Torrid Nights (2 page)

Brock Hampton looked like a cat that had just finished a hearty meal. “Thatcher is out. And so is the scheduler. You’re next in line.”

“To be assessed?”

“Correct.”

Damn him! Damn his arrogance. Chuck was a good super. It wasn’t his fault that the preliminary soil testing for this road had been done shoddily.

That one error, more than any other, had knocked the project disastrously off schedule. Four months after construction began, the company was seriously in the red. All the managers had scrambled to save the schedule, to make up for the lost time. Mackenna didn’t want to remember the eighteen-hour days she had put in with her crew. Falling asleep at the wheel of her truck or catching a few hours of rest in her makeshift tent had become a monotonous routine. And now this infuriating man was chewing up good people because of a mistake that was made by another department.

Mackenna marched past him to her truck and pulled a small jug of water out of the cab. She needed to assemble her cartwheeling thoughts. As she poured the lukewarm water into the plastic cup and swallowed it, she swore to herself that she would curb her explosive temper. She didn’t want it to get in the way of the discussion that was about to ensue. Ordinarily, she didn’t allow her emotions to pass a certain point when she was dealing with her employees. But Brock Hampton wasn’t her employee; he was her boss. That made it even more essential that she keep herself in check. Capping the jug, she turned to find him standing directly behind her.

“Want some?” she offered brusquely.

“No, thanks.”

I suppose robots like him don’t drink water,
she thought angrily. Unlike a robot, however, he was sweating profusely. The dark areas near the armpits of his shirt and down the center of his chest attested to that. She glanced down at her stained T-shirt. She wasn’t doing much better.

Hampton leaned against the fender of her truck and began rifling through his papers once again.

“According to the scheduler, your crews began falling behind four months after you started this road,” he began lightly, as if he were discussing the weather. “And now, eight months later, you are still two months behind the completion schedule. Do you know what kind of money that’s going to cost me?”

Mackenna bridled. Cost him! He meant “cost us!” This was a team effort. Why place management and owners apart from the working unit? That kind of distinction was bad for morale. Her experience had shown that such a philosophy might work temporarily, but generally it only made matters worse, creating unnecessary tensions between construction crews and managers, establishing adversary relationships among the various components of the team. She looked steadily up at him. “Do you expect me to defend the lost days in five minutes, Mr. Hampton? Or will you grant me the courtesy of allowing me to sit down with you at the base office and go over the statistics in an orderly fashion?”

Hampton shrugged, a glint of mirth dancing in his eyes. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you?”

The question caught her off guard. “Why should I be?” she shot back.

“Because I could fire you.”

She regarded him wryly, her green eyes wide and honest. “If that’s the worst thing that could happen to me, I guess I have no reason to be afraid of you, Mr. Hampton.” She stopped, feeling the old scar on her heart aching. Had it been a year since Ryan’s death? She had covered the tracks of her grief in the jungles of Java. How many tears had she shed as she walked her late-night inspection tour? How many nights had she spent in heart-wrenching loneliness without her husband’s warmth or humor? Ryan’s robust approach to life had bathed their six-year marriage with happiness. Nothing Hampton did to her now could equal the sense of pain and loss she had felt since his death.

There was an odd catch in her voice as she continued. “If I lose my job because the new owner points fingers without proper investigation, it won’t bother me at all. I believe in fairness and honesty. If you want to get rid of me, then show me some statistics and figures. I’m not bowing out just because you happen to think that a woman can’t run a job as well as a man.”

He managed a sliver of a smile, pursing his mouth. “Touché,” he murmured.

“I’m not keeping score,” she answered sharply.

“I am. And you’re right. I don’t believe women are cut out for this kind of work.”

“Doubtless you see women as nothing more than bed-warmers.”

“In a nutshell, yes. Women are dangerous, Ms. Scott. They play on a man’s weaknesses and then exploit them.”

Mackenna crossed her arms defensively over her breasts, realizing he believed every word he was saying. He must have had a harrowing experience with a woman to have developed such an outlook. “I resent being called dangerous. I can think of a few choice phrases to describe men such as yourself, but I’m civilized enough not to use them.”

