Here Comes Trouble Page 7

  It damn well wouldn’t hurt if he’d stop disrobing every other second, too.

  “You’ll live,” she choked out, feeling every bit as ridiculously foolish as she’d suspected she would last night.

  No regrets. Right.

  “I—I have some antiseptic spray in the kitchen that might be a good idea. We should clean up the deeper gouges.” She winced as she leaned in to examine the scratches and punctures a bit more closely. “I think there’s a little T-shirt fiber stuck in a few.”

  I also think I don’t need to be spending any more time inspecting any part of your perfectly perfect naked skin, she thought as her gaze began to wander beyond the immediately affected areas. Which, in turn, had immediate effects on her. She abruptly straightened and did her best, which was to say made any effort at all, at sounding calmly efficient and otherwise entirely unaffected by him and his godlike body. Which, seriously, she was both breathing and female, so that was already over-reaching where both goals were concerned. Still, she was proud that she actually spoke in complete, nondithering sentences. Something to build on, anyway. “Head inside and we’ll take care of it.”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Thanks. Then I’ll get the screen done.”

  “No, that’s okay,” she said, perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary, “you don’t have to—”

  “I know, but I can, so it’s the least I can do.” He headed toward the kitchen door, and Kirby followed behind. “You always have such a hard time accepting a little help?”

  “No,” she said, knowing that was only partly true. “It’s just, you’re a guest. You’re here to relax, and…do whatever it is you want to do. You’re not paying to stay here so you can help with chores. Much less rescue your hostess or be attacked by the local psycho kitten.” She scooted around him as soon as they were both in the kitchen and went immediately to the cupboard below the sink where the first aid kit was stashed.

  “I’m pretty sure feeding me dinner wasn’t part of my room and board, either. I was simply returning the favor.”

  “I fed you because you saved my life. I owed you, not the other way around. We’re even. Well, if you can consider chicken and mushroom casserole an even trade for a life.” Knowing she was babbling, but seemingly unable to stop, she braced herself and stood up only to clutch the kit to her chest when she realized he was standing right beside her. She winced a little when the kit rubbed at her scratched stomach.

  He took the kit from her and then did that quick, half-smile thing she was coming to realize he did when he was amused but trying to be polite.

  If only he knew just how impolite she’d been with her thoughts of him.

  “What?” she said as he placed the kit on the counter. She reached out to help him unclasp the safety latch on the front of the kit.

  “I was just thinking that, in the end, all we were both trying to do was help the poor, defenseless little kitty cat, and look at the both of us.” His tone took on a wry note. “I’m thinking maybe she’d have been better off left to her own defenses.”

  Her own lips twitched. “You might have a point.” She went to draw her hand away, but his fingers brushed over hers as he went to lift the lid off the kit, then more deliberately when she didn’t move them away. She looked at his fingertips as they lightly stroked over the backs of her fingers, as if she was having some sort of out-of-body experience. Except her body was experiencing all kinds of things at the moment and she felt every electrifying one of them. She didn’t lift her gaze to his, not fully prepared for what she might find in those green eyes of his. Was she making this up, too?

  “Kirby.”

  She took another millisecond to decide, so he lifted his fingers from hers, to her chin. One little glimpse of his eyes, that intensity, that focus, so close up, so…intimate. And she knew right then, if he asked her to clean his wounds, or…or something else that had absolutely nothing to do with kissing her senseless, well, she would not be held responsible for her actions.

  “Am I the only one who can’t stop thinking about this?”

  “A-about—this?” she said, sounding more than a little breathless. She was okay with that. Sentence ability was gone, but at least she was still capable of forming words.

  “This,” he said, and began lowering his mouth to hers.

  She let her eyes drift shut. Her body tensed. Everything tensed. Everything that wasn’t quivering in anticipation, anyway. And all she could think was…finally. Well, that, and thank God she really wasn’t a pathetic, sex-starved, hallucinating moron. Okay, one out of those three, anyway.

  “Kirby!” a deep voice barked from the back of the house. A sharp rapping on the door to the backyard followed.

  Brett jerked his head up just before his lips brushed hers and swiveled around to see who was calling her name.

  Even through the thick clouds of pheromones, Kirby recognized the voice. She was tempted—so tempted—to just yank Brett right back around and demand he finish what he damn well started.

  “Kirby? You in there?” More rapping.

  Kirby swore under her breath and Brett’s eyes twinkled in open amusement at her unladylike outburst, muttered though it was. She supposed she should be thankful he had a good sense of humor. Where she was concerned, apparently he was going to need it.

  “Shouldn’t you go see whoever that is?”

  “I shouldn’t, no. But it’ll only postpone things.” She cleared her throat, pushed her hair from her face, and tried not to look like a woman who’d just been prepared to be thoroughly kissed. Or ravished. Taken right there up against her own kitchen counter. Goddammit. “What is it, Clemson?” She stepped around Brett, who stopped her with a hand to her arm. Such a big, nice, warm hand it was, too. A shame it wasn’t cupping her face right about now. Or more sensitive areas, for that matter.

  “Need any…assistance?” he asked.

