Hannah And The Hellion (Silhouette Treasury 90s) Read online

  Damon was right behind her. The bell over the door was still tinkling wildly when she spun around to close out the weather. Damon apparently had the same idea. His big hand flattened an inch above hers on the wooden frame, pushing against the wind when a heavy gust blasted rain against the other side. She knew he was behind her. She just didn’t realize quite how close until the door suddenly shut with a bang when the gust slacked off and she turned to sag against it.

  Her heart was still lurching against her ribs when she realized that all she could see was his chest. Specifically, a strip of wet gray sweatshirt between the sides of his open coat.

  The imposing width of that chest had scarcely registered when she saw him lift his hands and his fingers curled around her upper arms. Her heart had barely given another jerk when he pulled her forward so quickly that her head snapped back.

  “You don’t want to stand there.” He practically growled the words as he reached past her with one band to pull the shade over the narrow green pine tree painted on the window. “If something blows through that glass, you’ll be digging splinters out of your scalp for a week.”

  The pressure of his hand increased, causing the heat of his palm to burn through her slicker and blouse as he pulled her a step farther into the room. “Are you all right?”

  The demand sounded grudging, as if he didn’t want to ask but couldn’t help it More convinced of his reluctance than his concern, she raised her glance to his face.

  The lights over the counter and above the neatly set tables easily compensated for the gray light the shutters now blocked. In that brightness she looked from the water beaded on the shoulders of his heavy jacket to the strong cords in his neck. The hard angles and planes of his face were damp from the rain, making his chiseled features look as if they’d been hewn from polished marble. A night’s growth of beard shadowed his angular jaw and defined the firm, sensuous line of his mouth.

  As she gave him an uncertain nod, she couldn’t help thinking that his beautifully carved mouth was the only thing about him that held the remotest potential to be soft.

  “You sure?” he asked, sounding no more convinced than she looked.

  “I’m sure,” she told him, even though he had to feel her trembling. The reaction was from the chill she got in the rain and from the start the lightning had given her. Meeting the guarded look in his eyes, aware that he’d yet to let her go, she couldn’t deny that the unsettled sensation had a lot to do with him, too. “I’m okay now that I’m inside, anyway. I’ve always heard about how bad the fall storms can be, but I guess I wasn’t ready for this. I’ve only been here in the summer before.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, this isn’t really a storm. It’s somewhere between a strong breeze and a fresh gale.”

  She eyed him dully. “That’s more than a strong breeze blowing out there. One of those gusts nearly knocked me over.”

  Something that almost passed for a smile glinted in his eyes when his glance dropped the length of her body. He’d called her skinny before. Almost certain he was considering a remark about a stiff wind blowing her away or some such thing, she tipped up her chin.

  “I meant on the scale,” he explained, the glint deepening at the hint of challenge in her expression. “A strong breeze is twenty-five to thirty-one miles an hour. A fresh gale is between thirty-nine and forty-six. You have to hit fifty-five to call it a storm.”

  “The scale?”

  “The Beaufort Scale. That’s how you measure wind.”

  Damon skimmed a glance over her face, her flawless skin, and settled on her liquid blue eyes. Beneath his hand, he could feel the slenderness of her arm, the supple strength in her muscles. “We’ll get worse than this before winter’s over. Just be glad you’re not on the water. That’s where it gets rough.”

  He should let her go. He knew that. But he figured there were a lot of things he should do, and didn’t. For one, he should have forgotten about her by now. Yet rarely a night had gone by that she hadn’t crept into his thoughts, invading his bed by haunting his dreams. In those dreams, he knew the taste of her, the feel of her body. In the cold light of day, he knew nothing but a burning frustration he tried his damnedest to ignore.

  He hadn’t realized he’d been running his thumb over her tight little bicep until he became aware of the question slipping into her eyes. Or maybe it was caution. Had she pulled back, he didn’t know what he would have done. Stepped back himself, he supposed. But since she didn’t, since he was tired of only imagining, he found himself lifting his hands toward her face.