He stared down at her, his facial muscles tense beneath his golden tan.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Mackenna continued, “I have to get up to the next base. I won’t be insulted. When you think you can be civil, I’d be glad to discuss the reasons why this project fell behind. Or,” she said, sliding into the truck, starting it and jamming it into gear, “you can tell me I’m fired right now and get it off your chest.”

Inwardly, Mackenna cringed. Why couldn’t she keep her big mouth shut? This man…this brute with no heart was making her act like an overemotional young girl. She thought she’d outgrown that sort of behavior when she was twenty! She watched the play of emotions on his face as he stood next to the open door of her truck. He slid his hand along the door windowsill, resting it there for a long time, holding her fiery gaze.

“I’ll take you up on your offer, Ms. Scott. We’ll sit down and investigate the reasons for your unit’s failure.”

Inwardly, she heaved a sigh of relief. “How about seven o’clock tonight at the Vermeer copra plantation? We’ve set up temporary headquarters there for the next month.”

Brock Hampton squared his magnificent shoulders, then scribbled a note on his clipboard.

“Seven it will be,” he said.

Mackenna pulled the dusty truck to a halt in front of the plantation house. The white Corinthian columns looked pristine and elegant in contrast to the construction site she had just left. Every muscle in her back protested as she slid, exhausted, from the seat. Taking off her hard hat, she placed it on the dashboard, shut the truck door and trudged up the white steps. It was seven-thirty, and she knew she was late.

Dropping into a bamboo chair on the veranda, she unlaced her grimy boots and set them aside. Her mind was spongy with fatigue. It wasn’t her fault that there’d been an accident. She couldn’t very well have just walked off the site. There was no cell phone service to call Hampton and tell him she’d be late. And yet, somehow she knew there would be hell to pay with Brock Hampton. He wasn’t the sort of man who listened to reason. Mackenna sighed. She had already put in sixteen hours today, and she wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation.

Shaking her head, Mackenna opened the door and walked into the spacious foyer. There she was met by the majordomo, Sowe Tcho. He bowed and greeted her in thickly accented English. “Good evening, Mrs. Scott. I trust you are ready for your bath?”

Mackenna groaned. “And then some! Is Mr. Hampton here?”

“Yes, madam, he is.” The majordomo seemed slightly confused. “He was upset over your absence, madam. May I tell him you have arrived?”

“Do so. And tell him it will be another thirty minutes before I’m ready to talk. Perhaps if you feed him, he won’t be so unpleasant.”

“Food isn’t going to appease me. You’re late,” a deep male voice snarled from behind her.

She turned, acutely aware of her disheveled appearance. Her hair needed to be washed, the grease from her face removed, the smell of the jungle erased. Mackenna gritted her teeth as Brock Hampton surveyed her in the same calculating manner he had earlier, taking in every inch of her tall, slender body. Swallowing her mounting fury, she met his gaze evenly. “We ran into some trouble on the site,” she said, her voice offering no hint of apology. “I’ll be with you in thirty minutes, Mr. Hampton.”

“See that you are, Ms. Scott,” he said, a slow grin spreading over his face as he continued his relentless appraisal.

Turning so that he couldn’t see the flush she felt rising to her cheeks, Mackenna strode down the long, glistening hallway. “Yes, sir,” she muttered. Already she could imagine the refreshingly cool water of the bath closing over her body, which was burning from the intense Java heat—not from the scorching gaze of this relentless man, she told herself. Slowly, she climbed the stairs, aware of his eyes burning holes into her back.

Like many of the European establishments on Java, the Vermeer plantation offered every luxury Mackenna could possibly want. Its owner, a Dutch planter, had made six spacious rooms available to the project management during the time that the road was being built nearby. Soon it would be back to the tents, for the stretch of road close to the Vermeer property was nearly done.

