Welcome to Paradise (7 page)

Not him. His eyes were the clear blue of the ocean outside the Golden Gate, though he must have spent hours in the night bringing her goods down the trail to the springs. He moved around the kitchen with the grace of a panther. And he ate like a bear, putting away biscuits one after the other. Everyone she knew at home watched what they ate. A plain bagel for breakfast, a salad for lunch and lean meat for dinner. This man did hard physical work all day. It showed in every muscle of his physique. He was quite a specimen. She'd noticed that right away as he stood there in the bathhouse, in all his naked glory. She stared into her coffee cup as if there might be a message in the grounds. If there was, it would surely say: Don't get carried away. You 're in a vulnerable state. Just divorced, away from friends and family. Tired, hungry and depressed.

But there was no denying he was a beautiful man. On the outside. If you liked the rugged type, that is. It was the inside she didn't understand. What made him tick? Why had he driven away in a huff, leaving her with a stack of boxes, only to return in the middle of the night to haul them to the resort?

“As I said before,” she murmured, “I don't understand you.”

“What's not to understand?” he said, lifting his cup in the air. “I didn't want to see your stuff dissolve in the rain. Call it thrift. Call it prudence.”

“Look,” she said, “I know you don't want me here. I shouldn't have come and barged in on your breakfast like this. But I don't have a phone, and I was grateful and the biscuits smelled so good.”

She set her mug down with a thud. “No, I'm not. I was, but I'm not anymore.” She tried for a casual, I-don't-care tone and it almost worked. If her lip hadn't quivered it would have. The truth was that she did care. She cared that her marriage had failed. She cared that she'd put so much into it and had nothing to show for it. Nothing but a determination not to let it happen again. She pressed her lips together. No more quivering. No more tears.

“What happened?” he asked, bracing his elbows on the old pine table.

She almost told him it was none of his business. But there was something in his eyes. It wasn't sympathy. She hated sympathy. That was why she'd left San Francisco. Everybody felt so sorry for her. Even if they didn't say anything. It was there in their eyes.

It wasn't understanding, either. How could he possibly understand? He didn't know her. He didn't know Brandon. It was just interest. Interest in her, as a neighbor, and in her story. Was that what she was looking for? Was that what she'd come a thousand miles to find?

She took a sip of coffee, then gazed off over his head and out the window to the barn and the fields beyond. She never intended to tell a stranger the story of her marriage, but somehow the words tumbled out.

“He wanted some space,” she said.

“Space?”

“Yes, you know. He felt like he'd been crowded all his life. His parents pushed him to succeed, first to get into the right college, then medical school, internship, residency. It was nonstop work, work, work, for years and years.”

“Of course, but in a different way. He, uh, he wants to go out with other women. He is going out with other women. Was going out with other women.”

Once those words spoken aloud would have filled her with humiliation. Now, just getting them out into the air gave her a feeling of relief.

“Not exactly conducive to a good marriage,” Zeb said dryly.

“No. Are you speaking from experience?” she asked hesitantly. She expected him to tell her it was none of her business. But she hated spilling her guts to someone she knew so little about.

“No. But I came close once. And I've observed some happy marriages and some unhappy ones. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know you can't cheat. There goes love. There goes trust. Out the window.”

He glanced out the open window over the kitchen sink at the gray skies. Then he stood abruptly and closed it with a loud bang, as if that would keep love and trust inside. It signaled an end to the conversation.

“Not only that,” she said running her damp palms down the sides of her jeans. What was wrong with her, a seasoned San Francisco hostess, accustomed to giving dinner parties for twelve, afraid to ask one cowboy to dinner? If she didn't speak now, he'd be out the door in a second. “I was wondering if you'd like to come to dinner tonight.” There, she'd said it

“Dinner?” he asked, stupefied.

“Yes, dinner. Now that I've got my supplies, I wanted to celebrate. And I owe you for the other night and now for breakfast. It won't be elaborate, all I've got is the little stove, but I thought I could...” She was blathering. Unable to stop. Afraid if she did, he'd say no. For some reason it was terribly important for him to say yes. If she kept talking, he'd keep standing there with his hand on the doorknob, staring at her as if she was asking him to go hang gliding from Sheep Mountain. “Of course, if you're busy...”

“I am pretty busy,” he said and pushed the door open halfway.

Her heart sank. The tears she'd been holding back sprang to her eyes. Why, because a neighbor was too busy to come to dinner? Come on. She forced her lips to form a quavery smile and walked to the door, where she turned sideways and brushed by him on her way out. And in that split second, the tips of her breasts came into contact with the hard muscles in his chest.

She froze. She wanted to move. To get away from him and his kitchen and his ranch. But she couldn't. Their faces were so close she could see the faint worry lines in his forehead. See the rough shadow of a beard that lined his jaw. Almost feel how it would scrape across her face.

“Sorry,” she said under her breath. Surprised that she could speak at all. Surprised she could breathe.

Zeb grabbed her by the shoulders, intending to push her away. Instead he groaned and pulled her tight against him. So tight he could feel her full breasts pressed against his chest. Her hips locked onto his. So close she must be aware of his hot unmistakable arousal. What must she think of him? Turning her out of his house, then holding on to her so she couldn't leave? He didn't know. He didn't care. He wanted her. He wanted her to go. He wanted her to stay. God help him, he just wanted her.