  Oh, he had no idea the depths of assistance she’d like to have from him. “I’m fine. It’s just the farmer who owns the land on the other side of the mountain, up the hill behind me. Stay here. No point in both of us being exposed to his crotchety attitude.”

  As if to underscore her statement, there was another sharp rap on the door, followed by, “Kirby! We need to speak! It’s a matter of great importance.”

  “It always is, Clemson,” she muttered softly. She caught the way Brett’s mouth was quirking again, though not so subtly this time, and impulsively stuck her tongue out at him.

  “Careful where you aim that thing,” he warned, that green twinkle suddenly all glittery hot. He ran his fingertips up her arm to her shoulder.

  She swallowed against a suddenly parched throat. It was the only thing parched about her at the moment. Clemson suddenly seemed like the easier task. At least she knew what she was dealing with where the old coot was concerned.

  She scooted away from Brett, and his glittering green eyes, and big warm hands, and stepped onto the back porch, swearing she heard Brett chuckling behind her. “What can I do for you, Clemson?”

  “You can start by telling me why you thought it was okay to poach one of my prime mouser’s offspring. And don’t bother trying to tell me a story, I can already see the thing right there on your porch. Same coloring as my Matilda. You got a mouse problem in this inn of yours, get your own damn cat. Don’t come stealin’ mine.” The way he said the word “inn” made it clear what he thought of someone—namely her—running an establishment such as this, on property he’d made it perfectly clear was only suitable for crops and cows.

  She’d long since given up trying to have any rational conversation with the man. Like explaining that she hadn’t exactly come along and built the inn there, that the house had been on the mountain almost as long as he had, and that at least it was renovated, occupied, and being put to good use.

  Kirby stepped out on the porch and glanced over at the kitten. Who was looking remarkably adorable and innocent, all curled up sleeping. Though how it could sleep through all of Clem
son’s banging and barking, she had no idea. Apparently it took a lot out of a kitten to play demon monster during its waking hours. She looked to Clemson, who was wearing a dark green John Deere T-shirt under a pair of denim overalls that had seen better years. Decades, possibly. And a heavy green and black plaid jacket. What was left of his white hair curled around the perimeter of the shiny dome of his head. He was tall and rangy, holding an old grease-stained tractor cap crushed in one fist and pointing at her with the other.

  “Now, you see here,” he began, only this time Kirby cut him off.

  “Clemson, calm down. I didn’t poach anything. Your little rat catcher there was up my tree and about to fall off. I climbed up and almost killed myself getting her down. I was just holding on to her until I figured out where she came from. How’d you even know she was here?”

  A bit of a sheepish look crossed his face, but it quickly returned to a scowl. “Caught a couple of ’em a few days back heading over the peak. Figured when I couldn’t find that one she’d headed down this way. Was headed down to find her and there she is, right on your back porch. What’s a man supposed to think? And what the hell kind of contraption you got her in? She’s no pampered house cat. She’s straight from two of my best mousers.”

  “This does not come as news,” Kirby said dryly, feeling her stomach twinge all over again.

  “Well, hand her over and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Kirby pushed the porch door open and waved him inside. “Be my guest.”

  He clutched his hat more tightly and grumbled some as he came up on the porch, his progress hampered a bit by a bad hip.

  “Matilda needs to do a better job monitoring her offspring,” Kirby said as he passed by. “Or maybe you need to make a little kitten corral until they’re old enough to know where they live.”

  He grumbled some more, but she couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying, which was probably just as well. He reached down and went to grab the kitten by her scruff, causing Kirby to involuntarily suck in her breath. That earned her a glare.

  “You got something else to tell me about handling barn cats?”

  She thought about the scratches all over her body and Brett’s, and shook her head. “No, but since you have to make it all the way back up the hill, feel free to just bundle her up in that sweater. We don’t need it back.”

  She fully expected him to reject that offer, just on principle, but he surprised her by scooping up the sweater with the kitten nestled inside. The kitten yawned, stretched, seemed momentarily disoriented by what was going on, but didn’t seem to struggle any further when he tucked the sweater, feline and all, against his bony chest. Kirby only hoped that plaid jacket and the denim beneath it were as heavy as they looked. Somehow she couldn’t imagine the little terrorist remaining calm during their entire trek.

  “I’ll be on my way. You see any of this batch again, I’d appreciate a call next time.”

  “Oh, you’ll hear from me, don’t you worry.” And you’re welcome, Kirby wanted to add, but was happy enough to see this situation concluded that she managed to bite her tongue.

  “Who’s we?” Clemson asked as he made his way back down the steps.

  “What?” Kirby asked, confused.

  “Owner of this fine piece of sweater, I imagine.” He jammed his cap back on his bald head and squinted back at her as the sun hit him in the face. “Heard you had a new boarder.”

  Kirby opened her mouth, then closed it again. He’d come down here to give her a hard time for saving his precious next-generation mouser and now he wanted to gossip?

  “Seen that fancy bike. Tell him to stay clear of my property. Damn kids on dirt bikes last summer ruined more than an acre leaving tire ruts.”

  “I don’t think you need to concern yourself about that in this case.”

  “Well, just see that he doesn’t.”

