Magnolia Dawn (3 page)

Rush took a long swallow of the coffee. He could understand Annabelle's love of this place. He found Ashland beautiful, even with her cracks and crumbling plaster, her overgrown gardens, her hue of age and decay. How could Lowell Ames, having grown up here, not love it also? And how had the brother and sister turned out so differently?

He moved his gaze across the deep first-floor gallery and row of floor-to-ceiling windows beyond. He was curious about this house, this family, its history. He wondered where—and if—he fit into the puzzle.

And he wondered about Annabelle.

He'd never met a woman quite like her before, and she fascinated him. He sensed in her a real strength of character. Of purpose, certainly. She had guts, verve. She could hold her own with anyone.

He smiled, remembering her final words to him yesterday, laughing softly.
“I sleep with Blue at my side and a gun under my pillow.”
He had no doubt she wouldn't hesitate to use either to protect herself.
Or Ashland.

He shook his head. She infuriated him. Her cool superiority grated on his nerves, conjuring memories from his youth, ones he preferred stayed in the past.

What made her tick? he wondered, downing the last of his coffee. He had no use for games or false modesty. Since he'd been old enough to notice, females had been interested. They usually sent him signals:
the fluttering of lashes, sidelong glances or suggestive chitchat. He'd had none of those from Annabelle. She didn't want to be his friend. Or anything else.

Which suited him just fine. He'd come to Ashland for one reason only, and it wasn't a fling with a Southern belle with a superiority complex.

Rush lifted his gaze to the second-floor gallery. As if his thoughts had materialized her, Annabelle stood at the edge of the railing looking out at the new day. She wore a lightweight robe, cinched at the waist. Her feet were bare, her hair sleep-tousled.

As he watched, the breeze caught the fabric, molding it to her hips and thighs, outlining her slender body. His blood stirred, and Rush told himself to go inside and give her the privacy she thought she had.

He didn't move a muscle.

She looked down. Their eyes met. The day seemed suddenly heavy and still, the air electric with possibilities. She looked soft in that white robe, with the sunlight playing over her and her blond hair tumbling over her shoulder. Softer than he'd thought she could be.

And womanly; lush and inviting.

Rush sucked in a sharp breath as arousal speared through him. He imagined going to her, peeling away that white cotton robe to reveal skin whiter, softer, than the fabric. But warm with excitement. And later, damp from his mouth and tongue.

The power of the image, of his arousal, shocked him. This was no mild stirring of the blood, no simple instance of attraction or appreciation. That what he felt was a reaction to this particular woman shocked him more.

Rush fought back the image, and his arousal. It wouldn't do, not at all. A tryst between them would complicate things, would muddy his thinking, his sense of purpose. Besides, Annabelle Ames was not the type of woman who dallied. He wasn't even sure whether blood or ice ran through her veins.

Remembering the haughty way she had lifted her chin and looked at him, he decided on ice. Rush lifted his coffee mug in a silent and impersonal salute, then turned and went inside to take a cold shower.

* * *

Anna watched Rush disappear inside his house, her knees buckling beneath her. She grabbed the gallery railing for support and drew in a shuddering breath. Dear Lord, what had happened to her?

Her cheeks burned as she thought of the way her body had responded to him. Her nipples had become erect; her sex, shamelessly wet. She'd had to fight to breathe; she was still fighting. And even though she'd ordered herself to retreat from the gallery and his scrutiny, she'd been unable to move.

She, the woman who had been called unresponsive and cold even by the man she'd been engaged to marry, had felt like a mare in heat.

Anna pictured Rush as he had been moments before, the sun spilling over his broad, muscular chest, his eyes heavy-lidded with sleep. Her pulse stirred and she clenched her hands into fists. Would it be different with this man, she wondered, her cheeks growing hot with color? If he put his hands on her, would she melt? Or freeze?

Her heart began to thrum against the wall of her chest, her palms to sweat. She recognized the sensations, so different from the ones of moments ago. Fear. Of being touched. Of being proved a failure again.

Frigid.

