Stevie Lee Page 4

  “Better than you look,” Stevie lied, enjoying the easy banter, and despite her best intentions, the scenery. Even hung over, he looked good, real good. The muscles in his arms, though relaxed, were tight and fully curved, hard and nut-brown against the whiteness of a color-splashed T-shirt, which she was happy to see covered most of his open fly. Underneath the cotton, she saw the ripple of even more clean muscle as he shifted his body and rested against the doorjamb. Then, of course, there was the dark stretch of bare skin revealed by the thigh-length tear in his soft denim jeans. Therein stood the pleasure and the trouble in looking at him.

  But Kip had taught her a lesson about good-looking men. She refused to make the same mistake twice, and therein stood her protection against Hal’s incredibly blue eyes. As long as she didn’t linger, as long as she kept the conversation going, she was immune—at least for all practical purposes. Last night’s moments of sensual confusion were history.

  “That’s not saying a helluva lot.” The lift of his eyebrows told her he expected more.

  Graciously, she conceded. “Okay, thanks to you and your chivalry, I’m feeling pretty good.”

  Finally, some gratitude; he felt better already.

  “For a cup of coffee, I’ll go back into town and break his arms, or his legs, or his neck. Your choice. Throw in a hot shower, and I’ll break every bone in his body,” he said.

  Stevie had already figured out that Halsey Morgan wasn’t a man who gave up easily. She also hadn’t expected to get off with a few beers and a shot of scotch, especially since they’d done him more harm than good.

  “Coffee’s on the house,” she said, dropping her chair back to four legs and rising. “But I’ll warn you, most of the time I can’t give it away. My dad won’t get within ten feet of the stuff.”

  “I think I can handle it,” he replied, stepping in out of the sunshine and into the warmth of the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

  Passing him on her way to the counter, Stevie tossed her braid over her shoulder and said, “We’ll see.”

  The indication, however slight, was enough to form a doubt in his mind. He’d never been cut down by a cup of coffee before, but if it could possibly happen, he knew it would be hers that did it to him.

  While he settled into a chair, Stevie busied herself with finding an unchipped mug. The task almost proved beyond her as she passed over first one and then another, until she saw a black and white one in the far corner of the cupboard, her “Don’t bother me, I’m having a mid-life crisis” mug. The phrase matched Hal Morgan’s morning to a tee, and smothering a chuckle, she filled it.

  Passing him the cup first, she rested back against the counter and waited.

  Hal didn’t like the way she was looking at him, but he forged ahead, passing the coffee under his nose. “Smells great,” he said, somewhat surprised. He glanced down. “Looks good.” Then he saw the inscription. “Cute cup,” he finished off with a tight smile and lifted the mug to his mouth.

  “It was a gift from a friend”—Stevie casually crossed her arms—“to celebrate my divorce.”

  Hal choked on her words and the god-awful brew. Sputtering and mad, he leveled a steely-eyed glare at her. “Dammit, Stevie, you did that on purpose! You knew I was coming and you set me up!”

  Wide, innocent eyes met his. “I’m divorced,” she said defensively.

  That was shock enough in itself, but Hal wasn’t about to admit it. “You know what I mean. Nobody would drink that . . . that claptrap.”

  “Claptrap?”

  “Claptrap,” he repeated more forcefully, in lieu of a truer description. “You come down to my place tomorrow, and I’ll teach you how to make a cup of coffee, real coffee. Hell, I’ve done better in a blizzard with a tin can.”

  “Well you can just take your tin can and do it again,” she said, pushing off the counter and whisking the mug out of his hand.

  “I guess I’m going to have to. Can I have my shower first.”

  “What’s the matter? Is there a water shortage in the meadow I don’t know about?”

  “I don’t have any power, and no power means no pump, and no pump means no water”—he lifted his cap and smoothed his hair back underneath—“Basic physics.”

  Slanting him a dry look, she called his bluff. “You don’t know anything about physics.”

  Hal didn’t miss the slight questioning tone of her words, and a slow, teasing grin curved his mouth. “No,” he admitted. “But I figured you didn’t either.” He had her there, his first victory. Lord, it felt good.

