Prince of Delights Page 10

  The calculating glint in his eyes died as she launched herself past him and beat a hasty retreat. All the way to the exit, his dark, angry face remained etched in her mind's eye. But why did she have the irrational feeling that he was more provoked with himself than with her?

  Angela's emotions were in chaos as she scurried out into a gloomy drizzle, trying valiantly not to burst into tears. So what if Tarrant Seaton was engaged! So what if he felt nothing but contempt for her! So what if his kiss had given her a glimpse of an intoxicating realm she'd never imag­ined possible—a realm he would never invite her to fully and lovingly explore! So what!

  So, why was she crying—stupid, silly idiot that she was?

  A week later, Angela returned to the Seaton mansion to continue her work. She couldn't put it off any longer. Delila had called at the last minute, inviting Minny to spend the afternoon and then join her for a trip into Wichita to see a play.

  With Minny and Delila off chatting in the sun room, Angela went about her work, relieved to know that Tar­rant was "seeing to some property" and wouldn't be back until evening.

  "Well, sweetie," Minny called from the top of the basement stairs, "Delila and I are leaving for Wichita."

  Angela stepped out of the storage space where she was examining a carpenter's progress and waved. "Now, don't you two get into any trouble."

  Minny chortled. "Delila's going to drop me off at the apartment after the play. But don't wait up. We might pick up a couple of cool duds."

  This time it was Angela's turn to laugh. "I think you mean dudes, Mother." She paused, then added, "On sec­ond thought, just have a good time."

  "Right off, dudette!"

  Angela shook her head and went on with her inspec­tion. "Right off, Mother," she muttered, thinking Minny was probably not too far wrong—dudette, indeed! She'd felt very much like a dudette since Tarrant had so rudely kissed her.

  She hadn't really thought about it until then, but she had to face the fact that her social life was nothing short of nonexistent. She'd been too busy to notice when an inter­ested male had smiled at her. And having been forced, at Tarrant's expert hands, to experience the possibilities that existed between a man and a woman, she'd begun to feel oddly discontented. Darn that Tarrant Seaton! Why couldn't he have just growled at her as usual? Why did he have to…

  She shook her head. Dwelling on something she couldn't do anything about was fruitless. She squared her shoul­ders staunchly and turned back to her work, driving her­self hard. It was the best way she knew to force uninvited thoughts of the Prince of Delights from her brain.

  Some time later, Angela checked her watch. It was nearly seven o'clock. The plasterers and carpenters were packing up. There was little she could do once they were gone, so she decided to call it a day, too.

  She phoned Richard at the store, where he was just closing up, and was relieved that all had gone well. No horrible problems, except for the mistaken delivery of twelve hundred pink plastic drawer knobs. Richard had handled it, though, refusing to pay the COD charge and insisting the cheap knobs be returned.

  "Good work, Richard," she complimented him, rub­bing her neck and trying not to sound weary. "I'll see you at ten tomorrow. There's nothing more I can do out here until the rest of the custom modules are shipped from Kansas City. Thanks for holding down the fort."

  The gravel road between the Seaton mansion and Seatonville was so familiar to Angela by now that she hardly paid attention to it, her thoughts trailing along other avenues—her store, her vast assignment from Deli­la's Delights, Tarrant…

  Before she was even aware that there was anything wrong, Angela's foot was slamming down on her brake pedal as a pickup truck carrying wire crates full of live chickens materialized at a crossroad.

  She had plenty of time to stop, but for some reason, her brake pedal wasn't responding to her frantic stomping.

  "Oh, no!" she cried as her car rolled into the path of the pickup and collided with its left front fender, making a sickening metallic crunch.

  Her car came to a belated halt thanks to the impact, and when it did, she heard an ominous hissing as her front end began to settle slowly earthward.

  The farmer, red-faced and incensed, leapt from the cab of his truck, ranting and gesticulating as he inspected his crumpled fender.

  "And look at my chickens!" he wailed.

  Angela, who'd been paralyzed by shock, lifted fright­ened eyes in the direction he was pointing. She was dis­tressed to see that a number of the crates had toppled out of the truck into the muddy gully beside the road. Rust-colored chickens had escaped and were squawking and skittering in all directions. If it hadn't been such an awful mess, it might have been funny.