Anna tried to push the word, the description, away, but it lingered, gnawing at her. She'd been called that more than once, by more than one man. The first time, she'd been fifteen; the last, she'd been thirty-five. It didn't hurt any less now than then.

Anna gazed at Rush's empty porch, her chest tight. He'd
felt nothing. Obviously. She thought of the way he'd lifted his cup, then jauntily turned and walked away, and she made a sound of pain and self-derision. What was he supposed to have done? Acted like some lovesick Romeo? Read her poetry from below? Or even more ludicrous, overcome with passion, charged through Ashland's front doors to ravish her?

She leaned against one of the columns, her heart and breath slowing. This was crazy. Ridiculous. Why had she responded so forcefully to this man? A stranger?

Anna shook her head, stunned. She wasn't the type to swoon. She wasn't…a physical woman. Not in that way, anyway. And even if she hadn't been told how cold she was so many times, she couldn't deny the wall of ice that went up every time a man tried to touch her.

“Don't you want to be loved, Anna? Don't you want to be held? Cherished?”
Lowell's hurtful words from the previous night played through her brain, and as they had then, tears stung her eyes. She squeezed them shut. She did want to be loved. She
was
lonely. Dammit, she wished she could deny it, but she couldn't.

Just as she wished she could deny her brother's other words.
“No wonder no man ever comes around. What would a real, flesh-and-blood male want with a cold, unfeeling martyr like you? You're going to end up alone, Anna.”

She brushed the tears from her cheeks, impatient with herself, cursing Lowell for knowing her vulnerabilities, knowing the places and ways he could get to her.

But she wouldn't sell Ashland, no matter what he said or did, no matter how deeply he hurt her.

Anna pushed away from the column. She hadn't cried last night—she hadn't slept but at least she'd kept her emotions in check. Now, the tears welled against the backs of her eyes, in her chest and throat.
She fought them back. She had to be strong; she couldn't fall back on traditional feminine behavior. For if she fell, there would be no one there to catch her. She'd learned that long ago.

What happened this morning had been a fluke, some sort of a delayed reaction to her fight with Lowell. She drew in a deep, calming breath. She was on edge and feeling the effects of a night with little sleep.

Sure, she told herself. When she came face-to-face with Rush later, she would feel nothing but impatience to get started, and hope that he had the building experience he'd promised. She drew in another breath. And in a couple of days, the sting of her brother's words would have subsided, and she would be able to think of Lowell—and her life—without wanting to cry.

Until then, she would do the best she could. After all, what other choice did she have? Taking one last glance at the overseer's house and its empty front porch, she turned and went inside to dress.

* * *

An hour later, Anna emerged from Ashland, bathed and dressed, her protective armor firmly around her. Rush sat on the gallery, waiting for her in the same rocking chair she'd occupied the night before. He wore faded denims, a cream-colored polo shirt and well-worn deck shoes; he'd shaved and brushed and completely eliminated the cobwebs of sleep. But she took one look at him and pictured him as he'd been earlier that morning: half naked, his furred chest bronze from the sun, muscular from work; his stomach, hard and flat, dusted with hair that disappeared in a V beneath the partially fastened waistband of his jeans.

Anna swallowed, her mouth suddenly desert-dry. His feet had been bare, his eyes still lazy with sleep, his hair mussed as if from a lover's fingers. He'd appeared every inch the self-confident male animal and had made her feel every inch the swooning female.

He still did. Dammit.

Anna stiffened and clutched her clipboard to her chest. He'd toppled her barriers without even trying.

She wasn't the only one. Blue lay at Rush's feet, his big head lying across Rush's shoes. The dog didn't even glance her way. Some guard dog, she thought. Great protection.

Rush caught sight of her and smiled. After extricating himself from the adoring Blue, he crossed to her. He stopped before her, so close she saw the gold flecks in his hazel eyes and caught the clean, soapy scent of his morning shower. “Pretty day,” he murmured.

There was something intimate in his eyes, his voice. As if their relationship had somehow deepened. The thought scared her witless. She worked to keep her turmoil from showing, curling her fingers tighter around the clipboard. “Yes, it is.” She cleared her throat. “Are you ready to begin?”

