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“A yes or a no about what?”
“About coming in?”
This guy’s pushiness was enough to give any sane person the screaming meemies. She wanted to tell him exactly where he could go, with her blessing, but decided not to fight it. He’d only keep knocking and harping on about his dratted shaving kit until he got his way. Heaving a groan, she called, “Just a second.” She unlocked the door that led to his bedroom, then stepped into the tub and drew the plastic curtain around her. “Okay, come in and get it over!”
“Thanks.” His door opened. “I appreciate it.”
“Whatever! Just hurry.” As she wrapped herself more securely in her green, plastic cocoon, she looked at him and her eyes went wide. “You’re not decent!”
He was about to retrieve his shaving gear from a drawer under the sink when she spoke. He stilled and glanced in her direction. “The hell I’m not.” He straightened and spread his arms, displaying his bare upper torso, which, she was sorry to notice, showed off fantastic pectorals and a shamelessly trim and sexy stomach. His hip area was covered, barely, by a towel that started too far below his navel and ended provocatively high on the thighs. Roth Jerric had a decidedly cruel streak.
“Okay, you’re minutely decent,” she said grimly.
His forehead crinkled as though he’d been slapped. “For the record, Miss Hudson, men have a particular aversion to being alluded to as minute.”
“Your glaring male insecurities are not my problem, Mr. Jerric.” She freed an arm to indicate his “minute” attire. “What is that thing, a hankie?”
“Funny.” He gave the shower curtain she’d wrapped herself up in a slow perusal. “Now I have a question for you.” When he returned his attention to her face he watched her with eyes that missed nothing and revealed less. “You’re wrapped in plastic.”
“That’s not a question.”
“Okay. Let’s try this.” He indicated her with flick of his hand. “That’s your idea of getting decent?”
“At least I’m covered.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “You are.” He crossed his arms with languid, muscled grace she wished she could dismiss without a foolish increase in her heart rate. “There’s one flaw in your fashion statement, however.”
“Really?” She clutched the curtain more tightly around her, hating being put on the defensive, especially by a man who thought of her as inferior. “What might that be?”
“I can see through the blasted thing,” he said. “Am I making myself as clear as you are?”
Her poor overstimulated brain took an extra tick to grasp the truth. He could see through the plastic? “Oh—my—Lord!” She staggered away from the curtain, spun around and hugged the cold wall tile. “Get out!”
“One second.” She heard a drawer open and close. “Give me a knock when you’re through.”
“Get out!” she shrieked. She would never be able to look the man in the face again. Though it had to have been only a couple of seconds, it seemed like forever before his door closed with a solid thud. Quivery and shamed, she sank down and huddled in the depths of the cold iron tub. Drawing up her knees, she hugged them. How could she have been such a dimwit, wrapping herself in plastic like a piece of beef? Didn’t she know better?
Or was there something cunningly sinister about Roth Jerric that caused female brains to short out when he came into a room? Whichever it was, it didn’t alter the fact that she was embarrassed to the marrow of her bones. This fiasco was almost on a par with being labeled mediocre. After a moment’s reflection she shook her head. “No, this is worse, Hannah,” she muttered. “Now he thinks you’re an idiot.”
Hannah’s vow of avoiding Roth at all costs was struck another blow at breakfast, when she discovered she would be sitting elbow to elbow with the man. At least she wouldn’t have to look at him. She could eat, keep her mouth shut and let Joan Peterson, Roth and the inn’s one other guest keep the conversation flowing. Her plan was to remain mute, eat as quickly as possible and promptly escape.
She took her assigned seat and focused across the table at the dour-faced, female artist-type. She nodded a hello. The middle-aged woman eyed her without responding. Not a good sign. Please let this stranger be a babbler, she prayed, staring hopefully at the woman with long salt-and-pepper hair, pulled away from her thin face by a tie-dyed scarf. Or was it a paint rag? She wore a paint-spattered T-shirt and no bra. Though Hannah couldn’t see her lower half, she guessed she had on jeans decorated with the same random splatters of paint. What did she do, throw her oils at canvases?
Hannah had a bad feeling that the artist wasn’t much of a talker. On the upside, she knew Joan to be an avid conversationalist. They’d met online in a chat room. It had been a time when Hannah had felt terribly vulnerable, right after her resignation. She’d needed to pour out her heart, and an anonymous online chat room seemed like as good a place as any.
Their fortuitous meeting and acquaintanceship had blossomed into an online friendship, resulting in Hannah winning this free stay. In all honesty, she had doubts that this trip was an actual “win” in any real contest. She sensed it was more like a good deed. She’d gotten to know Joan well enough to know she was extremely kindhearted and caring.
