Read Online Caught by Surprise by Deborah Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deborah Smith
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could feel his eyes on her as she lifted a copper tea kettle from the white stove that was older than she was, then poured steaming water into a pottery mug. Her fingers trembling, she dunked a tea bag into the mug and brought it to the table. Her body felt like a tightly wound toy that was simply waiting for his touch to set it in motion. It was going to be a long day.
“Here,” she said bluntly, and thumped the mug down.
“Easy, now, easy,” he murmured. “Don’t get skittish.”
“Quit provoking me.”
“I’m sorry, m’dear.”
She put her hands on her hips. “The hell you are.”
Still sitting down, he put his hands on
his
hips, then arched one brown brow at her. “You’re right. I’m not sorry.” Taken back by his honesty, she faltered for words.
“Shush,” he ordered. “I’m not gonna lay a finger on you, but I’d be less than a man if I didn’t enjoy the view.”
She gestured toward her loose clothes. “I didn’t mean to provide a view.”
He turned toward the window, clasped his hands onthe table in an attitude of peaceful reverence, and stared out. In an absurdly royal voice he intoned, “The trees are just
ex-quis-it
”
Millie sputtered with a combination of frustration and traitorous laughter. “That’s a terrible imitation of Prince Charles. Drink your tea, you Aussie hound. How about a biscuit with jelly and butter?”
He angled around a bit in the chair, his somewhat battered nose lifted high, his hands still clasped, his mouth drawn in fastidious concentration. “Thank you
ever
so kindly.”
“Right,” she muttered, smiling despite herself.
Afterwards they climbed to the roof and worked at reducing the huge oak tree to a limbless trunk. Insects sang in the woods around them, the sound as vibrant as summer, rising in operatic choruses and then falling to a mere whisper. The humidity made Millie’s clothes cling to her body, and every time she glanced at Brig she was treated to the heart-stopping outline of his legs and hips under his own clinging clothes.
He bent over a massive limb, the chain saw roaring in his hands, wood chips flying. His forearms were corded with straining muscles. Sweat trailed down the center of his throat and disappeared under his white T-shirt. He’d discarded the outer shirt almost immediately. His expression was content. He was the kind of man who enjoyed using his body to the fullest. He raised his head for a moment and winked at her. She winked back, smiled tentatively, then looked away.
They worked together in silent harmony, surrounded and secluded in a sensual springtime world with no one but each other for company. Millie wondered if Jacques and Melisande had worked together like this, quietly, enjoying each other’s presence, feeling the rich promise of the day and the hinted excitement of the night.
A knot twisted under her breastbone. She would share no nights with Brig here, no matter how much he tempted her. Jacques and Melisande knew theywere together forever. Millie knew only that she’d never forget Brig when he left.
But when he stopped working and stripped the T-shirt from his torso, she had to force her eyes to remain on the saw clutched in her hand. She continued cutting a small limb, desperately focusing on the back and forth motion. Even when she heard him thump the chain saw down and walk toward her, she didn’t look up.
“Melisande.”
The low, rebuking way he said her name told her immediately that he recognized an avoidance technique when he saw one. She straightened and squinted up at him, trying to appear nonchalant.
“Yes?”
He had folded his T-shirt into a square. Slowly he cupped her chin in one hand, then smoothed the soft cotton over her face. “You’re all persplre-ee. Take a break and let me wipe you down,” he murmured. Hypnotized, she simply stood still. He moved the T-shirt over her face, dabbing at her cheeks, drawing swathes of sensation across her mouth.
“You’re pink,” he
“Here,” she said bluntly, and thumped the mug down.
“Easy, now, easy,” he murmured. “Don’t get skittish.”
“Quit provoking me.”
“I’m sorry, m’dear.”
She put her hands on her hips. “The hell you are.”
Still sitting down, he put his hands on
his
hips, then arched one brown brow at her. “You’re right. I’m not sorry.” Taken back by his honesty, she faltered for words.
“Shush,” he ordered. “I’m not gonna lay a finger on you, but I’d be less than a man if I didn’t enjoy the view.”
She gestured toward her loose clothes. “I didn’t mean to provide a view.”
He turned toward the window, clasped his hands onthe table in an attitude of peaceful reverence, and stared out. In an absurdly royal voice he intoned, “The trees are just
ex-quis-it
”
Millie sputtered with a combination of frustration and traitorous laughter. “That’s a terrible imitation of Prince Charles. Drink your tea, you Aussie hound. How about a biscuit with jelly and butter?”
He angled around a bit in the chair, his somewhat battered nose lifted high, his hands still clasped, his mouth drawn in fastidious concentration. “Thank you
ever
so kindly.”
“Right,” she muttered, smiling despite herself.
Afterwards they climbed to the roof and worked at reducing the huge oak tree to a limbless trunk. Insects sang in the woods around them, the sound as vibrant as summer, rising in operatic choruses and then falling to a mere whisper. The humidity made Millie’s clothes cling to her body, and every time she glanced at Brig she was treated to the heart-stopping outline of his legs and hips under his own clinging clothes.
He bent over a massive limb, the chain saw roaring in his hands, wood chips flying. His forearms were corded with straining muscles. Sweat trailed down the center of his throat and disappeared under his white T-shirt. He’d discarded the outer shirt almost immediately. His expression was content. He was the kind of man who enjoyed using his body to the fullest. He raised his head for a moment and winked at her. She winked back, smiled tentatively, then looked away.
They worked together in silent harmony, surrounded and secluded in a sensual springtime world with no one but each other for company. Millie wondered if Jacques and Melisande had worked together like this, quietly, enjoying each other’s presence, feeling the rich promise of the day and the hinted excitement of the night.
A knot twisted under her breastbone. She would share no nights with Brig here, no matter how much he tempted her. Jacques and Melisande knew theywere together forever. Millie knew only that she’d never forget Brig when he left.
But when he stopped working and stripped the T-shirt from his torso, she had to force her eyes to remain on the saw clutched in her hand. She continued cutting a small limb, desperately focusing on the back and forth motion. Even when she heard him thump the chain saw down and walk toward her, she didn’t look up.
“Melisande.”
The low, rebuking way he said her name told her immediately that he recognized an avoidance technique when he saw one. She straightened and squinted up at him, trying to appear nonchalant.
“Yes?”
He had folded his T-shirt into a square. Slowly he cupped her chin in one hand, then smoothed the soft cotton over her face. “You’re all persplre-ee. Take a break and let me wipe you down,” he murmured. Hypnotized, she simply stood still. He moved the T-shirt over her face, dabbing at her cheeks, drawing swathes of sensation across her mouth.
“You’re pink,” he
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