Читать книгу Miranda's Outlaw - Katherine Garbera - Страница 11

Three

Luke’s cabin was deserted when Miranda arrived three days later. She left a basket of chocolate chip cookies on the front porch. She’d scraped all of the black burnt stuff off the bottoms and they looked pretty good. Her mother had been so excited when she’d called to get the recipe from her. She’d baked eight dozen cookies, but had only been able to rescue a few.

Determined to tackle nature and take control of her surroundings, she stepped off his porch and retrieved her fishing gear from the ground. She planned on catching dinner today. The thought of eating another peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich made her cringe. She’d eaten so much junk food in the past two days that she’d had trouble sleeping. Focusing on the disturbing images of those chocolate brown eyes or that twinkling stud earring hadn’t helped.

She picked her way across the meadow. The mountain that seemed so malevolent toward her that first night, now apologized with a beautiful spring day. The air still had a chill to it, but the sun promised warmth. She spread her arms and lifted her head, drinking in the beauty that surrounded her.

The tow-truck driver who had dropped her car off this morning had talked endlessly about the weather, the tourist season and the wildflowers blooming in the meadow. Friendly chitchat that had no point. She’d been at a loss as to what to say. Miranda wanted to ask questions about Luke but knew in a small community such as this one the gossip would flow steadily out of control. So instead she’d held her tongue, leaving her imagination free to create whatever images it wanted to.

The detailed tattoo danced through her mind. The tanned skin underneath the hawk made her fingers long to caress him. She wanted to test the resilience of the padded muscles on his back.

Enough, she thought. Her laptop computer and modem would be installed tomorrow afternoon. She wanted something to occupy her time. The mountain, though pretty, still wasn’t an environment she felt comfortable in. Her adjustment time was taking longer than she’d expected, but the only obstacle she’d been unable to conquer was her own body’s weakness. She knew in a few weeks she’d find the balance she was seeking and she’d have something familiar to concentrate on instead of Luke Romero and his disturbing sensuality.

She found the stream and spent a few minutes picking through the grass and debris left by the storm until she found the perfect spot.

Clean, clear water rustled softly, winding its way downstream. The fish swimming at the bottom were visible and a crisp fresh scent of wildflowers filled the air. She stood perfectly still for a moment letting nature’s beauty soak into the fabric of her being.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself.

The Field and Stream magazine she’d purchased before leaving Atlanta had a few pictures of fishermen—all of them standing in the middle of a stream in hip-high waders. She wanted to cast from the relative safety of the bank.

She’d baited the hook easily, having no trouble imagining the squirmy little worm as her ex-fiancé. It was petty and spiteful, but worked dam well.

She glanced at the book on the ground and then back at her rod and reel. It should be easier than this, she thought. Children do this every day.

She stood, mimicking the stance she saw on the magazine’s glossy page. She raised her arm over her head and tried to copy the wrist-snapping motion she’d seen others use. She hooked something before she landed the line in the water. She started to reel it in, but the line grew taut and wouldn’t budge.

Miranda set the pole on the ground and grimaced at the branch of the tree holding her hook captive. The lowest branches were too high for her grab hold of and swing herself into the tree. She doubted she’d be able to scale the trunk without help. But what kind of help?

She was alone in the forest, miles from civilization and her only neighbor was a man who wanted nothing to do with her. Besides, the role of helpless woman wasn’t one she wanted to play. She tugged on the line, hoping to free the hook, but the lure tightened its grip on the small branch and hung on.

Jumping, she latched onto a sturdy branch and tried to wiggle her way up the trunk. Her sweaty hands slid on the bark and she slid back toward the ground. She hung suspended.

“Great,” she muttered.

“Need some help?”

Miranda screamed and fell to the ground. She braced herself, ready to do battle. Luke Romero stood there looking... she struggled to describe the expression in his eyes. He looked as if he didn’t want to be at this place at this time.

“Can you free my line?”

He rocked back on his heels, staring up at the large tree. The fishing pole swayed with the branches.

“Maybe.” He paced under the branches for a few minutes. “Stand back.”

He leapt, catching the lowest branch and then pulled himself up the tree. Miranda watched the graceful movements with envy and awe. Luke moved like a man sure of himself and his environment.

