Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,17
rushed back…Sammy, the baby squirrel she’d spent hours nursing through babyhood during her last summer at the Chance.
She’d been fourteen the summer she’d found Sammy lying helpless at the bottom of a tree. When she could find no nest to return him to, she’d carried him back to the Lodge. With her grandfather’s help, she’d made a tiny bed for him, a piece of blanket in an empty screwdriver box.
At Jack’s instruction, she’d dug out a doll’s bottle from among her discarded toys and begun feeding the little creature. Three weeks later she and Jack had released a nearly adult Sammy back into the forest, fit and ready for his life on the Chance.
The memory brought another into her mind. The memory of how she’d glanced up one day, as she sat feeding Sammy on the veranda steps, to see sixteen-year-old Heath slouched into a James Dean stance against a tree, hips thrust forward, thumbs hooked into the pockets of faded jeans as he watched her.
Something in those intense eyes had sent her adolescent body into a whirl, awakening a myriad of sensations. He’d been the embodiment of every teenage girl’s romantic bad-boy image.
I was one stupid kid. Dragging up memories isn’t any good. Heath Oakes was an inner-city hoodlum. All that changed is that now he’s a wilderness hoodlum. As soon as Gramps’ will is read and the Armstrongs are legally in possession of the Chance, I’ll kick him out of my life once and for all.
She got up from the bench and headed back to the Lodge, her strides long and determined.
At noon, dressed in the black suit she’d worn to the funeral, Allison placed a plate of sandwiches on the dining room table. She winced as she passed a mirror. Skirt and jacket looked as if she’d poured herself into them, thanks to that barbarian and his dryer. She’d had no choice. It was the only outfit she had that was suitable for a somber occasion like a will reading. The jeans and tops she’d brought and worn on the plane were far too casual, intended only for comfort after months of business suits and high heels.
She glanced down at the jacket straining at its buttons. Thanks to that stupid savage, I look like some kind of kinky hooker.
She headed back into the kitchen to check on the coffee. Giving the too-short skirt a downward tug, she pushed through the swinging door.
“Good morning.” Heath stood leaning against the counter, arms crossed on his chest. Dressed in a charcoal suit, white shirt, gray silk tie, and shining black dress shoes, only the below-the-ears hair and weather-bronzed complexion gave evidence of his woodsman persona. His gaze meandered over her from head to foot, one corner of his mouth quirking upward.
“Oh, right!” She stopped short and planted her feet apart, hands on her hips. “Make me look bad, why don’t you. Where was that get-up yesterday? It’s what you should have worn to the funeral.”
“To drive a tractor down a mud bog of a road and shovel in a grave?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Well…” She strode over to the coffeemaker and checked its progress. When she glanced at him, she saw him watching her with that catlike intensity she was coming to know only too well. It’s as if he can see right down into my deepest thoughts and emotions.
“What are you planning to do once the will is read?” He snapped her out of her inane thoughts.
“Catch the next flight home.” She reached for cups on the top shelf and felt her skirt ride up. Grabbing at it, she stepped back.
“Here, let me.” He brushed past her with a scent of something like the forest after a spring shower. Or a really nice masculine soap.
“How many?” He’d paused with a pair of cups in his hands, looking down at her with those mesmerizing golden-brown eyes.
“What? Oh, four should be enough. I’m not sure if the lawyer will be coming alone. Best to be prepared.” Her words stumbled. I’m CFO of a major corporation. I’m the first female executive they’ve had in one hundred and fifty years of operation. Now this…this savage is turning me into a stuttering teenager just by smelling half-decent and looking…
“Saucers?” He placed four cups on the counter.
“What? Oh, right, of course, saucers.”
“There you go.” He put them beside the cups but didn’t move away from her. “Now back to our previous conversation. You know I was asking what you’ll do with the Chance.” His words