Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,20

certainly don’t!”

She whirled and would have strode into the Lodge had he not bounded catlike up the steps and seized her arm. He spun her to face him, eyes narrowed.

“Oh, yes, you do, Miss High-and-Mighty! You owe him for years of neglect and loneliness. Jack understood the reason for your mother’s absences—her fundraising for needy sick kids—and he was proud of her. But you! You had lots of time for vacations at all the holiday hot spots. He showed me the postcards. But not a single day to visit your grandfather. There’s no excuse good enough for what you did.”

“Let me go! Don’t you dare try to heap guilt on me. Not when you’re responsible. Not when you were the last one to see him alive!”

“Oh, so we’re back to that, are we?” Their faces were inches apart as they stood glaring at each other against the kitchen door. “I suppose the will further strengthens my culpability as a murder suspect, does it?”

“Your vocabulary may have gotten better, but not your manners,” she shot back. “I’m catching the afternoon plane to Toronto. My corporate lawyer will have this mess straightened out by the weekend. My mother will own this place, lock, stock, and barrel, and you’ll be out on the street!”

She shrugged free of his restraining hand, yanked open the screen door, all but knocking him off the step, and strode into the Lodge.

****

What was he going to do about her? Heath stood on the back steps and drew a deep breath. That will had landed him and her in a fine mess. Bound like Siamese twins in ownership of the Chance, they’d have to find some way to coexist until they discovered who held that powerful two percent. Then, and only then, could they begin to resolve the situation.

Too bad it had to be her entangled with him. She hadn’t changed. She was still one stuck-up rich girl with no appreciation of this place Jack Adams had taught him to love and respect. And the way she’d treated Jack all those years, refusing to visit him, leaving him alone after his wife had died… Heartless little bitch.

Loosening his tie and yanking it off over his head, he strode toward his cabin. Who had he been trying to impress by wearing this stupid monkey suit? Had he been stupid enough to think he could throw her for a loop by showing her he could look as sharp as any of those corporate types she worked with at the supposedly impressive job in the city?

Hell! I’m not some city dude. I could see the contempt in her eyes when she looked at me at the church. I dressed for the funeral in remembrance of Jack and the good times. He wouldn’t have recognized me in this getup. Damn it, he’d be laughing if he could see me now.

He took the steps to his home two at a time and strode inside. The homey ambience of the place had a calming effect. He removed his jacket and let the peace of the small kitchen restore his equilibrium. What did it matter what he’d done, what he wore? In a few hours she’d be on a plane back to Toronto. With any luck, the lawyers would handle everything, and he’d never have to see her again.

He went into his bedroom, pulled off his clothes, hung his suit in the closet, and headed into the bathroom. He’d showered that morning, but the encounter with Matthew Chamberlain and Allison had left him hot and sticky.

As the water gushed over him, he tried to keep the thought of her as a royal pain, as a burr in his side, but the image of her in those stupid pink pajamas flooded across his mind, and he couldn’t suppress the smile that tugged at his lips. Another image formed and more than his lips reacted. The image of her in his arms, the sensation of her lips, her body molding into his…

She’s a miserable, money-grubbing little witch. Don’t go getting hot after her. That would be just plain stupid.

His body didn’t listen. It had a mind of its own where beautiful, sexy Allison Armstrong was concerned. And he hated it.

He was pulling on his bush pants when a knock sounded at his door.

“Heath?” Damn it, what now?

“Yeah?”

“I’m ready.”

“Ready?”

“To go to the airport. You have to drive me. Well, that is, unless you want me to take the Cherokee and leave it there for you to pick up…which would