Luxuriating in the cooling water that had been sprinkled with mineral salts, Mackenna roused herself from half sleep and scrubbed her body to rid it of the grime and sweat of the day. Yes, soon they would be moving on beyond this lovely oasis and she would once again be stuck with her crude washbasin, cot and mosquito netting. Sighing, she stepped from the porcelain tub, which sat on brass eagle talons. She wrinkled her nose as the claws reminded her suddenly of Brock Hampton’s predatory stance.

Her freshly washed hair curled slightly around her delicate features. Mackenna glanced in the mirror, noting again that the dark smudges beneath her eyes seemed to have become a permanent feature since Ryan’s death. She needed to put on more weight, too. For her five-foot-seven height, she was skinny. At times, usually at Sully’s insistence, she forced herself to eat or nibble distractedly at whatever he shoved into her hands.

She tugged on a fresh pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt, realizing that by bedtime they would be damp with perspiration. Suddenly, she had an urge to put on some lipstick—something she did very rarely, only when she went to Djakarta to meet with the regional auditors from the company.

Gazing into the mirror, she saw that with the layer of dust removed from her face, her freckles stood out against the ruddiness of her cheeks, making her look surprisingly like an eighteen-year-old girl. She ran a comb through her short auburn tresses, thinking that the pixie hairstyle made her look even younger. Disdaining shoes as was her usual habit in the unbearable heat, Mackenna descended the immaculate wooden stairs and moved into the waiting room.

Brock Hampton was pacing like a caged tiger. His broad shoulders were hunched forward, his hands behind his back. He halted, throwing back his head to stare at her critically. Mackenna felt the breath rush from her chest as she met his fiery, azure gaze. The irritatingly familiar blush that stole across her face made her look away, breaking eye contact. Noiselessly, she crossed the room to pour herself a glass of cool coconut milk. Making herself comfortable on the bamboo couch padded with overstuffed cushions, she looked up at Brock Hampton with undisguised curiosity.

“At least you’re a typical woman in one respect,” he growled. “Always late.”

Sipping the drink, she made him wait for her reply. Men like him didn’t respect weakness. And she was going to display her stronger side tonight in battling for her job. “I’m late because there was an accident between a truck and a D-8 Cat, Mr. Hampton. It’s my job to take care of such things. I must assess the damage and make sure it won’t affect the next day’s schedule. I’m not late because I’m a woman. I’m late because my job makes certain demands on my time.”

He stopped pacing, walking to the far wall and resting against a very old, beautifully carved teak buffet. “What else do you do well?” he asked, his voice almost a purr.

Mackenna scrutinized him, feeling as if a fencing match had begun between them. “I do my job well,” she answered stubbornly.

“You’re certainly not the motherly type,” he commented caustically. “Or the wifely type.”

Her nostrils flared, and she felt a slashing blade of anguish deep in her chest. “Thank goodness that’s not up to you to judge!” she hurled back.

His smile was irritating, indolent. He watched her through half-closed lids. “You’d make one hell of a mistress, though,” he murmured appreciatively.

Mackenna was on her feet in an instant, crossing the room in long strides. She glared up at him, agonizingly aware of his maleness and the few inches that separated them. “Keep your insulting opinions to yourself. If you can’t treat me as an employee, then—”

“I haven’t had time to look at your personnel file,” he interrupted smoothly. “Have you always been single? No man in his right mind would marry someone like you.”

Mackenna drew in a painful gasp of air, everything blurring before her. She spun around, hiding the tears that swam in her eyes. A startled cry broke from her lips as she felt his hand close about her arm, pulling her to a halt. She froze. His fingers burned like a hot brand into her flesh; she refused to look at him.

“Dammit,” he growled, “where do you think you’re going?”

“As far away from you as I can get. Now let me go!” she muttered, fighting back the lump in her throat. Oh, damn. Hot tears streaked down her taut cheeks.

He sighed loudly. “I’m not in the habit of apologizing,” he said.

Mackenna was achingly aware of his fingers, just firm enough to hold her without hurting her.

“Even if you offered an apology, I wouldn’t accept it!” she said.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

Stubbornly, Mackenna thrust out her chin, stiffening her neck. “Go to hell.”