Today, his hair was held off his neck in a ponytail and his Stetson was nowhere to be found. The bill of a faded baseball cap was tucked into the back pocket of illegally tight jeans. A small hoop earring hung through his ear, enforcing his outlaw image, and the pungent scent of a cigar lingered on his clothes. He looked like a pirate who had been at sea for too long.

He freed her line and joined her on the ground. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” she said, watching his large hands move carefully over the hook, freeing bits of greenery from its teeth. She wondered if they’d handle a woman with the same attention.

“No problem,” he said.

He handed the fishing pole to her, before pulling the baseball cap out of his back pocket and putting it on.

“Thanks for the cookies.”

Miranda blushed, wondering if he’d actually eaten one. “Did you try them?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning suddenly. “Well, you know, they weren’t the greatest cookies I’ve ever had.” His voice was so soft she had a hard time hearing the next words. “But no one’s ever baked anything for me before.”

Miranda felt a tiny clenching around her heart and all her maternal instincts urged her to reach out to the boy inside of Luke and comfort him. Maternal instincts, she thought with a touch of sadness. Was it possible for a woman who couldn’t have kids to be maternal? She’d never thought so until that very moment.

His gaze met hers, his brown eyes full of emotion and pain. She started to touch him, then stopped. Her hand hung awkwardly between them. The tanned shade of his skin made hers look pale.

“It was a first for me, too,” she said at last, dropping her hand.

He smiled. Miranda felt something open up inside of her that she’d thought she’d lost. Something rare and fragile that reminded her of childhood and the days of wonder. Something beautiful and scary but she refused to analyze it now.

Miranda’s soft laughter echoed the sound of the water tripping over the rocks downstream. The rippling effect spread slowly throughout his body. He’d warned himself to stay away from her. Knew that he shouldn’t have left the safety of the north face of the mountain where she would never wander. Knew that he should’ve gotten on the Harley and gone to town. Knew that this was the worst possible thing for him to be doing, but he stayed all the same.

The sunlight dripped through the leaves of the trees that surrounded the bank, bathing Miranda in its golden light. Her skin had the same hue as orange-blossom honey. Soft, light and tempting as hell. The urge to taste her was overwhelming, to lick at her skin until the essence of her was imbedded in his senses. But he fought it.

He groaned, picking up the fishing pole he’d set aside a half hour earlier. Time to put things in their proper perspective. He’d known he was in trouble when he opened the lid on that basket and seen the cookies lying inside. No one ever made cookies for him.

His mother died long before he was able to chew them on his own and his dad’s girlfriends weren’t the type to spend time in the kitchen. The cookies were definitely the worst he’d ever tasted but that didn’t matter. It was the thought that counted.

“Ready to catch your supper?”

She nodded. “I’m guessing you don’t need the magazine to show you how to stand.”

“What magazine?”

She lifted a new issue of Field and Stream, showing him the marked page. “It’s just as well, these instructions got me into trouble the first time.”

“Darlin’, that man is fly-fishing.” The picture reminded him of years earlier when he and his estranged brother Jake had spent a weekend at the river. Luke scowled and pushed the memory aside, ignoring the remembered camaraderie. Jake’s betrayal was all he wanted to associate with his brother.

“I know. I figured I’d better use this pole. Fly-fishing looks very complicated.”

“It is. But you have to use a different stroke with this pole.”

She flushed. It had been a long time since he’d seen a woman color at a suggestive remark. He pretended that her reaction didn’t warm his heart.

“What kind of stroke?” she asked, her voice husky with suppressed emotion.

“A delicate stroke, one that builds anticipation. A teasing stroke that makes the fish think you’ve been there all along. A tempting stroke that’ll lead her right into your trap.”

“Stop it,” she said.

He showed her how to fish, leaving off the words he’d been using to entice her. He demonstrated the casting technique before handing the rod to Miranda. She reeled in her first catch of weeds a few seconds later. The lady simply didn’t have the right swing.

Luke stepped behind her. Her floral perfume wrapped around his senses like a warm breeze on a cool day. He cursed himself as a fool but reached around and took the fishing pole from her hands. She started as his chest brushed against her back. The soft, rounded curves of her hips were a temptation he couldn’t ignore. The urge to drop the fishing pole and sink his fingers into her flesh almost overpowered him. Instead, he forced himself to strip the weeds from the hook.