He lowered his lips until they were just a whisper away from hers. He looked into her eyes, searching for something. Red light or green. What he saw was red-hot desire that matched his own. He reminded himself that this woman was standing between him and everything he wanted. But at that moment he didn't want anything as much as he wanted her. The air was thick with tension. Then he couldn't take it any longer.

He kissed her. She kissed him back. She leaned forward and he leaned back until his spine was pressed against the side of the house. Her lips were sticky and tasted like honey. Maybe his did, too. If so, they might be stuck together forever. He trailed his callused fingers down her back then cupped her firm bottom in his broad hands to bring her even closer.

She made a little purring sound of pleasure, then paused to lick the honey off her lips. Then off his lips. Causing a rapid increase in his heart rate until his libido couldn't take it any more. Until all he could think about was his warm bed upstairs and how much he wanted to carry her up there and smear honey all over his body just to see if she could lick it all off.

“Boss. Boss, you still here?” George yelled from the general direction of the barn.

He opened his mouth to answer but no sound came out, only the hoarse breathing of an aroused male. Until Chloe broke out of his arms. Then he tried again. “Yeah,” he said.

“There's somebody to see you. Something about a bull.”

Good. Something about a bull. Nobody comes to the ranch for a week, it's usually just him and George and some part-time help. But today it's a regular Grand Central Station. Thank God, because he didn't want to be alone with Chloe. Not at all. Before he went to see who it was, Chloe turned on her heel, and without a word, walked down the path toward the hot springs. He had no idea if she was mad, sad or as turned on as he was. He thought she'd say something—like “See ya,” or “Don't forget about tonight”

What was he supposed to do about dinner? Nothing. That's what he was supposed to do. Pretend she hadn't asked him. Pretend she hadn't kissed him. Forget she melted in his arms like butter on a hot biscuit. Forget about the rush of relief he felt when she told him she wasn't married. Forget about her entirely. Yeah, right.

Chloe had plenty to do. In addition to the sleeping bag, the mattress, the hammock, the stove and the groceries, she'd bought cleaning supplies. As she scrubbed the inside of the nicest cabin, if you could call any of them nice, she had a little talk with herself.

She reminded herself that she was very susceptible. That she'd recently been rejected and that it was only natural that she should want to prove she was still attractive to men. But this wasn't the way to do it. Not with a cowboy who was amusing himself by flirting with the new girl in town. No matter how sexy and desirable he made her feel, she was not his type and he was not hers.

But, oh, the way he made her feel. Could anything that felt that good be all bad? Yes! She picked up her wire brush and scrubbed the old planked floor of the cabin so hard she took off a layer of old paint with the dirt Her goal was to turn this resort into a spa. That a sexy cowboy thought it was a ridiculous idea only made her more determined to make it succeed. She would never again sacrifice her own goals for someone else's. She'd worked hard to put Brandon through those last years of school. Thanks to her and to his parents, he had no debts to pay off. Thanks to his dumping her, she would never trust or love again. On the other hand, thanks to his dumping her, she was here in Colorado embarking on a new adventure.

She didn't know if Zeb was coming to dinner or not It didn't matter one way or the other. She was cooking anyway—outside, if it didn't rain. And if it did, there was her cabin. Her newly scrubbed, empty cabin. There was no furniture in it, but all she needed was her mattress, the supplies she'd bought and her suitcase. If it rained, she'd sit on the mattress and eat off her lap.

If her friends could see her now. Planning a dinner next to a mountain stream, sitting on a rock eating off a tin plate. She who'd once given elegant dinner parties in a town house overlooking the Bay Bridge, and worried about who would sit next to whom. That wouldn't be a problem tonight Even if he came. But he wouldn't. Hadn't she gotten the message? He was busy.

She didn't care, she told herself as she soaked in her extra-long tub in her very own bathhouse. She changed her clothes, from old dirty jeans and a T-shirt to a fresh T-shirt and a clean pair of jeans. Not for him. For herself. Then she made a fire the way she'd seen him do it, and lit her camp stove as well. That way she could have a two-pot dinner. For one.

She was so intent on opening boxes, measuring powdered milk and stirring the sauce, she didn't hear him approach. When she finally looked up from the fire, he was standing there. Her gaze traveled slowly over him, starting with his scuffed boots, to his clean, well-worn jeans and on to his freshly shaved, rugged face and clean hair that brushed the collar of his blue denim shirt She dropped her measuring cup and promptly forgot what she was doing. She wished he'd given her some warning, like snapping a few twigs underfoot or discreetly coughing, so she could have steeled herself for his arrival. There ought to be a law against anyone sneaking through the forest and looking that good, in the morning, in the evening, in town and in the country.

“Looks good,” he said.

She dumped the ingredients together, gave them a stir, and got to her feet. Then wished she hadn't. Her knees buckled. He reached out to steady her, then dropped his arms as quickly as if he'd been scalded.

“Not sure how nice. Found it in the cellar. Might have been there a good while,” he said.

“Have you lived here long?”

“All my life. The land has been in the family for three generations. The wine may have been, too. Let's open it and see.” He pulled a corkscrew from his back pocket and removed the cork, then he poured generous portions into two tin cups and handed her one.

“Here's to Paradise Springs,” he said.

“And to Grandpa Hudson.”