The pressure of his fingers increased slightly on her arm, and Mackenna expected him to use physical force. Instead, the rough contact of his fingers sliding beneath her jaw to draw her head gently around created a startling sensation. But now he was forcing her chin up, and her lashes fell like thick fans against her cheeks. Hesitantly, she made a half turn toward him, toward those troubled blue eyes that were now searching her face with new interest. New life. Compassion? His mouth had lost that line of hatred, if only for a brief moment. He looked almost human. Approachable. “I’m sorry,” he said thickly.

She couldn’t think when she was this close to him. His natural scent was perfume to her nostrils. The maleness of his body overwhelmed her dormant senses. Pulling away, she walked back to the couch, brushing the tears away quickly with the back of her hand. When she sat down, her face was dry, although her eyes were unnaturally bright.

As her shoulders slumped, she could feel the exhaustion washing over her tense body. Her grief, still held in abeyance, raged unchecked in her heart. “Look,” she began with an effort, “I—this has been an awful day. Can we talk about the project tomorrow morning, before I go to work?”

Mackenna could feel him approach the couch and stand very close to her. She looked up. He was watching her, an indecipherable expression in his eyes.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded tightly.

“You,” came the abrupt reply. The familiar huskiness had returned to his voice. “You’re a different breed of woman. How come you’re not throwing a tantrum? Dissolving into tears? Accusing me of being a callous—”

“You don’t deserve to know my full range of emotions, Mr. Hampton,” she interrupted coolly. “You wouldn’t understand love or compassion.” Her tone was fervent. “All you know is greed. Greed, power and manipulation. I know the kind of man you are. You step all over people, and I’ll bet you’ve never shed a tear. If you have, it was undoubtedly over some financial loss.”

He tilted his head, a dangerous glint replacing the chill in his gaze. “I am the way I am. I won’t apologize for it.”

She managed a bitter, explosive laugh. “Yes, and I’m the way I am. But I don’t go around hurting people’s feelings because of it. You seem to enjoy causing pain.”

“Well,” he snarled softly, “it was a woman who made me the way I am, Ms. Scott. I have a long memory. I know women. I know what they’re capable of.”

“Oh, yes. We’re creatures of whim whose sole mission in life is to torture you,” she snapped. Raising her hand, she pointed her index finger at him. “But don’t you dare make the mistake of categorizing me that way, or any other arbitrary way, Brock Hampton. Not while I’m supervisor on this road project. Do we understand each other?”

“Loud and clear. Let’s continue this pleasant conversation tomorrow morning at seven o’clock, shall we?”

She smiled coldly. “Make it six, Mr. Hampton. Seven’s a late start for me.”

“Make it seven,” he ordered. “You’re too damn skinny, and you’ve got dark rings under your eyes. You work too hard.”

Mackenna glared at him, ready to make an angry retort, but he turned on his heel and marched out of the room, leaving her in a quandary. Shakily, she finished off the coconut milk, her stomach growling for food. She should eat. But Brock Hampton had upset her so much that the idea of food made her ill. Mackenna retired immediately to her bedroom where she undressed and slipped into a light cotton gown. The day had been harsh, and the knowledge that Brock Hampton was here in the same house made her head ache. Tomorrow morning she would have to stand up to him all over again. Well, with a good night’s sleep she would do just that.

She awoke near three in the morning, hungry. A pale wash of moonlight filtered into the bedroom, lending it a surrealistic starkness. Insects twittered and sang around the elegant, old mansion as she sleepily opened the door and crept down the stairs to the kitchen. The house was quiet, a kind of peaceful quiet that she had missed since Ryan’s death. It didn’t matter whether they’d shared a tent, a shack or a house, Mackenna had loved the quiet hours spent with him. Wrapped up in her memories, she didn’t notice the light beneath the kitchen door until she pushed through it and stood there, blinking.

“What?”

Her heart thudded to underscore her surprise. Brock sat at the cook’s table with files and papers spread out around him. He gave her a disgruntled look.

“I didn’t know you were in here,” she whispered, shading her eyes momentarily from the glare of the bright overhead light.