“Do you really want to learn how to fish?” he asked, hoping for a negative answer. Yet, at the same time he knew he didn’t have to stay. That the only reason he was still here was because she’d given him those rotten-tasting cookies. A sweet gesture from a prickly woman.

“Yes.”

Damn, he cursed silently, then took a deep breath. Inhaling more than air, inhaling the very essence of the tiny woman standing next to him. So close, but farther away than Miami at the moment. “I’m going to put my hands over yours and show you how to cast.”

“Okay,” she said, turning to face him with her hands extended.

Great idea, he thought. Perfect way to avoid his raging hormones and her sweet curves, but it wouldn’t work.

“Turn around, darlin’. You’ve got to face the stream to catch fish.”

She followed his directions, standing stiffly in front of him. “What now?”

He walked closer to her, allowing only an inch of space between them. “I’m going to put my arms around you. Place your hands on the pole so that you can feel the flow of the cast.”

He demonstrated the overhead motion of his arm, releasing the line slowly as it came over their heads. The lure landed in the middle of the stream without so much as a ripple.

“Now, comes the tricky part,” he whispered, directly into her ear. “Waiting. Stay perfectly still.”

A lone trout swam close to the lure. “Watch carefully. This is where luck doesn’t count. It’s just you and the fish and you have to be patient...until... Come on, baby. That’s it, take the bait, you know you want it.”

Luke continued talking in that low modulated tone. The way his daddy had taught him to, years before when he was more a boy than a man. Back when his father had still respected him. Miranda relaxed against him, letting his body direct hers. Her hands still held ready over his and then slowly the speckled fish took the bait. He felt her backbone stiffen with excitement.

“Don’t lose it now with impatience. Let him get a good hold on the worm and pull it in slowly. Now.”

Luke reeled in the fish. Miranda ducked under his arms and grabbed a net to put the trout in. He unhooked the fish and placed him in the net Miranda held.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Did you bring a cooler?”

“I thought that was only used to hold beer, so I left it at home.” Her brow wrinkled as she searched her meager supplies for something to put the fish in. “Fishing is more complicated than I was led to believe.”

Luke couldn’t help himself. She sounded so disgruntled and looked so cute with her navy shorts and baggy T-shirt that he hugged her to his side in a quick embrace. “Don’t worry, darlin’. This guy’s too small to keep.”

“Great,” she muttered.

Luke tossed the fish back into the stream with a powerful motion of his wrist. The trout hit the water and swam quickly away. “Why don’t you practice while I go back for a cooler?”

“Okay,” she said, her gaze fixed on the worm bucket.

“Want me to bait the hook before I go?”

She gave him a look so haughty it made him want to kiss her. She had so many contradictions.

“I like this part,” she said. A huge grin spread across her face like dawn creeping past the power of the night.

“Why?” he asked, unable to fathom what she’d find amusing about baiting the hook.

She blushed but refused to answer. Luke turned away without pushing. He’d broken some major rules today but somehow that didn’t seem to matter. A part of his soul felt lighter—almost as if it’d come home. He hadn’t realized that home could be a feeling and not a place. He’d thought of his home as always being lost to him, the ranch house and acreage in West Texas gone forever. He didn’t want to question why, but knew the answer was sitting beside a cool mountain stream, fishing.

Miranda watched the last rays of the setting sun dip beneath the horizon. She’d been back from her fishing expedition for a few hours. She washed her hands under the outdoor spigot and glanced at her watch. She had less than ten minutes to get over to Luke’s place. Her hands shook as she dried them with the towel.

Hurrying inside, she changed into a pair of baggy khaki shorts and a short-sleeved oxford-style shirt. Standing in front of the mirror she wished she were anyone else. She wanted to be more like the women she’d seen who’d been at ease with men, but her career had always been first. She’d been sixteen when her doctor had told her she’d never be able to have kids. She’d overheard her father saying that marriage would never be an option for her. Miranda had focused on her education and career, following her dad into finance. Until Warren came along, pursuing her and saying he wanted a marriage without kids, allowing her to keep her secret. She didn’t really know how to entice a man and in her heart she knew disappointment would follow if she did succeed in seducing the sexy mountain man who lived so close to her.