  Over the heavy beat of the rain, he heard her slow intake of breath when he lowered her hood. Her hair had been down the day he’d met her. She’d had it pulled back when he’d brought her keys. Seeing that it was pulled back now, too, he felt the briefest twinge of disappointment. Except for the strands that had loosened from the big clip holding the shining mass at the back of her head, her beautiful hair was as confined and prim as an old maid’s.

  The thought that she was deliberately restraining herself somehow was fleeting, but it lasted long enough to furrow his brow when he tucked back the strands of hair clinging to her cheek, and smoothed them into place. Her hair was even softer than he’d imagined, almost as soft as her skin when he let his knuckles drift to her cheek. She seemed to be holding her breath as he carried that touch to the fragile line of her jaw.

  The air in Hannah’s lungs felt trapped. She remembered Inga saying something about the way Damon had looked at her, as if he wanted her served up for his supper. She’d had no idea what the woman had meant until now. Damon was looking at her as if he could devour her. No man had ever looked at her that way. And no man had ever caused heat to pool inside her just by touching her face.

  The thought had scarcely registered when she felt his thumb brush her bottom lip. His eyes held hers, the intent in them making him look every bit as dangerous as she’d heard he was.

  It had just occurred to Hannah that he definitely was dangerous when a glass-rattling boom of thunder cracked overhead. She jumped, jolted as much by the intriguing sensations Damon’s touch evoked as the storm raging outside.

  Letting his hand fall, he eyed her as if nothing at all unusual had happened. “It’s only thunder.”

  “I don’t care what you say about this being nothing,” she muttered, more rattled by her response to him than she was by the wind blowing outside. She’d allowed his touch as if she’d been starved for the contact. The thought that she might very well be didn’t help matters at all. “Thunder scares the daylights out of me.”

  “It’s the lightning you need to worry about.”

  A self-deprecating light entered her eyes. “I didn’t say my fear was logical.”

  “No,” he agreed, a little too easily, “you didn’t.”

  Giving her a wry look, he used the back of his hand to catch a drip of rain running down his neck. A second later, aware of another one, he pulled his hat off to wipe at the damp hair at his nape. He hadn’t even taken the time to button his coat when he’d come to her rescue.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly realizing how wet he was. How wet they both were. Pulling off her slicker, she backed toward the door to the kitchen. “Let me get you a towel. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or lunch? It’s the least I can offer for your help.”

  Her smile lacked the ease he’d seen in it before. She was definitely wary, but he couldn’t tell if it was because of the racket outside, or because of what he’d done. He could have sworn she’d felt the same awareness he had. It had been as obvious to him as the way she scrambled to cover that response now.

  “Just the towel.” He was feeling a little wary himself. If a woman was uneasy around him, he wasted no time on her. If a woman was part of the community, he had nothing to do with her at all. So, what was he doing there? “You don’t owe me anything.”

  She didn’t look as if she agreed with him on the latter, but she didn’t argue the point when she emerged from
the kitchen moments later, minus the cheerful blue coat. There was nothing at all seductive about the way she was dressed. Burgundy bib apron over a white turtleneck and slim, dark slacks. Neat, tidy, efficient. But the thought of untying those apron strings, peeling off that shirt and taking her hair down had the same effect on him as if she’d been standing there in red lace and garters.

  Taking the rectangle of white terry cloth she held out, he rubbed it over his face and wiped the rain from the back of his neck. What he needed was a cold shower, or a dip in the lake. When he handed the towel back, he did the prudent thing and said he had to go.

  “I really appreciate you stopping,” she told him, hugging her arms, and the towel, to herself. “I hope the delay didn’t keep you from something important.”

  “It didn’t.” He shook the water from his cap, the drops disappearing into the dark green indoor-outdoor carpeting. “I was just on my way back from securing my boat.”