He got up and flipped off the main switch. The only other light came from the pale yellow glow of the stovetop lamp. Mackenna sighed, letting her hand drop back to her side. “Thanks,” she murmured.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he demanded gruffly, leaning back against the immaculate drain board.

“I was hungry,” she confessed, crossing to the refrigerator. Pulling it open, she perused the contents. In his presence, she was losing her appetite rapidly. But for some reason, he didn’t seem as guarded or spiteful as he had before. Maybe it was the hour. Taking a slab of cheese and a papaya, she crossed to the drain board near where he stood.

“Didn’t you eat dinner?” he wanted to know.

“No.”

“Christ, if anybody needs to put on some weight, it’s you.”

Mackenna ignored the note of concern in his voice, slicing off a thick piece of cheese and halving the papaya. “Want some?” she offered politely.

He reached over and picked up the other half of the fruit. “Thanks. Why don’t you join me in the sitting room? I’ve been going over your personnel file, and I have some questions.”

She glanced up at him, suddenly feeling terribly vulnerable and unprotected in her sheer cotton gown. The tenor of his voice was less threatening. Was he trying to be reasonable? She tilted her head, studying him for a long moment. Even with all her years of experience, she found him hard to read.

“It’s not six o’clock yet,” she murmured.

“I’ll try to be more diplomatic this time around,” he muttered, walking over to the table and scooping up the papers and files in one economical movement.

“I don’t fight well this time of the morning,” she protested.

“I’ll declare a truce, then,” Brock said without rancor.

Mackenna met his gaze. His eyes were less frosty, more intelligent and probing and perhaps warmer. But then, that was probably her imagination. Warmth was utterly missing from his personality. “Okay, a truce,” she agreed. “You’ve ruined my supper once, and I won’t allow you to do it again.”

“Fair enough.”

She settled on the couch, leaning against the pillow and tucking her legs beneath her. He sat down opposite her with the heavy ornamental teak coffee table between them.

Mackenna chewed slowly. The cheese had a sharp, tasty edge. She ate it hungrily and then nibbled at the fruit. Brock was still sorting through the papers, and his inattention gave her a chance to study him further. His dark hair had a reddish sheen and several strands that refused to stay in place dipped across his forehead. As though reading her thoughts, he pushed them back with one deft movement.

Mackenna sighed. She liked his hands. His long fingers and calloused palms looked as though they were used to shaping and molding things. Vividly, she recalled his touch and the electrical tingle it had roused beneath her flesh. He was a man used to working hard for what he wanted. And getting it. His face was drawn, and she detected slight smudges of darkness beneath his eyes. How long had he been without sleep? “Do you sleep?” she asked.

Brock looked up. “What?”

“You look tired,” she noted.

“No worse than you.”

“Thanks. I think.”

He managed a twist of a smile. “All the women of my acquaintance pamper themselves. They treat their skin with twelve hours of sleep, expensive beauty preparations and cosmetics that cost an arm and a leg. How come your skin looks so fresh and alive out in this godforsaken jungle, without any of that?”

She felt like a cat that had been stroked by its owner. It was a backhanded compliment but, from what she could judge, it was sincere. “I think it’s the humidity, if you want the truth. They say it’s good for the skin.”

“Well,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs, “whatever the reason, you have a youthful glow. You don’t look much older than twenty.”

Mackenna laughed, slightly embarrassed by his awkward attempt at flattery. “If you’ve looked at my personnel file, you know that’s not true.”

“I like your freckles.”

Her lips parted, and her eyes crinkled with laughter. “Now I know you’re full of blarney, Mr. Hampton.”

“Call me Brock,” he said tersely, losing some of his initial friendliness.

Mackenna sat back, swallowing her surprise. She measured him with her eyes. Why was he being so pleasant? Suddenly it hit her. He had her file, and the tragedy of Ryan’s death was dutifully recorded in it. He’s feeling bad about his earlier remarks, she thought. Or was it pity? The thought angered her. She didn’t need his pity. She would rather take it on the chin.