  "Hey, you there," the farmer shouted, waving a thick finger at her. "What're you gonna do—sit there? I just bought these hens. You scared 'em silly. Help me catch 'em before they run off."

  She dragged a shaky hand through her hair, wincing at a bump on her forehead. Surprised, she realized she'd hit the steering wheel during the accident, and now her head was beginning to ache. With great effort, she managed to get her door opened and began to chase down frightened chickens through fields, ankle-deep in mud.

  "You get that big 'un over there," the fanner yelled. "She's a prize layin' hen."

  Angela nodded and slogged through the mud, her ru­ined pumps bogging her down. Just as she was about to coax the big bird into her arms, Angela stepped into a hole and went down face first. The hen squawked and darted adroitly away.

  Angela came up coughing and sputtering, pulling a feather from her mouth. "Ugh!" she cried. Using the back of her wrist, she cleared her eyes of mud.

  "Dang it, lady. Ya missed her."

  Angela grimaced, tasting mud. "I know. I'll get her," she said through grime-spattered lips.

  Thirty minutes later, the farmer was tenderly taking the last rescued chicken from Angela's mud-caked arms.

  "It's a dang good thing they ain't hurt, young woman," he muttered. "These girls are prize Rhode Island Reds. I got kids to feed and a farm to run. Wouldn't do to have these girls out of commission."

  Angela, her head pounding, nodded again, repeating for the twentieth time, "I'm sorry, Mr., er…"

  "Kilgore," he said. "And just what are you going to do 'bout my truck?"

  Pressing her hands to her throbbing temples, she as­sured him, "Of course, I'll pay for any damage." She knew the accident had been her fault, and she didn't blame Mr. Kilgore for being angry, but his bellowing wasn't do­ing her head any good.

  The farmer looked away from Angela, squinting down the road. She heard it then and turned, too. The sound of hoofbeats was coming their way. A huge black stallion with its darkly clad rider galloped toward them, like a phantom from Kansas's wild past. The rider, Stetson pulled low on his brow, rode smoothly and expertly, and something about the spread of the cowboy's wide shoul­ders galvanized a thought in Angela's mind. No, it was impossible. She dismissed the notion as giddiness caused by being bumped on the head.

  The stranger kept coming, racing the prairie wind—the same impetuous wind that had whipped Angela's hair into a stringy sculpture of dried mud and feathers. Feeling a sudden rush of anticipation at meeting this stirring es­sence from the romantic past, Angela pulled her hair back, then wrinkled her nose at its gritty feel. Heaving a sigh, she resigned herself to the fact that the only impression she was going to make today was of a grubby guilty defendant, li­able for damages to a pickup truck and fifty-odd trauma­tized chickens.

  The rider was quickly upon them, reining in hard. The stallion's front hooves pawed the sky mere inches from Angela's defunct car. Only when the man bounded to earth with a reckless grace did she realize that her tall-in-the-saddle vision was indeed Tarrant Seaton. The crazy thought that had dashed through her brain hadn't been the result of her head injury, at all. She stared. He looked completely different now—rugged, untamable and totally unlike the polished, impeccable man she'd come to know.

&n
bsp; "What's the trouble here?" he asked, striding over to them, his manner as authoritative as his other, executive persona, although he was outfitted in close-fitting jeans and a well-worn black flannel shirt.

  "Oh, hello, Mr. Seaton," Mr. Kilgore said, his tone re­spectful. "This here lady rammed my truck and almost scared my Reds to death."

  Tarrant slanted her a curious look. "Are you all right?"

  Angela was surprised by his concern, but she nodded.

  He moved a step closer. When he lifted his hand to her forehead, she flinched and took a step backward, trying not to be affected by the heady spice-and-leather scent he exuded.

  "Dammit, stand still," he demanded. "Let me check that cut."

  She lowered her eyes and ducked her head. "It's noth­ing."

  His hand was warm as it smoothed away the muddy, crusted hair. "It's swelling."

  She clenched her teeth, but said nothing. The touch of his fingers was sweet torture, and she hated herself for be­ing so affected by it.