Whatever the catalyst, the “prize” came in the mail in the form of a coupon to be redeemed “in person” at the Blue Moon Inn. At the time Hannah had been so unhappy, how could she refuse a free, two-week stay on Oklahoma’s most beautiful lake? It was a dream come true.
She sighed wistfully. If only Roth Jerric had gone anyplace else in the world for his vacation, it would have been perfect. He could afford anyplace in the world, she grumbled mentally. She reached for the coffee carafe at the same instant Roth did. Their hands touched. She felt a shock and an odd disorientation. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, withdrawing her hand.
“No problem.” He lifted the coffee and poured her a cup. “Cream?” he asked, as he gave himself a cup and passed the carafe to Mrs. Peterson, who had just seated herself.
Hannah shook her head but couldn’t seem to respond. He smelled good, like sandalwood and leather.
“Cream?” he asked again, his hand hovering over the small ironstone pitcher. Apparently he didn’t notice her head shake. “No,” she said, more forcefully than necessary.
Both the artist and Joan glanced her way, appearing concerned. She cleared her throat and smiled lamely. At least she could talk again. “No, thank you,” she repeated levelly, without looking at Roth.
“I’ll have some,” Joan said. “I love lots of good, honest, real cream in my coffee. None of those nondairy, nonfat, non-taste counterfeits for me or my guests.” After pouring herself a healthy shot, she placed the container between her plate and the artist’s, then she broke off a piece of ham and leaned down, looking below the table. “Here, Missy Mis, now be a good girl and don’t beg.”
“I don’t eat fat,” the artist said, her voice low and husky as a man’s.
Joan glanced toward the thin, austere woman. “Mona, dear, I’m aware of that. But you’re a fine artist, so I forgive you that shortcoming.” She patted Mona’s knobby hand. “Have we all met each other?” She glanced at Hannah and Roth.
“Hannah and I have met,” Roth said.
Joan’s expression closed for the briefest second. “Yes, I recall.” Her smile returned, though not as jolly. “This is Mona Natterly, a frequent visitor.” She patted Mona’s hand again. “Every year she abides with me for the entire summer, then an occasional stopover during the rest of the year.” Joan indicated the couple across from the artist. “Mona, this is Hannah Hudson, my dear Internet friend and this…” She hesitated, giving Roth a peculiarly disapproving look. Or did she? It was so brief Hannah couldn’t be sure. “This is Ross—Johnson.”
“Roth Jerric,” he amended, smiling in Mona’s direction. “Happy to meet you.”
Just how do you know he’s smiling, Hannah? She berated herself. You promised yourself not to look at the man, and here you are staring at his profile. She shifted her attention away.
“By the way, Ross,” Joan went on, undeterred, “did you give my message to the sheriff?”
“He called.”
The older woman looked perturbed. “He called? He didn’t come out?”
“He had to respond to a wreck.”
Joan sniffed. “Well, it’s his loss.”
“He said something odd on the phone—apologizing about the blue moon?”
Joan’s attention had shifted to her coffee mug, but at the mention of the blue moon, she refocused on him. “As I said, it’s his loss.”
“What did he mean?” Roth prodded.
Hannah glanced his way, curious about the turn of the conversation. She scanned the side of his face, his sharp cheekbones, slightly arched nose and handsomely sculpted chin. Her gaze caught and held on the slashing dimple in his cheek, sinisterly charming.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it now,” Joan said, stiffly. “Perhaps in a few days, when I’m less crestfallen.”
The remark surprised Hannah. She glanced at Joan. The elderly woman met her gaze then shifted her attention to Roth. “Fate has spoken.” She sighed loudly. “I’ll buck up.” She patted Roth’s hand. “I’m sure you’re a nice man, Mr. Johnson.”
“It’s Jerric, but thanks,” Roth said.
Hannah couldn’t tell from his dry tone if Joan’s eccentricity of continually botching his name annoyed him or if he was merely unsatisfied with her response. Nevertheless, she refused to check his expression. She’d stared at him more than enough for one morning. Disturbed that she’d noticed him at all, she forced herself to concentrate on her hostess. “Why are you crestfallen, Joan?”
The woman’s smile grew melancholy. “Sweet girl, one of these days we’ll sit down and have a good talk about—everything. But right now, forgive me. It’s too close to my heart at the moment.” She peered at Roth, then resumed eye contact with Hannah. “I just hope Madam Fate knows what she’s doing,” she said, regaining her pleasant expression. “Now, enjoy your breakfast. A sour disposition brings on a sour stomach, and I certainly don’t want any sour stomachs at my inn.”