She sounded like the spinster schoolteacher she was, Anna thought. Prim and old-fashioned.

Dried up,
Lowell had called her.

“If I wasn't, I'd still be in bed.”

His words brought an image to mind, one of him and her and a big, soft bed.

As if he read her thoughts, Rush's smile deepened, and he swept his gaze warmly over her. “I see you're ready to get started, too. But I have to say, I liked the robe more.”

Anna looked down at herself, at the ancient, baggy trousers, the sexless T-shirt and men's work boots, and heat rushed over her in a debilitating wave. Her clothes were practical. Just like she was.
Sturdy, plain and practical. She'd defiantly chosen them for comfort, and because they were about as feminine as a tree trunk.

Anna stiffened her spine, angry at him for the intimate reference; at herself for allowing him to get to her. “First of all, I'm here to work, Mr. Cousins. Not to lounge. Secondly, I think we need to get something straight. I didn't appreciate that little scene this morning. And I expect it not to happen again.”

“Excuse me…
Anna.
” He placed his fists on his hips. “I must have missed something here. Exactly what
scene
are you referring to?”

She felt color climb her cheeks, and silently swore. “This morning. On the galler—”

“When you were peeping at me, you mean.”

“What!”

“That's the way it seemed to me.”

“I certainly was not
peeping
at you. I happen to see it the other way.”

“Odd that you should. You knew where I was staying, but I had no idea where your bedroom was.” He arched his eyebrows arrogantly, every inch the supremely confident male. “And I had a lot fewer clothes on than you did.”

Blue thumped his tail on the gallery floor, as if agreeing with Rush. Anna shot the dog a dirty look. It didn't help that Rush was right, damn him. She tossed her head back. “Fine. I won't use that section of gallery in the morning.”

“Oh, please…” He gestured broadly with his right hand. “Go ahead. Your being there didn't bother me in the least.”

But it had bothered her plenty. Even now she could recall how she had felt during those few moments. She gritted her teeth. “I'm glad to hear that. I wouldn't want to have intruded on
your
privacy.”

He smiled. “I appreciate the sentiment, Annabelle. And the apology.”

Apology?
“Of all the arrogant, insufferable—” Anna bit back the string of angry expletives and swung away from him. She would not let him get to her; she simply would not. “I thought we'd begin with the exterior of the house, then move inside. I'd like your opinion on—”

“Don't you ever admit you're wrong?”

She looked over her shoulder and met his gaze. “You're being a bit presumptuous, don't you think?”

“You mean, for the hired help.”

She lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“But you need me more than I need you. And we both know it.”

Anger, white-hot and barely leashed, flashed through her. “That remains to be seen, doesn't it? Right now, all I have is your word to go on. The word of an out-of-work drifter.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. His eyes burned with temper. Gone was the image of the sexy rascal, the charming rake. This man could be dangerous if pushed too far. And that was exactly what she'd done.

She took a step back, wondering if Blue would come to her aid, should she need him. From the corner of her eye she saw that he was sleeping, and decided that she was on her own.

Rush closed the distance between them. “I'm not a liar, Anna,” he said softly, the words edged with steel. “Don't ever again imply that I am.” He held out his hand, visibly fighting for control. “Give me that blasted clipboard, and I'll get started. I'm on the clock, here.”

She looked at his outstretched hand, then met his gaze once more. “You're not starting without me. I'm going to be working right alongside you.” She arched her eyebrows haughtily. “You have a problem with that?”

He made a sound of frustration. “Damn right, I do. This type of work is best left to a professional. You'll slow me down and get one of us hurt.”

“By professionals, you mean men.”

“In this case, yes.”

She squared her shoulders. “You, sir, are a chauvinist. I'll have you know, I've been making repairs on Ashland since I was old enough to take orders.”

“But this year,” he said smoothly, “you have me. So, why don't you just—”

“Relax and enjoy it? Sit back and do some needlework?” She gave her head an angry shake. “I don't think so.”