  Stevie felt her advantage and her confidence slip. “Since when did I become your guardian angel?”

  “Since I became yours.” He was on a roll.

  “You only had to hit him once.”

  “Oh, no, Stevie. You’ve got it backwards.” If possible, his grin broadened. “Only once was enough.”

  Men, she thought with a sigh, putting her hand on her hip and watching his smile get cockier by the second. She owed him, he knew it, and he wasn’t about to let her forget it. Reluctantly she nodded toward the rest of the cabin. “The bathroom is on the left. You can’t miss it.”

  Whistling a tuneless tune, Hal moseyed out of the kitchen and gave himself the grand tour on the way to the bathroom. The rest of her home was small but nice, like her kitchen. A big picture window in her living room gave her the same spectacular view he had from his front porch. Except she could cozy up in front of her stone fireplace and enjoy it, whereas he had to either go outside, or prop himself up in bed.

  Her furniture wasn’t like most that could be found in a mountain cabin. It certainly wasn’t anything like his; hers matched. Two navy-blue chairs with beige stripes flanked a solid navy-blue sofa. A baby-blue and white rag rug covered the floor between the set. On the opposite wall from the fireplace, a set of built-in shelves overflowed with books and magazines. He’d only had two books on the island with him: Remembrance of Things Past—a bon voyage gift from a friend for those long nights on the ocean alone—and a Travis McGee novel. He’d almost memorized the McGee book.

  Curiosity propelled him toward the shelves, where it took him all of thirty seconds to discern her reading interests. Tahiti, Nepal, West Africa, the names crossed his mind like old friends.

  “Beyond the High Himalayas; Lost Cities of China, Central Asia, and India; Dollarwise Guide to the Caribbean,” he whispered the titles as his finger ran along the spines. He shifted his gaze, passing over a shelf filled with National Geographic magazines, to the one crammed full of travel brochures hawking their wares—Tent Safaries, Adventure Trekking, Balloon Tours of Kenyan Game Reserves. The glossy pages fell from his fingertips one after the other, gradually bringing a memory to the surface—“. . . on safari, or island-hop the South Pacific”—and another piece of his plan clicked into place. He had her where he wanted her, right in the palm of his hand.

  Grinning with confidence, Hal strode into the bathroom and came to a sudden halt. Hanging from an inside clothesline was the most wonderful stuff—pale yellow with lace, bright blue without, creamy silk, and soft pink, one-piece, and two-piece and all the in-between stuff. The bathroom looked like an erotic gypsy carnival.

  He thought back to Stevie Lee, standing in the kitchen in her hiking boots, faded jeans, and bulky sweater—and Lord knew what else—and another stream of muttered curses floated from his lips. All he’d wanted was a cup of coffee and a hot shower, and now she’d ruined them both.

  Still cussing, he reached for the cold water tap.

  * * *

  Stevie turned the steaks over and shoved them back under the broiler. Hash browns and eggs sizzled in a frying pan on top of the stove.

  “That was quick.” She glanced up when Hal returned. Then she took another look, and felt her heart simultaneously rise to her throat and drop into the pit of her stomach—an incredibly disconcerting experience.

  A hung over, slightly rumpled, good-looking man had walked out of her kitchen. A sun-god had return
ed in his place.

  A soft white, collarless shirt clung to his damp skin, caressing the solid curves of his chest and arms. Baggy, black cotton pants hung dangerously low around his hips, and put a hundred sensual images in her mind. Clean-shaven with his hair wet and slicked back, his face did the same—images of her mouth trailing across his golden skin, of her fingers tangling through his flaxen hair and curling around the back of his neck ran rampant in her head.

  “Looks as if you’ve got enough food there to feed an army, Stevie. I thought all women watched their weight.” He spoke to her, but thankfully his eyes remained locked on the frying pan, giving her a moment to compose herself. It wasn’t long enough, but she did her best.

  “Don’t worry. Most of it’s yours. I thought I’d . . . uh . . . get all of this gratitude business out of the way in one fell swoop.” She’d also thought about Nola’s recital of his grocery list, and of her freezer full of prime Colorado beef. She’d forgotten about the special intimacy implied in sharing breakfast.