“But—”
“Eat, dear,” Joan cut in, then shifted her attention to the artist. “Mona, how is your oatmeal?”
“Fine.”
Hannah lost hope that Mona would hold up her end of any conversation. She scanned the aging hippie’s face, unable to decide how old she was. Her skin was leathery, as though she’d spent years outdoors. She might be thirty-five or fifty-five. “Do you paint landscapes?” she asked, assuming anybody as sun-dried as Mona must specialize in nature scenes.
Mona shifted her eyes from her oatmeal to Hannah. “I paint thoughts, musings, inklings,” she said in that gravelly basso voice. She closed her eyes, as though listening to a lovely strain of music. “On those providential days when my muse is in ascension, I paint raw, unadulterated adoration.”
“Yes,” Joan said. “Yes, she does. Most exquisitely.”
That was as clear as mud. “Oh…” Hannah wanted to ask more, like what in the world an “inkling” looked like, or what it took to get a muse into ascension, but she recalled her vow to be mute. So far, she hadn’t done very well. She took up her fork. Apparently Mona got a special nonfat breakfast, since the rest of their plates were heaped with pancakes drenched in butter and syrup, a slab of ham on the side. Oh, well. She could diet when she got home. It wouldn’t be hard, considering she was nearly broke. “Breakfast looks good,” she said, then remembered her vow of muteness. Don’t be so hard on yourself, she told herself inwardly. A compliment to the cook is no great crime.
“Why, thank you, dear.”
Hannah took a bite, deciding if she had food in her mouth she would be less likely to babble. Why did Roth Jerric have to smell so nice? And why did his elbow have to brush her arm? Every time it did, she experienced a troubling flutter in her chest.
“I serve pancakes a lot. They’re a special favorite of most guests. As are my egg dishes. Especially my spicy Eggs à la Peterson, sunny-side up.” When she said “up” she threw her hands over her head for emphasis. The move startled Hannah, already so nervous she jumped. Why did it have to be just as she lifted her coffee mug? The resulting lurch sloshed coffee on Roth’s pancakes.
“Oh…shoot!” That’s all she needed, to have to face the guy and apologize for ruining his breakfast. She did it as quickly and with as little eye contact as possible. “Sorry.” She plunked her mug down and hefted her plate toward him. “Have mine. I’m not hungry.”
“No need,” he said.
“I insist.” She scooted her chair back so abruptly it nearly overturned. Roth caught it just in time. She could feel his gaze, but she kept her focus on Joan. “I’m not feeling well.”
“Goodness.” Joan pushed awkwardly up to stand. “You’re sick?”
“No.” Hannah circled to the back of her chair. “Just—just…” She held up a halting hand. “Sit down, Joan. I—it’s a headache. I’ll take an aspirin and lie down for a bit. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” The proprietress looked worried. “I hope I didn’t bring it on with all my complaining.”
Joan reminded Hannah of her favorite grandmother, so willing to sacrifice for others. She managed a smile of encouragement. “You’re not responsible at all. Besides, I can’t recall you doing any complaining. Please, eat your breakfast.”
“Well…” Joan lowered herself to her chair, clearly reluctant.
Hannah belatedly noticed Roth had stood up. What was he doing? She glanced at him, at his face, his eyes, breaking her vow to smithereens. He not only smelled intoxicating but he looked it, in that torso-hugging, sky-blue knit shirt and those formfitting jeans. She’d never seen him in jeans before, not even on casual Fridays. He looked scrumptious—and very serious. She wondered what went on behind that frown. Did he doubt her headache story? “Sit down,” she said, upset with herself for her smashed vow, and worse, thinking of him as scrumptious. “Eat my pancakes.”
He said nothing, merely watched her. She was positive he felt her alleged headache was open to question. So what if he was right? It was none of his business if she wanted to lie about having a headache. It’s a free country, Mr. Jerric, she threw out silently. Believe me or don’t believe me. I couldn’t care less. “Excuse me, everybody.” She dashed out of the dining room, into the foyer and up the stairs.
An hour later, Hannah considered leaving her room. Maybe it was safe. Surely by now breakfast was over and Roth was busy doing whatever he came to the inn to do—fishing, boating, making other people feel inferior. She pushed off the bed and walked to her balcony door, overlooking a quiet cove some one hundred feet down a gentle, tree-lined slope. She couldn’t hear the lapping of the water from this distance, but somewhere out on the lake she heard the drone of an approaching motorboat.
