her face as close as she dared and yelled, “Listen, I don’t know what your position on Coronoke is—head jackass, at a guess—but my uncle owns that cottage, and he gave me the key and told me I could stay there until I’m good and ready to leave! It’s not my fault that this Maudie person I was supposed to check in with is in Utah, but Maudie or no Maudie, I’m here to stay! So you can just damned well take me back to Coronoke right now, or I’ll have you brought up on charges of—of— Well, I’ll think of something!”

If he weren’t so damned ticked off, Brace might have found her amusing. She wasn’t as old as he’d first thought. Nor as unattractive. Although, at the moment she looked as if she’d been drawn through a keyhole backward. Opinionated women were not his favorite species, not even when they had eyes the color of bruised violets and a mouth that looked naked and vulnerable and—

Brace swore silently. Maybe he hadn’t recovered as fully as he’d thought from having his broken carcass plowed into a cornfield along with several million dollars’ worth of twisted metal.

Abruptly he changed direction. The woman, who’d been kneeling at his feet, yelped and would have fallen hard against the gunwale if he hadn’t caught her with one arm.

Against a background of salt water and exhaust, she smelled like cut grass and flowers—sort of spicy and green. She felt like a bag of bones, even in a down-filled parka.

“Sorry,” he muttered, pushing her away. He checked the boat he was towing, more as an excuse to look away from her face, which was entirely too close, than for any other reason.

Even over the roar of the outboard, he could hear the ragged intake of her breath. It occurred to him that his own was none too steady. It was a crazy reaction. He put it down to being celibate too long.

What the bloody hell had happened to all the peace and quiet he’d been promised? This place was supposed to be so far off the beaten track, nobody but duck hunters came near it between January and March. Maudie had warned him he’d be talking to Regina, the resident raccoon, before he’d been there a week. It had sounded like just what the doctor ordered.

And now, thanks to his eagerness to get rid of Ms. Smith Jones, she had about half a dozen loads of gear to haul back up to her cottage, and with his newfound conscience dogging his heels like a blasted shadow, he was going to have to offer to help her haul it.

The only bright spot on the horizon was that she obviously hated like the very devil to accept his help. Pride stuck out all over her, like quills on a porcupine. It nearly killed her to let him carry the biggest box and her overnight bag. Watching her stiff backside as she marched primly up the path before him, he almost smiled.

But not quite.

Brace knew almost as much about women as he knew about planes. During his stunt pilot days he’d been considered something of an expert. On both. It went with the territory. At the time, he’d been young enough to find studhood amusing. Without even trying, he’d collected more groupies than the star of whatever low-budget epic he happened to be stunting for, and as often as not the film’s female lead headed the pack.

It had been during that period in his career that he’d met Pete and Sharon Bing, a brother-sister team who were just getting started as builders and designers of small specialty aircraft. They’d designed those special choppers for the night-fighting scene in Killing Territory. Sharon had let him know then she was interested, but at the time Brace had been too busy sampling what Hollywood had to offer.

After he’d left Hollywood, finished his engineering degree and started testing for a major government contractor, he’d found somewhat to his amusement that neither his bank balance nor his sex appeal had suffered to any great degree. But by then he’d been older and a lot more selective. By then, too, the world had become a more dangerous place.

That was about the time when Sharon Bing had reentered his life. They’d started going out together. After three months he’d asked her to marry him. Or she’d asked him. Later he was never sure which one of them had brought it up. But the sex had been good, which made two vital interests they’d shared.

It wouldn’t have lasted past the honeymoon. They’d already had that. Some men were husband material—some weren’t. Now, thanks to his recently remodeled physiognomy, he no longer had to worry about it. Most women were turned off by his scars, but a few were turned on in a way that made him angry and uncomfortable. It never seemed to occur to either type that in spite of some extensive reconstruction, he was still the same man inside. Not that he’d ever pretended to be any great bargain.

“One more trip,” the tall brunette announced as she set the first load down on the screened front deck. “I can handle the rest, thanks.”

He hadn’t offered. Now, perversely, he insisted. “I’ll get the rest,” he growled. “Go inside and get warm.”

“First, I’m afraid you’ll have to show me how the generator works. I don’t want to risk another disaster so soon. I usually try to hold it down to one a day.”

The generator. “Look, lady—ma’am—Ms. Jones—”

“Frances. Frances Smith Jones.”

“Right. Look, about the generator, you don’t need to bother. The power’s working now.” Actually, there hadn’t been a full power outage since he’d arrived on the island. A few blinks and a brownout or two when the wind kicked up. Tough on compressors, but as everything on the island was rigged with trip-out switches, it was no major deal. “All you have to do, Ms. Jones, is throw the breaker. The box is behind that door. You want me to do it for you?”

His arms were crossed over his chest, and so were hers. It occurred to Brace to wonder if she was as skilled at reading body language as he was, and for some reason the notion amused him.

She stood her ground like a veteran, though. He’d give her full marks for guts.

“I’m perfectly capable of dealing with a switch box, Mr. um... But perhaps you’d better show me about the generator just in case.”

“They’re only used for backup. You won’t be here long enough to need it.”

An arc welder couldn’t have thrown off any more sparks than her eyes did. Blue fire. Lavender blue fire. Unfortunately, to a man who’d made a career of living dangerously, it was a sure turn-on.

Brace took two steps back, his own eyes growing wary. Oh, no. No way was this woman going to get to him, lavender blue eyes, long legs, wide, soft, vulnerable mouth or not. He needed a woman right now like he needed another hole in his head.

Or another plate in his skull.

“Let me know when you’re ready to pack it in, Ms. Jones. I’ll run you over to the marina. That way we’ll both be sure you get there in one piece,” he said, one hand on the doorknob.

Frances smiled sweetly. “You’re too kind,” she said through clenched teeth as he quietly closed the door.

Kind. Yeah. Sure he was.