  “You’re just full of good ideas, aren’t you?” he looked up with a mischievous light warming the depths of his eyes.

  She was full of ideas all right, tempting, seductive ideas. They whirled around her imagination and teased her body with memories of the previous night. Ideas involving two people and little else.

  “What did you eat in the South Pacific?” she asked, rushing into the moment of silence, clamping down on her capricious thoughts.

  “Raw fish.”

  “Raw?” Good Lord, even his voice had taken on a sexual undertone.

  “My matches got wet when my boat went down, lost most of my supplies.” He let out a soft chuckle. “By my third month on the island, I was a regular sushi chef.”

  “Well, yes, I’d guess so. We don’t get much call for sushi in Grand Lake. Actually, I don’t think we’ve ever had a sushi chef in town.” She was babbling and staring, and she had to stop both. Good Lord, he’d been shipwrecked on an island. “Do you want milk or juice?” Finally, a coherent statement. She latched onto the moment of lucidity, turning away from him and going to the cupboard for plates.

  Hal’s gaze followed her across the room, lingering on the sway of her hips and the curve of her waist. He wanted to know what she was wearing underneath her sweater and her jeans. He wanted to know what erotic delicacy slid against her skin, but he said, “Milk.”

  “Go ahead and sit down. It’s ready.”

  He did as he was told, which was a nice change, and Stevie served up breakfast. The minute her bottom hit the chair, she dug in, wanting to get it over with. Lost in her own disconcerted thoughts, she made all the little clattering noises with her knife and fork people usually make when they eat but usually nobody notices—unless the nobody is praying over his food.

  “Excuse me. I didn’t think about saying grace.” She whispered a hushed apology and belatedly closed her eyes.

  “It’s a habit I picked up on the island. Every time I caught a fish, I fell to my knees and yelled “Thank God!” his voice rose to a crescendo, popping her eyes open.

  “Well, yes, I can understand that, of course.” Was he nuts?

  “Naturally, I’ve toned it down a bit for civilization.”

  “Naturally.” Stevie discreetly rolled her eyes and went back to eating her breakfast, hoping they wouldn’t have any more outbursts, praying that he’d eat and leave, and that she’d be done with him.

  * * *

  Hungry guests a happy hostess makes, Stevie silently repeated her mother’s favorite phrase for the third time, once for each piece of toast he’d eaten after he’d finished off ten ounces of rib eye steak, half a pound of hash browns, and two eggs. He was never going to leave, she just knew it. But she wasn’t nearly as concerned as she’d been. There was something about watching a marathon eating spree that wore the nervous, sexual energy right out of her.

  Resting her elbows on the table and her head in her hands, she watched him devour another slice of toast, and wondered what she’d feed him next. Her half-gallon carton of milk registered empty. Only a heel of bread remained in the wrapper.

  “You should have warned me about your hollow leg.”

  Completely nonplussed by her barb, he glanced up and grinned. “A guy can store up a lot of hunger living on raw fish.”

  “No kidding,” she said dryly, settling back in her chair and waiting for him to pounce on the last piece of bread. She didn’t have to wait long.

  As he leaned forward to put it in the toaster, she spied a telltale dent in his ear, and a smile twitched the corner of her mouth. No doubt about it, Hal Morgan was full of surprises.

  “What happened to your earring?” she asked, mildly intrigued.

  “I had to pawn my diamond in Oahu. Do you want to go halfsies on the toast?”

  She shook her head and leaned in closer. “You had a diamond earring?”

  “What I had was a diamond. I figured the safest place for it was in my ear. Turned out to be a real good idea.”

  Definitely intrigued, Stevie had to ask, “What do you mean, best place for it?”

  “When Freedom, my sailboat, crashed on the island, a lot of my stuff disappeared. But my good luck charm”—he reached up and tugged his ear, grinning—“she was safe and sound.”

  “Good luck charm?” her tone cast serious doubt on his terminology. “You end up shipwrecked on a deserted tropical island—and you’ve still got a ‘good luck charm?’ Where did you get such a great piece of luck?”

  “I picked it up the hard way . . . running for my life on a beach in South Africa.” The toast popped up, and he slathered it with butter and jam.