  “Will it be okay?”

  The unmasked concern in her expression hit him square in the chest. He wasn’t accustomed to anyone caring about him, much less about his property. But her interest was evident in the faint pinch of her brow and in the depths of her expressive eyes. He didn’t know which was more dangerous just then. The way she’d responded to his touch, or the way she looked at him now.

  “I battened her down and tied on a few extra bumpers.” The old wreck had ridden out worse than this. “She’ll be fine.”

  Tightening her arms when the lights flickered, Hannah murmured, “I hope so.”

  The lights flickered again as thunder reverberated through the building, causing the rows of glasses on the service counter to tinkle as they bumped together. She didn’t jump this time. She simply gripped herself a little tighter, said she hoped the electricity didn’t go out and gave him a smile that didn’t quite work.

  Had she not been alone, Damon would have been gone by now. Hell, he thought, had she not been alone, he wouldn’t have stopped in the first place. But there was no one around to speculate about his presence, and he really didn’t have anywhere to go but to an empty house. The thought that he didn’t like the idea of leaving her because she was skittish about the storm was banished as quickly as it formed.

  “There’s no sense going out in this right now. If the offer’s still good, maybe I will have that coffee.”

  The relief in her expression was as subtle as her reaction had been to the flicker of the lights. With a soft smile that did something rather interesting to the nerves at the base of his spine, she pointed to the dark, lacquered maple counter. “Just toss your coat on a stool and have a seat,” she said, and headed behind the counter to pick up a steaming pot of coffee.

  She had it poured and had just set the cup in front of him when he reached across the shining wood and caught her wrist.

  “You should put some salve on that,” he said, turning over her hand. “And check it for splinters.”

  Her glance darted to the abraded strip of skin at the base of her small palm. He’d seen one of the boards chafe across it when the wind ripped it from her hands, but it seemed she hadn’t even noticed the scrape until now. It wasn’t much more than a red rash. Not even much of that. As he looked closer, he couldn’t see any slivers at all.

  He couldn’t help noticing how still she’d gone. He couldn’t help noticing the softness of her skin, either. Thinking it best to ignore both, he drew his hand back and curled his fingers around the heavy ceramic cup. “When did your cook quit?”

  It seemed he’d knocked her a little off balance. Pulling her quizzical glance from him to her palm, she backed up, then moved down the counter to start clearing the dirty dishes there.

  “A couple of months ago,” she replied, stacking white ceramic plates and carrying them to the service window.

  “After the season was over?”

  She hesitated, then turned around with a cloth in her hand. “Actually, she quit before that.”

  “What happened?”

  “Philosophical differences,” she returned, taking the cloth to the crumbs. “You know how some employees can be. You have people working for you, too.”

  Damon slowly lifted the cup, contemplating the steam rising from it before he took a sip. He might have wondered at how easily she credited him with understanding, except he was more interested in the timing of her employee’s defection. It had been just before the end of tourist season when he’d returned her keys. Not long before the end of it, in fact.

  “What kind of differences?” he idly asked. “Did she want more money?”

  “She seemed fine with what I was paying her.”

  “More hours? Less hours?”

  Over the richly scented steam, he watched her move back and forth behind the counter as she set fresh green paper mats and silverware on the spaces she’d cleaned. She didn’t glance up. She didn’t slow down.

  “Inga had a little trouble adjusting to some of the changes I made. They were just minor things, really. Garnishes and new recipes I’ve added. Changes to some of the specials the old owner used to serve.”

  The low sound Damon made was nothing short of derisive. “Nothing changes easily around here,” he told her. “Especially the way people do things. And how they think,” he muttered, because changing a mind was the hardest accomplishment of all. “But what you’ve said doesn’t sound that serious.” He eyed her carefully over the cup’s rim. “Did you want her to quit?”

  “Not really. She was a good cook.”

  “Then why did you let her go?”

