Chapter 3
With that, Melinda whirled around, missed the top step, and might have injured herself had she not fallen against an extremely tall man with an extremely broad chest.
“Whoa there,” Paul said, as a black-clad, elderly woman barreled into him, then slithered around him and scurried off, down the stairs and into the trees beyond. Paul watched her go, then turned to his employer, who stood several feet away, a shivering dog held tightly to her chest.
“Who the hell was that?” he asked her, setting his toolbox down on a side table, then divesting himself of his backpack. “And what was that about bones?”
“A local character named Melinda. She lives somewhere in the woods. And I have no idea what she was talking about.”
“She dangerous?”
“I sincerely hope not. From what I know she lives with an equally strange niece and the two of them manage to take care of each other.”
Paul glanced back at where the old woman had been headed, then returned his gaze to Kayla Thorne. “Weird.”
“Very.”
God, she looked good!
Again, no makeup. Hair swept back, gathered at her nape in a clip. Jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt—sporting a green palm tree against a white background—and sneakers. The opposite of anything considered remotely sexy or provocative, and all he could think about was how much he wanted to get naked with her.
Now and in last night’s X-rated dreams.
In which he had conjured up her body, her creamy skin, eyes the vibrant color of the sky up here in the mountains. The rounded breasts, the long legs—he’d woken up this morning desperately wanting them wrapped around him. Desperately wanting her.
Man, did he need a woman, and soon. Hell, wouldn’t anyone be horny after four years of going without?
Last Thursday, the night he’d been released, he’d stayed on in Susanville and headed for a singles’ bar, intent on finding a willing female and taking care of that need. He’d done the same thing the following night.
On both occasions, the women had been willing, but, for some strange reason, Paul had found an unexpected emptiness to all the conversations he’d struck up, the knowing, two-way, “how long do we have to make small talk before we wind up in the sack?” tone of them. It had seemed, somehow, wrong.
Not morally; he’d given up on moral right and wrong years ago. Just not the way he wanted it to be.
Probably, if he’d been ten, even five years younger, it wouldn’t have been a contest. Forget not feeling right, raging hormones would have dictated that he get laid, however he could. But he was nearly thirty-seven and was no longer ruled by his body’s needs. Especially after four years of practice.
“Coffee?” Mrs. Thorne asked him, snapping him out of his carnal reverie and back to the present. “I’ll get you some from the kitchen.”
She moved toward the sliding glass door, which, for some reason, set off the dog’s yammering. Paul winced at the sound; all day yesterday the mutt had alternately hidden from him and faced him, barking its stupid head off. He’d dealt with the little runt by ignoring it.
“Bailey, be quiet,” the woman scolded, setting the ball of hair on the porch floor.
“It’s okay.” Maybe it was time to make friends with the annoying thing. The Thorne woman would like that.
He approached the frantically yipping animal, now trying to back away but finding himself imprisoned by his owner’s feet. Paul squatted on his haunches, which made him eye level with the woman’s upper thighs, which he tried not to think about. Looking down, he held his fingers under Bailey’s nose.
“Hey, it really is okay,” he whispered. “I’m one of the good guys.”
His words must have had an effect, because the dog stopped barking and cocked his head, as though not quite sure what to do with this change of attitude. Then, tentatively, Bailey sniffed at Paul’s fingers. Dark button eyes peering out at him from under bushy, nearly white brows, the canine emitted a halfhearted growl.
Paul moved closer. “You’re a tough little man, aren’t you?” he said, stroking the animal’s head, then looking up to meet the woman’s amused gaze. From this angle, he could see the underside of her high, rounded breasts, a view that didn’t bother him in the least.
“Wouldn’t figure you the Yorkie type,” he observed.
One eyebrow arched upward. “Oh? What type would you figure me for?”
He shifted his attention to the dog; the thought of reaching up to cup one of her soft breasts in his hand was way too distracting.
He scratched behind his new best friend’s ears. “Well, now,” he managed to say with the part of his brain still functioning, “that’s kind of difficult. Before I saw you, I figured you for some kind of purebred, one of those show-dog types. You know.”
“A Yorkie is a purebred. And what do you mean, before you met me?”
Bailey made satisfied noises as Paul continued to scratch around his head. “I read about you in the papers, saw you on TV. The mysterious millionaire’s widow. Even in the pen, we got the news.”
“Oh.”
“Then, yesterday, when I saw the bunny slippers, well, that kind of changed things.” He glanced up at her again, watched her face flush slightly.
Her mouth twisted in a smile. “Not many have seen me wear those and lived to tell the tale.”
He nearly smiled back. “Well, then, I guess I’m lucky. Anyhow, someone who wears bunny slippers would go for something a lot more, well, fluffy. You know, a cocker spaniel. Like that.”
In mock indignation, she slapped her hands on her hips, unintentionally causing her T-shirt to mold itself more tightly to her upper body. “Wrong on all counts,” she announced. “I used to have a Lab. Well, not all Lab. A mix.” Her smile was tinged with sadness. “She was golden, a little bit of shepherd, a little bit of collie. When I was a kid.” A brief shadow of memory crossed her face before she brought herself back to the present. Mrs. Thorne nodded. “But you’re right. Bailey would not be my first choice. I inherited him.”
Paul raised an ironic eyebrow. “Someone left this to you?”
“Be careful. You might hurt his feelings. He belonged to Walter’s late wife. She doted on Bailey, spoiled him rotten. When I came to take care of her, he grew attached to me. He’s pretty old and he’s mostly deaf, not to mention blind in one eye.”
“Which is why he’s not much of a watchdog.”
“True. Poor Bailey can’t hear anyone coming unless they’re practically on top of him. But when a stranger comes into his limited view, by heavens, he gives it his all.”
Paul lowered his gaze again, moving his scratching to under the dog’s chin; Bailey raised it for easy access, a look of sensual pleasure on its face. Paul couldn’t help himself—he felt some kind of sympathy for the old thing. Aging, deaf, orphaned. Hell, what would it hurt to fuss some over the little guy?
Bailey began to moan, an oddly human sound. “He likes that,” the woman said.
“Yeah. Most living creatures like to be rubbed and stroked. It feels so good.”
He hadn’t really meant it like it came out. Well, not consciously, anyway. But when he shot a glance up at her, he saw from the awareness in her eyes that his remark had hit home. They locked gazes for a moment, hers surprised, even a little alarmed. And was it his imagination, or did he see the tips of her breasts harden to become two firm pearls?
In