  His hand was quickly gone and she could hear him walk away. Casting him a sidelong glance, she watched as he went over to examine her car and the pickup for damage.

  "Come here, Joe," he called to the farmer.

  Angela watched covertly as Tarrant spoke quietly to the farmer. After a few minutes, the farmer shook Tarrant's hand. Angela frowned, confused. It seemed that the two had struck some kind of deal.

  The farmer turned to look at Angela, lifted a hand that seemed almost friendly and shouted, "Hope that head's okay, miss." Then he jumped in his truck and drove off.

  Angela was so perplexed she couldn't think. Tarrant was beside her before she'd registered the fact that he'd even moved. "It's hard to tell, but I don't think your car sus­tained much damage. Other than two flat tires, that is. Do you have any spares?"

  She shifted her gaze to meet his, still bewildered. "What?"

  He smiled, but more with frustration than humor. "I asked if you have any spare tires."

  She shook her head.

  "Why am I not surprised?" he mused aloud.

  "Where did that man go? I didn't even give him my name or address or insurance—"

  "Forget about it. He's taken care of."

  She stared. "What do you mean? What did you do?" She felt a sudden irritation. Her pride wouldn't allow him to make her a charity case! "I won't have your pity! I can pay my own way, thank you very much!"

  "Oh, shut up, Angela," he stated tiredly. "You were working for me at the time of the accident. Morally, if s my responsibility."

  "No, it's not!" she retorted. "I refuse to take your charity."

  "It's not charity, dammit. Come on. It's getting late and you're wet. You'll catch your death."

  "It's eighty degrees out here," she shot back. He had her by the arm and was pulling her away from her car. "Where are you taking me?" she cried, exasperated.

  "You can't drive that car."

  "But… but I can't go anywhere like this! I'm filthy."

  "I noticed."

  "You're so gallant!" she choked out as they reached the grazing stallion. "Just what do you expect me to do?"

  With his hands at her waist, he hoisted her up. "Slide a leg across the saddle and hold on to the horn."

  She yelped in surprise as she was lifted into the air. Frantically she grabbed the saddle horn and did as she was told, retorting, "But I've never ridden a horse."

  He mounted, sliding her hips against his thighs. Slip­ping an arm about her middle, he murmured, "But I have."

  He guided the horse toward a path into the nearby wood.

  "We're not headed back to the mansion," she pro­tested weakly, her mind focused on the solid feel of this powerful man and the disquieting knowledge that her hips were wedged intimately in his lap.

  "You're too dirty to go into the house, and I don't think you'd take kindly to being hosed down by the gardener."

  "So… so where are we going?"

  "There's a hunter's cabin not far from here. You can clean up there."

  She twisted around to eye him dubiously. "What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you'd gone somewhere to look over some property."

  He gave her a slight smile. "I am. Once again, you've blundered into my business."

  She faced forward, observing tartly, "My brakes went out. Believe me, the last person I wanted to see today was you!"

  He chuckled sardonically. "Look around you, Angela. It's getting dark. I'd say your wish has come true."

  "My wish? Oh!" Squeezing her eyes shut, she mut­tered, "Egomaniac…"

  He laughed again, and she felt it radiate through her body. Unfortunately, imprisoned against him as she was, there was little Angela could do but endure his amuse­ment at her expense.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Angela stood uncertainly in the middle of the neat one-room cabin, feeling increasingly gritty as the mud dried and began to make her skin itch. "Where do I clean up?" she asked, glancing around. On one side of the cabin were two metal beds covered with gray wool blankets pulled military-taut. On the other side, some rough shelves stocked with canned goods stood next to a long expanse of unvarnished counter. Near the counter squatted a heavy oak table and four chairs; a stone fireplace with a wide hearth faced the entry. It had been neatly swept out, and a stack of fresh wood waited in the corner.

  When Tarrant didn't answer her immediately, she turned to locate him. He was pulling some rope from a drawer. Curious, she asked, "What's that for? Do you intend to bind and gag me?"

  He headed toward the hearth, passing her a wry grin. "It's kind of you to offer, but I don't think that'll be nec­essary."