  Sighing, she rested her head on the table and gave him a choice. “Do you want to tell me about it? Or do you want me to drag it out of you?”

  He took a bite of toast and chewed it thoughtfully for a moment. “I guess that all depends, Stevie. Are we talking a real physical dragging out? With you and me rolling around on the floor and—”

  “Don’t press your luck,” she interrupted, cautioning him with a lift of her brow.

  Teasing blue eyes flashed at her from across the table. “I’d been in Angola for a few weeks,” he started in. “Things were heating up with the government and the guerillas, and it was time to get out.” Slowly but surely, his eyes took on a faraway look. “When this small freighter came through looking for crew, I signed on as far as South Africa. I knew a couple of guys there, and I figured we could work a deal to get me back to Australia—I’ve got lots of friends in Australia,” he said pointedly, and Stevie wondered why, but she didn’t interrupt him. “Anyway, about a week out, I got to thinking that this little tramp wasn’t all she’d been cracked up to be. It doesn’t take an expert to know when you’re going around in circles, even in the middle of the ocean. Sure enough, one night the captain hits me up for ‘shore duty.’ I figured he was picking up contraband, maybe running guns back to Angola. It turned out to be a lot less organized and a lot more dangerous than gunrunning.” He stopped to take another bite of toast.

  Hanging off the edge of her chair, Stevie waited for him to continue, and waited. “Well?” she finally prompted, not even trying to disguise her burning curiosity.

  “Well . . . he had this crazy scheme concerning the diamond business. ‘There for the picking,’ he said. ‘Just laying in the sand.’ ‘No,’ I said. He pulled a gun—and I got in the boat.”

  “And?”

  “And sure enough, they were just laying in the sand, right along with about a dozen armed guards and Lord knows how many Dobermans. Lord, I hate Dobermans.”

  “You stole a diamond?” Her eyes widened even further.

  “Actually, it was pretty fair trade. The dogs got a piece of my backside, and I got two carats of uncut stone. Do you want to see my scars?”

  Stevie sat back in her chair, slack-jawed. She was tempted to say yes, just to make him prove his outlandish story. But he was Halsey Morgan, and she’d heard wilder tales about him.


  “I’d say that made for a pretty good piece of luck. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re crazy,” she said honestly.

  “I like to think of it as adventurous.” A definite gleam sparkled in the depths of his eyes.

  “And you can call a grizzly tame, but it don’t make it so,” she said, still not sure if he’d been pulling her leg.

  Ignoring her skepticism, he pushed his empty plate away and relaxed back in his chair. “Well.” He sighed, stretching his legs out. “That’ll probably kill me.”

  “Don’t you even dare think it,” she said in a low voice.

  “Just teasing, Stevie. Actually, you’ve taken real good care of me this morning.”

  “Then we’re even?” One sable brow arched hopefully.

  “Not quite, not yet. I think I owe you a little something for your hospitality.” He paused for a moment, gearing up for his slam-bang surprise. “How would you like an all-expenses-paid vacation to Australia?”

  “Can I leave tonight?” she asked without missing a beat. We’ll see who’s fooling who, she thought. Then her eyes narrowed to a discerning angle. “Or do you want something first?”

  Her ready answer, and her quick summation of the situation, left him speechless.

  “Right,” she drew the word out on a long breath. “That’s what I figured. What is it? Money? Well, I don’t have any. No”—she stopped him with a raised hand when he started to explain—“let me guess. Now what have I got that the world-wandering Hal Morgan can’t get anyplace else?

  “Besides that.” She dismissed his immediate, rakish leer with a flick of her wrist. Emotionally, it took a little more effort. Okay, a lot more effort, she silently conceded to the mocking voice inside her head. The man did have great eyes, and when they lit up with a smile, she wasn’t immune.

  She mulled over the other options, and came up with the truth. Leveling her gaze, she said slowly, so he wouldn’t miss a word, “Forget it. I’m not hiring you.”

  “I’m a helluva bartender,” he replied in a deeply persuasive drawl, lying through his teeth. At best he figured he’d done enough drinking to make him an expert; from Borneo to Timbuktu, he’d drunk stuff she probably hadn’t even heard of. At worst he figured he could fake it.