More To Love. Dixie BrowningЧитать онлайн книгу.
do my best to stay out of your hair.”
Which was beginning to curl around her face. Half the women he knew had gone red this year. He’d lay odds she was the genuine article. Even her eyebrows were auburn.
Outside, the rain pounded down harder than ever. The trouble with Hatteras Lows was that they had a tendency to hang around too long, flooding highways, cutting new inlets, generally messing things up.
“Well, I guess… I mean, all right, we’ll give it a try. But I’m warning you, if I find out you’re not who you say you are—”
Rafe taught the parrots a new word. “Look, can you think of another reason why any man in his right mind would show up on Ocracoke Island in this kind of weather when he could be down in sunny Florida sharing a pitcher of margaritas with a pretty woman and watching preseason baseball?”
The truce lasted until dinner was served. Molly had already eaten dinner, but that had been hours ago. Since then she had burned up a lot of emotional energy. She had spent the last few hours trying to ignore the tempting smells permeating the whole house while she shifted stacks of books, tapes and taping equipment off the cot and spread it with clean, if musty-smelling, sheets. After that she’d spent an hour or so trying to concentrate on the paperback novel she’d brought to read on the beach while the stranger in her kitchen slammed pots and pans together and muttered under his breath.
He might or might not be Stu’s brother. Men lied. Besides, they didn’t look anything at all alike. Stu had freckles, red-blond hair that fell over his forehead and a jack-o’-lantern grin. He claimed to have three sisters and one brother, but none of them had showed up at the wedding. His mother was supposed to be somewhere in Europe, and he wasn’t quite sure where his father was. According to Annamarie, they weren’t at all close.
As for the volunteer chef, he looked like an advertisement for some tropical resort. Tall, tanned, with sun-bleached hair and a pair of pale gray eyes that were clear as rainwater yet impossible to read. Like a trick mirror. His features were far from perfect—his nose a tad too large, his jaw a bit too strong. His cheekbones were more flat and angular than high and aristocratic.
All of which made it hard to understand why she suddenly found herself redefining everything she had ever considered physically attractive in a man. If she needed to prove how wretched her judgment was when it came to men, she had two perfect examples to refer to. Smooth-talking Kenny and Stallone-look-alike Jeffy. Even their names sounded immature.
Their names sounded immature? Oh, for heaven’s sake, it must be the weather. On a rainy night like this, with nothing to distract her, her mind obviously had a mind of its own.
“Blue cheese okay?”
Molly glanced up at the man in the doorway and caught her breath all over again. Telling herself to quit staring, she managed to say, “Blue’s fine.”
Any kind of cheese was fine, since she wouldn’t be indulging. She had a feeling she could gain weight just looking at that delectable mouth of his and wondering…
Wondering nothing. All she needed to know was what he was doing here, why he was going to all this trouble and how long he intended to stay. At the rate it was raining, the roads would soon be flooded. Sally Ann had mentioned something about high water tables and creeks backing up. If it got much worse, not even the ferries would run, which meant they would be trapped here together.
What if he was lying about being Stu’s brother? Men always lied when it was to their advantage. Her ex-husband was a prime example. As her neighbor back in Grover’s Hollow had said when she learned that Molly was planning to marry Kenneth Dewhurst, “You don’t want to do that, honey. He talks real pretty but there ain’t a speck o’ truth in him.”
Jeffy of the beer cans and bedroom eyes had lied, at least by omission. This man could be lying, too, but for the life of her she couldn’t think of a single reason why he should. There was no reason for him to stay, as Stu wouldn’t be back for several days. Let him head on back to Florida and his margaritas and pretty women.
With a restless sigh, she laid her book aside. Her stomach growled, either in protest of the fried food she had consumed earlier or anticipation from the delectable smells issuing from the kitchen. She was accustomed to eating early and going to bed before she succumbed to late-night temptation. Not even to herself would she admit that tonight’s temptation might involve more than food.
She wandered over to the birdcages and checked the water cups. There was a grape in one. “Messy, aren’t you? I’ll take care of it tomorrow. It’s your bedtime now.”
As usual, her comments were greeted by a cacophony of gutter language and filthy suggestions, “Stick it up yer arse” being one of the milder ones.
“Eat soap and die,” she growled as she snatched her fingers from the danger zone.
“Bill-ee, shaddup! Bill-ee, shaddup!”
“Both of you shut up, or I’ll—”
“Balderdash. Hell-oo, honey!”
“Don’t you honey me, you dirty old man.” Their names were Pete and Repete. A little too cute, but then, they were Annamarie’s problem, not hers.
Pete—or maybe it was the other one—did a flushing toilet and then a series of noises that reminded her of someone cracking his knuckles. Molly ignored it and reached for the sheets to cover the cages.
“Belly up, down the hatch, belly up, down the hatch!”
“Just hush up and go to sleep.” Her stomach growled once more as she picked up her book and settled down in the slipcovered easy chair again. It was a grisly murder-mystery, the last thing she needed on a night like this with a stranger in the house.
And she was hungry again. It wasn’t fair. Both her sisters, Annamarie and Mary, took after the Stevenses, who were all tall and lean and burned up calories without even trying. Molly had taken after her mother’s family. The fact that hips and thighs were supposed to be the healthiest place to store fat didn’t help. She’d rather not have to store it at all.
It was almost eleven. Normally she would have eaten a light supper at six and been in bed by now. Shag, the half-Persian, half-coon cat Annamarie had had for years, climbed onto her lap, circled and settled down. He smelled like fish. She’d been buying him special treats at the fish market so that he wouldn’t wander away and get lost and break Annamarie’s heart.
“Dinner is served, madam. I thought a nice merlot. Okay with you?”
She didn’t even know what a merlot was, only that it was a wine, and if she had to use up her daily allotment of calories, she intended to use it on something she liked a lot better than she did wine. “Um…water will be fine.”
The kitchen table had been spread with a sheet. There was no dining room. No table linens, either. But there were hurricane candles, and her genial host—a little too genial to be trusted—had stuck them into a pair of red glass holders he’d found somewhere and used them as a centerpiece. There wasn’t room on the table for the turkey.
“Oh, no, not candied yams.” She uttered a soft moan.
“Butter, coconut, orange juice, pecans and brown sugar. Here, try some.” He’d cooked enough to feed a platoon.
“Just a taste,” she said, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “I ate earlier.” Darn it, she’d come so close to having cheekbones. She had lost weight during the breakup of her marriage, but after Kenny had followed her to her next job and made such a pest of himself that they’d found an excuse to let her go, she had nibbled the pounds back again.
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