She pushed. And pushed. The canoe rocked wildly in the water, but refused to capsize.

“It won’t work, sweetheart. You know how canoes are made. Easy to tip from the inside-good heavens, didn’t you know that?-but not that easy to overturn from the outside. Oh, shoot,” he said mildly. “I seem to have made you angry again.”

Abruptly, Hart dropped his crooked grin. In the middle of the sunlit pond, his eyes held hers, blue and fiercely compelling. “And you are angry, aren’t you, honey? Yell. Go ahead. Scream at me, Bree. Don’t you want to tell me what you think of me, sweetheart?” he whispered like a teasing taunt. “Come on, Bree.”

She sent a furious wave splashing in his face, and then whirled around, starting a rapid crawl toward shore. She heard him sputtering for an instant. Not nearly long enough.

“Don’t you want to fish anymore?” He called after her, almost managing to sound disappointed. “Never mind, I’ll see you tonight. I’ve got a dinner date, but I’ll be there around nine. Lay out my sleeping bag for me?” He added in a roar, “And put some more antiseptic on your hand!”


By seven, Bree was alternately fussing with tiny glass bottles and eyedroppers at the kitchen table and worriedly glancing at the clock. Normally, she could count on work with her perfumes to get her mind off anything, but this evening she was having trouble concentrating. The balsam and citronella were already in; so were the drops of civet and orange oil. Flipping the stopper from the vial of bergamot, she squeezed the eyedropper and started counting. Four, five, six…

Her eyes flipped up to the clock again. Are you really just going to let him come in here and walk all over you again? What are you, a doormat?

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…

Locked doors hadn’t worked. But then, locked doors were kind of like locked tongues-excuses for inaction. She’d always had good excuses for letting other people direct the flow of her life. Gram would have been…disgusted with her.

Twenty-nine, thirty. Pushing the stopper back into the vial, she reached for the heated wine. Once she had poured the proper amount of special alcohol into the mixture, she glanced again at the clock, bit her lip and started slowly stirring the fragrant liquid.

Hart…bothered her. It was more than his irritating attitude and pushiness. It was him. The man. When he was around, she always felt close to losing control, and Bree never lost control. He’d accused her of anger, and he was right. But anger at herself or at him? It was him, of course. It had to be that she was just continually angry at him.

She carried her perfume concoction into the corner where she’d set up the tiny still. It would take days before either of the new perfumes was ready, but the cabin was already filled with the blended soft scents of fruits and flowers. As Bree put away the last of her ingredients, she glanced at the clock again. Eight-thirty, and if he was actually going to arrive by nine…

He was not going to find a doormat. Tossing the towel on the table, Bree bolted for the loft steps and took them two at a time. Within ten minutes, she’d burrowed into Gram’s wardrobe and stripped off her jeans. After changing clothes, she made a trip to the old shed, and after that she dragged the old rocker out onto the porch.

By nine, she was waiting for Hart. Dusk had settled around her like a gentle mist; the birds had stopped singing, and animals were sneaking from the woods for a peek into the clearing. Bree’s bare feet were stuffed into a ragged old pair of men’s boots. Her calico skirt was gathered at the waist and reached midcalf; above it she wore a drawstring peasant blouse. A straw hat perched on her head. She was the image of a mountain woman, and Bree hadn’t forgotten the pitchfork on her lap. Maybe she couldn’t talk, but then, they say actions speak louder than words. Hart should be able to figure out the general message.

Her chair creaked violently as she rocked, until she found herself yawning. Nine past, and then nine-fifteen. Flanking her were two citronella candles, ostensibly to chase off the mosquitoes but actually for light-that way she couldn’t possibly miss his approach, even if his car made no sound.

His car made plenty of sound, roaring through the quiet night like a restless lion on the prowl. Instantly, Bree stiffened, laid the pitchfork across her lap just so, and kept on rocking, her eyes narrowed as the car came to a halt fifty feet from her.

When Hart stepped out, her rocker started a furious creaking pace. This wasn’t the lazy Hart of the pond but the polished Hart of the plane. His hair was carelessly brushed back, catching the silver of moonlight, and his shoulders looked mammoth in a cream linen suit-one of those Italian tailored jobs of his. If he’d had a carnation in his lapel, he could have gone to a gangster’s wedding; as it was, he passed for damned gorgeous…and just a wee bit on the formal side, given the wilderness behind him and the occasional cry of a lone cougar.

