She stood in a slice of sunlight on the stone patio and Hunter’s breath caught in his throat. She wore a green silk shirt with an open collar and short sleeves, tucked into a pair of form-fitting linen slacks. Her incredible hair was lifting in the wind caressing her, and it danced around her head like a curly, auburn halo. Her grass-green eyes were fixed on him as he stared at her and Hunter couldn’t stamp out the hunger she was probably reading on his face.
Why the hell had he bought her new clothes?
Margie’s heartbeat thundered in her chest, and her mouth went dry under Hunter’s steady stare. Even from a distance, she saw him clench his square jaw as if fighting an inner battle for control. And somewhere inside her, she preened a little, knowing that just looking at her was in some small way torturing him.
At first she’d been uncomfortable wearing clothes that defined her too-voluptuous—in her opinion—figure. As if she were walking around naked or something. She wasn’t used to people—men—looking at her the way Hunter was now. Always before, she’d sort of blended into the crowd. She’d never stood out, never been the kind of woman to get noticed.
For the first time in her life, Margie actually felt pretty. It was a powerful sensation. And a little frightening. Especially since Hunter didn’t look too happy with whatever he was thinking.
Well, she reminded herself, it was his own fault. He was the one who’d insisted on buying out half of Carla’s Dress Shop. He was the one who’d approved or vetoed everything she’d tried on. Which had really annoyed her until she’d gotten into the spirit of the thing and had pleased herself by watching his eyes darken and flash with hunger every time she appeared in a new outfit.
The arrogant, bossy man had, it seemed, painted himself into a corner of his own design.
“Did you need something, Margie?”
“What?” The voice seemed to come from nowhere. Hunter’s gaze was still locked on her, and he hadn’t spoken—she was sure of it. Tearing her gaze from the man who was her temporary husband, she saw the estate gardener giving her a knowing smile.
“Calvin. Yes. I mean, I did want to ask you something. I was wondering if you’d mind providing a few bouquets for the dance tomorrow night. No one’s flowers are prettier.”
“Happy to,” the older man said. “Anything in particular?”
She shook her head. At the moment, she couldn’t have discerned the difference between a rose and a weed anyway. “No, I’ll leave that up to you.”
“You’re in charge of flowers, too?” Hunter grumbled.
“I’m helping.” And why did she say that as if she were apologizing? She didn’t owe him an explanation, and why did he care what she did anyway? In the few days he’d been home, he’d gone into town only that one day when they’d had their shopping expedition. The rest of the time, he remained here, at the house, as if he were…hiding?
Even as she considered that, she discounted it. Why would Hunter Cabot want to hide from the very town in which he’d grown up? He wasn’t the kind of man to avoid confrontation or uncomfortable situations.
“Sure seem to do a lot of ‘helping,’” he commented dryly.
“And it seems that you don’t do enough,” she countered, enjoying the quick spark of irritation she spotted in his eyes.
But she wondered why he was so determined to keep himself separate from the town and the people here. He would only be here another few weeks; then he’d be gone back to the Naval base, back to the danger and adventure he seemed to want more than anything. So why, then, wouldn’t he want to spend what little time he had here seeing old friends?
She knew she’d be leaving at the end of the month, so Margie wanted to do as much as she could for the town she’d come to love.
So why didn’t he love this place? He’d been raised here. He’d had family to love. A spot in the world to call his own. And he’d given it all up for the chance at adventure.
“Now,” Calvin announced, interrupting her thoughts again, “I’ve got weeding to do.” But before he left, he gave Hunter a quick look and said, “You remember what we talked about.”
Then Calvin wandered off and Margie watched his progress through the lush, cottage-style garden. When the older man rounded the corner of the big house, she shifted a look to Hunter. “What did he mean by that?”
“Nothing.” He muttered the one word in a deep, dark grumble. “It was nothing.”
“Okay,” she said, while wondering what the two men had been talking about before she’d stepped onto the patio. But one look at Hunter’s shuttered expression told her that he wouldn’t be clearing up that little mystery for her. So she said, “He probably thinks he’s giving us a chance to be romantic in the garden.”
“Probably,” Hunter agreed and didn’t look like he appreciated it.
“Calvin never stops to chat for long anyway,” Margie said, coming down the stone steps to the edge of the garden.
“Yeah, I know. He’s always preferred his flowers to people.”
She stopped, bent down and sniffed at a rose before straightening again. When Margie saw Hunter’s gaze lock briefly on her breasts, she felt a rush of something completely female and had to hide a small smile. Really, she was in serious trouble. She was beginning to enjoy the way Hunter looked at her, and that road would only lead to disappointment.
He didn’t trust her. He made that plain enough every time they were together. But he did want her. That much she knew. Every morning, she woke up to the feel of his heavy leg lying across hers, his strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulling her tightly against his warm, naked body. And every morning, she lay there, quietly, enjoying the feel of him surrounding her, until he woke up, shifted carefully to one side of her and replaced the pillow wall between them.
Margie knew he didn’t realize she was awake for those few brief, incredible moments every morning. And she had no intention of telling him, because he’d find a way to end them and she liked waking up to the feel of his body on hers. To that sense of safety she felt lying next to him.
Oh, God. She looked up at him saw those blue eyes go cool and distant and knew she was only making things more difficult for herself. There was no future here for her at all. Pretending otherwise was only going to make leaving that much harder.
“Why’d you come out here?” he asked, his voice low, his features strained. “Did you really want to talk to Calvin, or were you just following me?”
So much for daydreams. “Were you born crabby, or do I just bring it out in you?”
“What?” He scowled at her.
He probably thought he looked ferociously intimidating. But Margie had seen that look often enough that it hardly bothered her anymore.
“Crabby. You. Why?”
“I’m not crabby,” he said and blew out a breath. “Hell, I don’t know what I am.” Shaking his head, he glanced across the garden and Margie followed his gaze.
The back of the house was beautiful. Late-spring daffodils crowded the walkways in shades from butter-yellow to the softest cream. Roses sent their perfume into the air, and columbine and larkspur dipped and swayed brilliantly colored heads in the soft wind off the ocean. It was a magical place, and Margie had always loved it.
“You really like it here, don’t you?” he asked.
“I love it.”
“I did too for a while.” He turned and started along the snaking path of stepping-stones that meandered through the garden. Margie walked right behind him,