Through branches she thought she could see a sailboat. Yes, there it was, its white sail billowing in the wind. She opened the multipaned door, feeling a little better, and took a deep breath of fresh air. The day would be warm. June had been un-seasonably cool, but July in Oklahoma could see temperatures soaring to three digits. Soon the weather would be too hot for open windows and enjoying fresh breezes off the lake.
A knock at her door exploded her positive mood. She recognized the force of that knock. It had to be Roth Jerric. Closing her eyes, she took in another breath of fresh, country air. “What now?”
“How are you feeling?”
She wanted to tell him the truth, that she felt depressed, and a great deal of her depression had to do with him. “If you mean the headache, I’m fine.”
“Can I come in?”
She didn’t want a one-on-one with him, especially not in her bedroom, so she decided to lie. “I’m not decent.” She winced, the off-the-cuff statement echoing the bathroom disaster. Couldn’t she come up with something else? Like the truth, I’ve been crying, a direct result of how insecure your low opinion of me has made me.
She’d had great respect and admiration for Roth when she worked at Jerric Oil. Knowing he, in particular, thought her mediocre had become a huge roadblock to her self-confidence. Running head-on into the man at the Blue Moon Inn had been far from therapeutic.
“Could we possibly do this on the same side of the door?” he shouted.
“What do you want?”
“To speak to you.”
“Must you?”
A full half minute of silence ticked by, then, “I’ll only take a second. Please, open the door.”
She felt foolish and a little childish. Did strong, independent women cower behind locked doors? Not on your life! She straightened her shoulders. She was no coward. It was one thing to be upset, but quite another to wallow in self-pity. “Oh—just a second.”
She hurried to the old oak dresser, grabbed a tissue, dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. Stuffing the tissue in her jeans pocket, she pulled her face powder from the top drawer and patted the puff across her nose and cheeks. “I’m slipping something on.” She closed the drawer and gave herself a once-over in the mirror. Her red nose camouflaged by face powder, she looked composed. She ran her fingers through her curls, fluffing them. Roth was only an ex-boss, just a man. Why get all caught up in his opinion? “Coming.”
She opened the door, determined to remain formal and solemn. Neither he nor his estimation of her were important. Unfortunately, seeing him sent a rush of ambivalence through her. He was quite a sight standing there all tall, intensely serious and excruciatingly handsome. His features carried a startling lack of information. A slight sideways movement of his jaw indicated impatience, perhaps. Or possibly some internal burden he carried that had nothing to do with her. Cheek muscles stood out, telegraphing the fact that he clenched his jaw. “Thanks,” he said, at last.
She shored up her indignation with the lift of her chin. “What is it?”
“Joan has your breakfast warming in the oven.”
“I told you to eat my breakfast since I ruined yours.”
“I ate my own. The coffee didn’t hurt it.”
She refused to feel guilty. He was a big boy. He made his own decisions. “Whatever.” She turned away and walked to her open balcony door. Up close he smelled too good. She needed the fortification of neutral country air. “Thanks for the bulletin,” she said lightly. “My curiosity was killing me.”
For a moment he didn’t say anything. She hoped he was gone, but had a nagging suspicion he wasn’t. “I thought we might work on that schedule,” he said.
She clenched her teeth on a curse. Schedule? What was he…suddenly it came back to her. Not only must she face him again, but they had to discuss the bathroom schedule, which would be a terrific way to relive the plastic fiasco. For her own sanity, she continued to stare at the placid lake. “Let’s say—” she thought fast “—from the top of the hour to the half hour the bathroom is yours. From the half hour to the top of the next hour, it’s mine. I stay out the first half of every hour and you stay out the second half. That way, any time of the day or night, we know when the bathroom is ours and we can avoid each other at our leisure. How’s that?” She had to admit, it wasn’t a bad suggestion, considering it was off the top of her head. She clamped her hands together, waiting.
“Sounds good,” he said.
She swallowed, more relieved than she wanted to admit. A surge of satisfaction dashed through her at the small but satisfying success. “Fine. Now, go away.”
After a beat, he said, “Look, Miss Hudson, I don’t know what problem you have with me, but if you don’t mind a little frankness, I’m no more interested in being around you than you are in being around me.”
He grew quiet, and she wondered if that was her cue to speak. She stared at nothing, all her senses focused on the man standing behind her on her threshold. “Great,” she said. “I’m thrilled neither of us wants anything to do with the other.”
“Now that that’s out in the open,” he said, “have a nice stay.”
“Have a nice life,” she shot back, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Arrogant ass.”
