She went back to the kitchen, choosing a juicy red apple from her fruit basket on the table. As she crunched on it, she found left-over roast chicken in the fridge and popped it into the microwave. She noticed the wind was turning rather fierce outside, rattling the kitchen windows in their frames.
What a shame, she thought. This would certainly ruin the last of her petunias in the garden.
She took her dinner back to the living room and flicked on the television. She always looked forward to Friday nights. There was a wonderful show on cable called A Day in the Life of a Veterinarian. It was very educational.
She had a pad of paper and pencil standing by in case she wanted to take notes. Tonight’s episode dealt with “The Lurking Peril of Brucellosis.”
And speaking of lurking perils…. For the first timesince shoving Connor out the door, she glanced outside. There he was, huddled on the swing, the afghan pulled up to his eyeballs. He caught her eye and lifted the tips of his fingers far enough over the edge of the afghan to give a pathetic little wave. His new tangled dreadlocks gave evidence of the night wind’s ferocity.
Maxie pulled a face as she heard the first drops of rain on her tin roof. Darn. Even she couldn’t leave the man out in a rainstorm. She had a hard enough time leaving her cows outside during poor weather.
Scowling, she gestured for him to come inside. He hopped off the swing with the speed of a naughty little boy who’d been forced to sit in a corner, dashing across the porch and inside with the blanket held over his head. A freezing spray of rain and wind came inside with him.
“It’s l-l-like a hurricane out there.” His lips were frozen, the color faded to an interesting pale blue. “I hope you’re happy.”
“Of course I’m not happy,” Maxie replied. “I hate to see any animal suffer.” Then, grudgingly, she gave up her place on the couch. “Sit. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”
Connor burrowed into the sofa cushions, staring at the plate of chicken bones on the coffee table. “You had chicken.”
“You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes.”
“I love chicken.”
“I ate it all.”
“Of course you did,” he muttered.
Maxie glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Don’t worry about feeding me. I could stand to lose a few pounds.”
She took a deep breath. “You do like playing the martyr, don’t you? How on earth did a delicate soul like yourself ever survive playing professional football?”
He brightened considerably. “You watched me play pro football?”
“Never. I just heard somewhere you played football before you became a reporter.”
“Well, I didn’t play much,” he admitted. “Two games and I was out for the count. I blew out my knee when—”
“Do you want something to eat or not?” Sitting there on the sofa with his wet mop of hair, melting brown eyes and touching tale of woe, he was almost endearing. Maxie couldn’t afford to feel sympathetic. “If you’re really hungry, I’ll fix you a plate of…something.”
He smiled weakly. “Before you go…would you mind covering me with the blanket? I’m still a little chilled.”
“Fine.” She whipped the blanket out of his fingers, spreading it over him. “There we go, Mr. Garrett. All tucked in, nice and cozy. Is there anything else I can get for you? A hot-water bottle? Earmuffs? Perhaps a mustard poultice?”
“You wouldn’t happen to have any brandy, would you?”
“Brandy? I can barely afford hay for my cows!”
“Don’t get all prickly on me,” he said. “You’re probably tired. When you’re well-rested, I’m sure you have a very nice personality.”
“Nope,” she retorted, heading for the kitchen. “This is as good as I get.”
“And that’s good enough,” Connor murmured. He nearly snapped his neck following her exit. She had the most provocative sway to her hips, languid and sassy at the same time. He could just imagine her strutting the runway in a wispy dress that began late and ended early, her luscious hips rolling like thick honey, violet eyes half-closed, that swollen, edible mouth painted the sumptuous color of late-summer roses….
He grew conscious of a heated tightening in his groin. He tugged the blanket away from his body, sucking in a deep breath of air. For a man who’d just spent an hour in the deep freeze, he was suddenly and suffocatingly hot.
Three
While Maxie was in the kitchen, Connor took the opportunity to nose about the room. Other than a single photograph on the mantel above the fireplace, there were no items of a personal nature, certainly no mementoes from Maxie’s former life in the limelight. The lone photograph on the mantel was slightly yellowed; a picture of a young bride and groom posing in front of a tiny, white-spired country church. The groom looked highly uncomfortable. His mouth was pinched tight and the arm he had placed around his bride’s waist looked as if it was made out of cardboard. The bride, however, was smiling lovingly at her husband, her dark curls loose and dancing in the sunlight. Her beauty was staggering. Like Maxie, she possessed incredible cheekbones, a generous mouth and stunning, wide-set eyes. Like mother, like daughter.
“What are you doing?” Maxie demanded.
Connor turned on his heel, flushing slightly. His reluctant hostess was standing in the doorway bearing a tray of food and a ferocious scowl.
“Nothing,” he said, perhaps a shade too quickly.
“Nothing? You’re snooping.”
“Don’t be silly.” Connor avoided her accusing eyes, reclaiming his seat on the sofa. “Why did you put that picture on the mantel if you didn’t want anyone to look at it?”
Maxie slammed the tray down on the coffee table. “I put it there so I could look at it. No one else, just me.”
“That’s your mother and father,” Connor said, as if daring her to deny it. “Your mother was a beautiful woman.”
“My mother still is a beautiful woman. Not that it’s any concern of yours.”
“Is this the way you treat all your visitors? It’s not very hospitable, I’ll tell you that.”
“I’ve never had—” Too late, Maxie realized what she had been about to say. As did Connor, judging by the look of stunned incredulity on his face.
“No visitors?” he said. “Ever? That’s a little tough to believe. Glitter Baby didn’t exactly have a reputation as a loner. How long have you lived here?”
Maxie closed her eyes and counted to three. She was going to count to ten, but she lost her temper at three. “How long I’ve lived here is none of your damned business!” she snapped, stamping one booted foot on the floor. “I’m none of your business! My photographs are none of your business! Now eat your SpaghettiOs before I pop you one.”
“Before you pop me one?” Connor’s answering laughter died an abrupt death as he looked down at his dinner. “You weren’t kidding,” he said slowly. “You fixed me SpaghettiOs.”
“Let me guess,” Maxie said flatly. “You’ve never eaten SpaghettiOs.”
“Well, of course I…no, actually I think you’re right.” Connor thought back to his mother’s legendary Washington dinner parties. Never once did he recall seing SpaghettiOs on the menu. “This is a first for me. When I think of you out there in the kitchen, slaving over a hot pan