  She planted filthy fists on her hips. "Ever the humor­ous—"

  "Maggot, I know," he finished for her. "As to your earlier question. There's a creek out back."

  Her eyes narrowed, and she wondered what earlier question she might have uttered that had anything to do with the topography of the surrounding landscape. "So what if there's a creek out back?"

  He tied one end of the rope to a nail protruding from the unpainted wood wall before looking at her. "You wanted to know where you could bathe…."

  Her mouth dropped open. "Do you mean to tell me you expect me to… to…"

  He lifted an eyebrow. "What's the matter, Angela? Haven't you ever skinny-dipped?"

  Shocked by the question, she snapped her mouth shut, then stuttered, "Well… well, n-not in years."

  That made him grin, giving him a thoroughly rakish ex­pression. "And I bet you weren't alone, either."

  She felt heat rush up her cheeks at the sensuality of his tone. "I most certainly was. I was six years old! Not all of us live as unrepentant a life-style as you!"

  His smile faded and he turned away to tie the other end of the rope to the wall on the opposite side of the fire­place. "Nevertheless, if you want to be clean and dry when you go home, I'm afraid that's your only option."

  She surveyed the room. "Well, what can I wear while my clothes are drying?"

  He cocked his head toward the cots. "Pull off one of those blankets. It should preserve your modesty ade­quately enough."

  Distrust crept into her voice. "Do you intend to be a gentleman about this and keep your eyes off the creek while I… clean up?"

  Without missing a beat, he began to light the fire. Gracing her with only the barest of glances, he remarked coolly, "Do you really think I have to resort to voyeurism to satisfy my erotic urges?"

  She blanched at his contemptuous tone. No. Certainly not the Prince of Delights—a man who could hold out his hand and coax any single female within a five state area into his arms. Feeling thoroughly put in her place, she ran to the nearest bed and yanked the wool blanket from the mattress. Then, spinning indignantly on her dirt-caked heel, she retreated outside.

  Fifteen minutes later, she dashed back inside, her clothes a dripping mound in her trembling fingers. The water had been freezing, and it had taken all her willpower to peel off her clothes and dunk herself in
the icy, churning bath. But she'd done it, and now her skin was tingly and clean, and her dripping hair was free of dirt and feathers.

  The blanket was scratchy against her skin, but at least she was less chilled. Once inside, she sputtered, "I-I'm back. Wh-what do I do with my c-clothes?"

  He turned from stirring something on the old wood stove, now blazing with heat, and gave her a casual head-to-toe perusal. She shifted from one bare foot to the other, pulling the blanket closer about her. He pointed toward the fireplace. "Toss them across those ropes."

  She hurried to do that, but because her fingers were numb and her blanket restricted movement, she kept dropping things. Finally, with a snort of irritation, Tar­rant put down his wooden spoon and ambled over to her, taking the wet bundle. "You're quite clever with your hands, aren't you?" he taunted irritably. "Sit on the hearth and get out of the way."

  "It's just that I'm c-cold," she retorted as she plunked herself down on the stone. "I'd like to see you do the same thing while you're freezing to death, wearing nothing but a blanket."

  "I'm sure you would," he said bitterly. "The surest way to catch a man is to get him undressed so you can cry foul."

  She grimaced. "Would you get off that subject? Re­member, you brought me here. I didn't ask to come!"

  "A misplaced moment of good-Samaritanism. I'll try to watch such impulses in future."

  She refused to be cowed by his bullying. Now, she sup­posed, she was to say a meek thank-you. Well, after his nasty insinuation, he could just whistle for it.

  "You're welcome, Miss Meadows," he said casually.

  She glared up at him. It embarrassed her when he placed her underwear over the rope, but he made no snide com­ments; instead, he went about his work matter-of-factly, even though another pair of her Wednesday panties pre­sented a perfect opportunity for a crude remark. She was silently grateful for his decision not to bring up that sub­ject again.

  Freeing an arm, she ran her fingers through her hair, trying to both dry it and untangle it. For the first time she became aware of the aroma of whatever was bubbling on the stove. "Something smells good," she murmured, not realizing she'd spoken aloud until it was too late. He didn't deserve a compliment, the cad.