“Bree?”

With her booted toe, she nudged his rolled-up sleeping bag down the porch steps as he slammed the door of his car. The pitchfork remained at the ready. He hadn’t been dining with any mountain boys, not in that attire. The woman had undoubtedly been breathtaking, and if even for a second he thought he was coming here for a free dessert…

“Bree?”

She rocked, her chin cocked at a stubborn angle. Hart stalked forward, his jacket open and one hand loosely in his trouser pocket…at least until his eyes finally adjusted to the candlelight and he caught a good look at her. His expression went blank, but she could feel his assessment, from the tacky straw hat down to the boots. His eyes rested for long seconds on the pitchfork-and being Hart, he had to spend some time scouting out the territory inside the peasant blouse. A poor choice, she should have thought of that.

Still, she figured she’d done a fairly good job of getting her message across…particularly when for a few moments one could have heard a pin drop. Hart just stared with those eyes as dark as the woods behind them, no expression on his shadowed face that she could read.

And then he slumped back, drawing a hand over his face. A shudder racked his body. Bree scowled. Another shudder, and suddenly his ridiculous guffaws were filling the night. He stumbled back. He said something, but he was so choked up with laughter she couldn’t make out his words.

With no respect for his suit whatsoever, he collapsed on the grass with his head bent over his knees, laughing in absolutely uproarious humor.

Bree leaped up and hurled the pitchfork off to one side. Funny, was it? She ran down the steps so fast she nearly tripped, her hands on her hips and her hat gone flying. “You…varmint. You…”

The croaking voice seemed to be coming from miles away. Bree was too incensed to care. The hoarse whisper cracked and stuttered and creaked like a rusty record, but it gradually gained momentum. “You skunk! You egotistical, domineering, patronizing, know-it-all, interfering, insensitive, overbearing, pushy, sneaky…”

The litany just kept coming.

Chapter Seven

Still seated on the ground, Hart wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. Leaning back on his elbows, his mouth twisted in a lopsided grin as Bree hovered menacingly over him. “Honey, you’re talking!”

She was so mad she was shaking, words tumbling out like spilled rusty nails. “How many women do you have up there anyway? Thousands? If you think you’re camping out here again tonight, you’d just better not count those chickens, Manning. You wouldn’t be welcome here if I were a ninety-year-old virgin. I’ll sleep in the same room with you again when hell freezes over. You wouldn’t know a moral if you were painted with them. You-”

“Keep it up,” Hart encouraged. “You’re doing terrific, Bree.” He leaped to his feet, grinning hugely. Upright, he let out one more exultant whoop of laughter and started stalking toward her. “Honey, you’re talking!”

Bree was not to be diverted. “You wouldn’t know a principle if it shot you between the eyes. You have the sensitivity of an ox. Insensitive? Dammit, you’ve been cruel. You’re cruel and you’re pigheaded-”

“You did it, honey! You finally did it!” With another bellow of laughter, Hart tugged off his jacket, balled it up as if it weren’t the most luxurious Italian linen Bree had ever seen and hurled it at the moon.

She lost a little of her momentum, having completely run out of breath and being slightly stunned to see his expensive jacket decorating a bush at the edge of the woods. When she glanced back to him, her eyes narrowed warily and she folded her arms protectively across her chest. He was advancing very slowly, with a devilish grin that boded trouble for her sanity. She backed up a step. And then another. “Hart. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but don’t.”

“You, lady, owe me a thank-you.”

“A thank-you!” she sputtered incredulously. “All you’ve done since I’ve met you is interfere and order me around and act like a patronizing, chauvinistic-”

“Hey. You’re talking, aren’t you?”

Actually, she was still retreating, until the back of her skirt rubbed against the porch step. Her tormentor continued to stalk. She put out her hands in a gesture pleading for mercy that would have made a hardened criminal turn chivalrous. Hart kept coming. “Now just listen-”

He raised his arms, clearly with every intention of snatching her. She ducked before he could and, grabbing her skirts so she wouldn’t trip, darted out of his reach and down the porch steps. She lost a boot in the process. Feeling like a perfect fool, she raced across the grass and promptly lost the other boot. She had more speed barefoot, but when she glanced over her shoulder, Hart was gaining on her. “Listen. We’re two grown people, for heaven’s sake. You behave-”