She’d invited Luke on impulse. He’d accepted, but only after insisting that he cook their dinner at his place. She went down the hall to the kitchen where she cut up the vegetables for the salad. She sealed the salad in a plastic container and added it to the cooler where she’d placed a bottle of wine.

Single living was lonely on the side of the mountain. Maybe that was why she kept finding excuses to visit her neighbor. She didn’t even know who owned the town house next to hers in Atlanta. She had three friends and they were all through work. She’d never gone out of her way to encourage anyone to be close to her, preferring her own company.

But she wanted someone else’s company now. Not just anyone’s, she admitted to herself—Luke Romero’s.

She paused at the edge of his property. He was singing again. One of those sad love songs that made her heart weep. She almost turned back, afraid to confront him lest he was bathing again, but then he stopped singing.

She crept around the side of the house, finding an empty tub. Whispering a silent prayer of thanks, she glanced around for Luke. He faced the empty meadow that was his backyard, his head bent and hands on his hips.

The utterly masculine pose took her breath away. A black T-shirt molded to the thick muscles of his back and tight jeans conformed to his legs. He was all man—more man than she’d ever encountered.

He raised his hands to his mouth and the sound of a blues harmonica filled the air. The music drew her closer to him. She couldn’t turn away from that slow, sensuous sound if her life depended on it.

Her blood started pulsing in beat with the music. A strange sort of lethargy stole through her bones. She wanted to be closer to the source of the sound. Setting the cooler on the steps of the back porch, she approached Luke.

He continued to play but turned toward her. His deep brown eyes watched her like a trapped wolf waiting for the death knell. She knew that this was a side he didn’t like people to see. Something precious and rare unfolded inside her. She had one chance to grab hold of this emotion before it disappeared forever. One chance to experience a real man and real passion.

She took another step toward him.

He stopped playing. The hand holding the harmonica dropped to his side. He stared at her as if he’d never seen her kind before; as if she were the first woman to invade his world; as if she were the only woman he was hungry for. The only woman he needed or wanted in his life, but Miranda knew that it was only an illusion and she was seeing what she wanted to see, not what was really there. No man could ever really want her.

Long moments of silence fell between them and the creatures of the night began their daily symphony filling the meadow with sounds so sweet that only Luke’s harmonica could compete with them. Miranda wrapped her arms around her waist, trying desperately to remember why she’d come here.

But before she remembered, Luke paced to her—stopping only when his breath brushed her face. He smelled of mint, cigar and coffee. She opened her mouth, breathing in his breath, tasting something more than the caffeine, the tobacco and the freshness; tasting something so essentially male that it unnerved her.

“I brought a salad and wine,” she said into the silence.

He nodded but didn’t say a word. Only continued to stand there, towering above her like a pagan god of ancient times. She cleared her throat and took a step back, putting distance between herself and this man before something happened. Something that she wouldn’t be able to control.

“What took you so long?” he asked, his hot gaze running over her, leaving a slow burning in its wake.

What had he said? He stared at her lips and they tingled. She ached to know the taste and feel of his mouth. Would it be as fulfilling as the teasing breath had promised?

“I’m three minutes early,” she said, unable to keep quiet. “I brought a book that demonstrates how to grill trout on an open fire.”

“I’ve grilled before so you can hold on to that book.” Amusement was clear in his voice. She remembered the Field and Stream magazine fiasco and shook her head.

Miranda didn’t know why she felt like a teenager all over again. But something about Luke brought to mind those long, lonely days when she’d felt excited, nervous and unsure of the future. She forgot the sophistication she’d carefully cultivated in the intervening years. Damn.

He smiled. His teeth white against the rough, tanned skin of his face. He had a nice mouth, with lips that tempted her to lean closer, to taste him. To trace the individual serrations of his teeth with her tongue. To feel it moving over her own with the same precision he’d used to play the harmonica.

She felt the honey of his drawl before the words left his mouth. “Since you went to all the trouble of making the salad and bringing the wine, I’ll clean the fish.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

He chuckled and the sound of his laughter filled the meadow as his music had earlier. Miranda couldn’t help the giddy feeling that washed over her. Luke joined hands with her. The feel of his palm brushing against her own was strangely disquieting.