  The question was casual enough. But he knew when she suddenly stopped fiddling with the settings that were already perfectly positioned that the conversation wasn’t as innocuous as it might seem. She was evading. As evasive as he could be, he had no trouble recognizing the tactic.

  “Hannah?”

  “She also had a problem with remembering who was boss.”

  “And?”

  “And with who we will and won’t serve.”

  He set his cup down with a quiet click. Keeping his hands locked around it, he watched an odd defensiveness slip over her face.

  “Am I a ‘will,’” he asked, his voice utterly. flat. “Or, a ‘won’t.’”

  She matched the challenge in his eyes, but she didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. The cook was gone. And he was there.

  Disbelief shadowed his face. “You defended me?”

  “It was the principle. I don’t make decisions based on rumors.”

  Damon felt himself go utterly still. He was stunned. That she had defended him was incredible enough. But for her to let a cook she surely must have needed quit rather than back down on her position was unbelievable. Nobody around there stood up for him. Ever.

  Except for being slightly mystified, he really wasn’t sure how he felt just then. He was even less sure what to make of her. He did, however, question her comprehension.

  “Have you considered that the rumors might be true?”

  “You don’t know what I’ve heard.”

  “No. But I can certainly imagine.”

  “So?”

  “So, what?”

  “Are they?”

  The question slipped out before Hannah could consider the magnitude of what she was asking. With no way to retract the demand, all she could do was wait. Something inside her wanted very much to know what was and wasn’t true about this man, and she knew the only place to discover that truth would be from him.

  Looking at her as if he couldn’t decide whether she was very brave or very foolish, Damon pushed his coffee aside and rose from the counter. His eyes were still locked on her face when he finally said, “Probably.”

  There was a warning in that single word. But there was no denial or explanation. As he reached for his jacket, the muscle in his jaw bunching, he clearly had no intention of offering either.

  “Can you manage all right?”

  “Manage?”

  “Without an extra cook.”
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  His concern for her ability to cope was the last thing she expected just then. Wondering if he always took such confusing mental leaps, she replied with a quiet “Yes.”

  “How?”

  The demand had her blinking at his frown. “I’d planned all along to do the cooking myself during the slow season. There’s not enough business here in the winter to need more than a couple of part-time waitresses. I’m managing well enough.”

  “Then you’ve done this before?”

  “If by ‘this’ you mean owned a restaurant, yes, I have. I owned one with my ex-husband in Minneapolis.” That particular enterprise couldn’t possibly have been more different from the café. Gregory’s had been upscale and trendy and she’d never felt comfortable there at all.

  “But this is mine. This is who I am,” she added quietly, looking from the gingham curtains on the windows to the menus of unadorned regional fare sticking up between the salt and pepper shakers on the very untrendy maple tables. “I bought this place because I want something that no one can take from me. I’ll manage if it kills me.”

  The conviction in her voice made his eyes narrow. He knew exactly what she was talking about. She could feel it. The same way she’d felt his understanding before. He knew how necessary it was for her to hang on to what she had. That same need had to be why he stayed in a place that held so little welcome for him. No one could live day in and day out just for spite.

  She didn’t have the chance to ask what it was that kept him there, or to wonder why he’d pushed her away, only to draw her back again. Wind rushed in when the door opened, the wild tinkling of the bell punctuated by the pounding of the rain on the sidewalk.

  Moments later, the door was closed and Sheriff Jansson stood dripping on the rubber mat, his rangy frame camouflaged by a tent of olive-colored oilcloth. His attention was on his broad-brimmed hat as he whipped it off his head and slapped the rain from the plastic covering it. He was a friendly man who’d settled into middle age well, taking as much pride in avoiding the paunch sported by some of his cronies as he did in the town he’d lived in all his life. The only thing he took more pride in was his family, especially his oldest daughter and son-in-law-the-lawyer in Cleveland and his three small grandchildren. Every time he got new pictures of the brood, he shared them with everyone in the café.