Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,6

oversized suitcase in his hand. “And be forewarned. She recently passed self-defense training with flying colors.”

“Noted.” He handed her the car key. “Safe journey, Mrs. Armstrong.”

“Thank you.” She slid into her car, waved, and drove off, windshield wipers battling the thickening mist.

“Who’s Paul?” he asked as they watched her out of sight.

“Paul Bradley, my sort-of significant other.”

“Sort of? Sounds serious.”

She turned on him and recognized disdain in his expression.

“Don’t!” she snapped.

“Don’t what?”

“Mock me. And don’t think you can take advantage of me now that my mother is gone.”

“Right.” Sarcasm colored the word. “Let’s go.” He headed for his Jeep.

“What about the tractor?” she asked as she stumbled along behind him in his too-large boots.

“The farmer I borrowed it from will pick it up later today. It’s safe. Who’d want to steal the thing?”

For the first time she caught a glimmer of humor in his golden-brown eyes. A smile struggled against her taut lips as they looked at the mud-spattered vehicle and homemade trailer, both scrap-yard ready.

“It did the job.” She followed him to the Jeep and flinched as he flung her suitcase into the back. Apparently Italian craftsmanship meant nothing to him.

“Sure did. Jack would have gotten a whale of a belly laugh out of it.”

He strode to the driver’s side and swung into the seat. Allison slogged around to the passenger side, started to get in, and found herself hobbled by her fitted skirt. No way was it going to allow her to climb into the Jeep without hiking it up higher than she had any intention of doing in his presence.

“What?” he asked, looking over at her as he leaned forward to put the key in the ignition.

“This thing wasn’t built with my skirt in mind.”

“Argh!” He swung out and strode around to her side of the vehicle. Before she could protest, he’d swept her up into his arms.

A shock shot through her as her knees fell over his arm and she felt her back cradled against his shoulder. A murmur of some brand of masculine soap whispered over her senses. The strength beneath her was astounding. His powerful, easy confidence not only astonished her, it made her heart flip.

He paused to look down at her, and the expression in his tawny eyes melted her like snow in a heat wave. Butterflies sprang to life in her solar plexus, and a shock of something hot and magic shot through her body. Handsome, strong, utterly self-assured in a dangerous, untamed way, the man captivated her physically even as her mind fought to reject him. She now understood Candace Breckenridge’s “delicious” and “wild-woods-hero” adjectives. As she looked up into the ruggedly handsome face, her lips parted.

“No.” His response crashed over her like a bucket of ice water as he swung her into the Jeep and plunked her down in the passenger seat. Damn and double damn. He guessed what I was feeling, what he did to me. And worst of all, I’m blushing.

He strode back to the driver’s side and swung into place.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Allison avoided looking at him as she snapped the dirty belt into place across her damp suit jacket. “Surely you can’t be vain enough to think…”

“Look, Ms. Armstrong, I’ve been propositioned by enough rich city women over the years to recognize a ‘take me’ invitation when I see one.” He leaned forward to turn the key in the ignition, annoyance in his words and tense body movements.

As the engine roared into action, he gathered up his own seatbelt and snapped it into place. He glanced over at her, contempt flashing from eyes fierce with anger as he shifted into drive.

Allison glared a death threat in his direction as the old vehicle lurched to life. She’d never been so insulted in her life. He may have discovered soap and deodorant, but his manners were still those of a hoodlum fresh out of a concrete jungle. How could he possibly imagine that she, Allison Armstrong, daughter of one of Canada’s leading neurosurgeons and CFO of a major Canadian corporation, would be interested in him? She worked out at her Toronto gym three mornings a week. His wasn’t the first hard body she’d seen.

But it was the earthiest, the most naturally virile, an annoying thought nagged.

She glanced over at him. He did personify a romantic savage, with just the right amount of polish to be a female fantasy come to life, a genuine thrill for the neglected wives of wealthy men.

A vision of Heath with Candace