  Kirby sighed a little, but didn’t bother to explain that a Harley was hardly a dirt bike and she doubted her fully grown guest was going to suddenly decide to go off road with it up the back of her hill. “I’ll make sure to mention it.”

  “Neighbors supposed to take care of one another,” he said as he ambled across the expanse of groomed grass behind the inn. “Why I prefer not to have any. Can’t count on anyone these days but yourself.” Beyond the cut grass, the land turned into a grassy, rocky field, which then stretched up into trails that led to the top of the hill and beyond.

  “Which is why I saved your damn cat, you miserable old coot,” she said, but too softly to carry very far. “Careful on the trail,” she called out.

  “Been walking these hills all of my seventy-two years. Don’t need some green little missie telling me how to handle myself. Just because I’ve been on God’s good earth a mite longer than you doesn’t mean I’m anything less than fully capable.”

  She stood on the back porch, the morning breeze carrying his grumbling and muttering back to her until he was well beyond her property line.

  “Quite the character,” came Brett’s deep voice just beside her ear. “You weren’t kidding about the crotchety part.”

  She startled at the sound of his voice, and he steadied her. With his hands on her hips. Which he left there.

  “He’s just mad because I snatched up this property before he could finally convince the town council to let him tear down the old house and add the whole parcel to the land he already owned. He’d have been king of the mountain then. Had I known what having him as a neighbor was like, I might have kept looking and let him have it.” Again with the babbling. But, honestly, his hands were still on her, and she didn’t know quite what to do next. Seemed easier to just keep talking.

  She felt the heat of him, just behind her. All that bare skin…he was like a one-man furnace with that heat. Or maybe she was the one with the elevated temperature. She certainly felt feverish…

  “You gave my cat away,” he said, his breath warm on her neck. Her feverish neck.

  “It, uh—it wasn’t yours, as it turns out.”

  “So I heard. Good thing he’s up on all the rules of being neighborly. Are the rest of the residents of Pennydash as…colorful?”

  “Never boring, anyway.” Sort of like every second I’ve spent with you. “I’ve met Matilda, the mom cat, by the way. It explains a lot.”

  “Psycho senior?”

  “Something like that. Let’s just say, I’m not thinking your little pet there was going to be domesticated anytime soon.”

  “Well, I think our girl has found a good home. She has a fine career ahead of her. One she can sink her teeth into.”

  Kirby groaned, but she was smiling.

  “A real corporate climber.”

  Now she laughed.

  “If there was a draft for mousers, she’d be a first-round pick.”

  Kirby ducked her chin and shook her head, but snickered anyway. “If you start in with the ‘my kitten can beat up your kitten—’”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to show a little paternal pride here.” He bracketed her hips with his hands, careful not to drag her shirt across the raw skin of her stomach, and pulled her body back against his. “After all, I sent her into the world with the very shirt off my back.”

  Which was so very, very true, Kirby thought, feeling the heat of his very bare nakedness emanating right through her thin cotton shirt. “Probably just as well you sent her off when you did,” she managed through a belly knotted up with lust. “She’s already gone through two shirts in two days.”

  He pressed his lips just below her ear, and only a superhuman effort could have kept her from tipping her head back to rest on his shoulders. His very broad, very naked shoulders. Turns out she had a ways to go to achieve Wonder Woman status.

  “Yeah,” he said, the low rumble of his voice vibrating straight down her spine. “It’d be a real shame if I lost all of my clothes.” He splayed his palms gently across her stomach, pressing the well-washed cotton to her ravaged skin like the softest of bandages. �
��Whatever would I do?”

  “Indeed,” she choked out, which was something of a wonder in and of itself, given the veritable avalanche of images that accompanied that little comment. Her poor imagination couldn’t decide which clip in the erotic slide show to focus on first.

  “Kirby,” he said, rubbing his lips along the side of her neck.

  She covered his hands with hers, trying, and failing, to find her equilibrium. Things like this didn’t happen to her. She really…really…wanted them to, but as to actually happening? This was a first. “Yes?” she breathed.

  “How many beds are there in this house?”

  “Uh…” She tried to focus, but it was damn near impossible now that he’d started nibbling. “Ni—nine. Total. Including mine.”

  He caught her ear lobe between his teeth and pressed ever-so-lightly. “Would it be too forward of me to tell you that I want to have you on every single one of them?”

  Had he not been holding her all but braced up against him, she was pretty sure she’d have slid right to the ground in a puddle of gooey, hormone-soaked lust. She tried to speak, but he was kissing the side of her neck, and all she could manage was a head shake.

  How crazy was this? She’d only been fantasizing about this since he’d ridden up on his bike, but fantasies never came true. Not like this. He hadn’t even properly kissed her yet, and he was talking about having her, taking her…dear Lord she wanted him to take her, have her. Anywhere he damn well pleased.

  For all she knew, he was some kind of serial killer—a very good-looking, well-dressed, manicured, bank-rolled, hot biker serial killer—who rode around the country seducing poor, orgasm-starved innkeepers into having mind-blowing sex with him, so he could—so he could…well, she didn’t know what exactly, but letting him do this probably was unwise on numerous fronts, the worst of which would be that one. Probably.