Sam's knightly gallantry sobered her.
A long, awkward silence ensued. Libby chewed her bottom lip. Fetch watched her with doleful eyes. Sam restlessly shifted his position once and then twice, bouncing the swing and finally setting it in a motion with a firm nudge of his foot on the wooden floor.
Libby grabbed the armrest to keep from falling out. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing!"
"Are you mad at me?"
"Of course not."
"At Fetch?"
"No, he was just doing his job."
"Then what's the matter?"
"I told you. Nothing."
There was another heavy silence. Tension as tangible as lightning arced between them.
Finally she couldn't tolerate the suspense. "You don't feel well, do you? The gumbo made you sick, and you won't admit it."
"The gumbo was fine." He sounded impatient. "And I only had a bite, anyway."
"Would a cold drink help?"
"Not unless I shower in it."
"Oh!" Libby felt her face flame. "Sam?"
"What?"
"Did you...? Was that...?" She sighed. "Were you trying to prove another point just now?"
"Hell no. Were you?"
"Hell no."
"Then why are we sitting here like a couple of lovesick teenagers, dying to go in and finish what we started?"
"Beats me. We both know we have nothing in common but this resort."
"You can say that again."
"And we know we're opposites."
"Exactly."
"And we know that I never, ever waste my precious time on any man I wouldn't marry."
"Right," he agreed with a curt nod.
"So why can't I resist you?"
He caught his breath. "You can't resist me?"
"Apparently not." She sighed. "What's the matter with us? Why are we acting like this?"
"Because we can't help it." Sam halted the swing and got to his feet. "Come on, I'll show you what's to blame for this insanity." He reached down to get Libby up and pulled her to the edge of the porch. Pointing heavenward, he drew her attention to the full moon, shining brightly down on them.
"The moon?"
"The moon, the flowers, the lake, the autumn wind, and everything else in your honeymoon hideaway. This place is lethal. We're not right for one another, yet here we stand, wannabe lovers with nothing in common. Can't you see the danger?"
Libby winced at his candid words. "I see the danger... To men and women like us, anyway."
"Well thank heaven for small favors," Sam said, visibly relieved. "It's just as I told you before, a resort like Wildwood can mess up your mind. All this—" He swept his arm to include the whole resort. "—makes living together seems so desirable, so easy. You've created a dream world here, Libby, one that perpetrates the happily-ever-after theory of life. And though your intentions are good, you actually hinder the married couples who visit by destroying their ability to cope with reality."
Libby held her tongue until he stopped to breathe, when she put a finger to his lips. "Did you hear what you just said?"
"Of course I heard what I just said. I said it."
"Then you do realize that the men and women who come here are married?"
"Now that would be pretty freakin' hard to prove. Unless you ask to see a marriage license when they check-in."
"True. And I don't require a license, but I think I'd be fairly safe in saying that fifty percent of them are legit anyway."
"Probably more," he admitted. "If the graffiti on the cars is anything to go by."
"Exactly. And since the couples who come here are already committed to one another, the danger, as you put it, of Wildwood is neutralized. It performs its intended function, providing a haven, a little R and R, from all those problems you mentioned."
"A pit stop from the rat race of life?"
"I'm serious!" Not for the first time Libby lost her patience with him.
Sam pulled her into his arms, resting his chin on her head. "I know you are, and if it'll make you feel any better, the lawyer in me has to admit that you're making some sense."
"You're actually admitting I'm right?" Libby tipped her head back to look him dead in the eye.
"Yes, I am, God help me."
She smiled, pleased by that unexpected victory. "Does that mean you've changed your mind about getting rid of Wildwood?"
"Not on your life. Come Monday, Ramona is going to call the representatives of those two franchises, and if either one of them is still interested, I'm out."
Libby pulled free of his embrace. "Then I'd better get to work." She moved toward the door. "You're mine until Monday, and I've got to line up a few ghosts."
"Ghosts?" Sam said, with an incredulous laugh.
"Ghosts." Libby whistled to Fetch, followed him inside, and shut the door behind her without another word.
Shaking his head in bemusement, Sam stepped off the porch and walked with reluctant steps to his distressingly empty, oh-so-lonely cabin.
* * * *
Libby dragged herself out of bed just before the sun rose Sunday morning, not an easy feat since something—or maybe someone—had cost her a sleepless night. Ruing the fact that she hadn't knocked on wood when bragging that nothing ever kept her awake, she dressed in beat-up sneakers, faded jeans, and a sweatshirt sporting a picture of a female angler and the legend Support Your Local Hooker. Fifteen minutes after her feet hit the floor, she stepped out her door, fully equipped with a thermos of coffee, a sack of pastries stolen from the kitchen, and a well-planned strategy.
Fetch bounded out with her, his long black tail wagging his delight at the early outing. Snatching up at tackle box and two of the fishing rods she kept handy on a rack just inside the door, she headed out. Fetch hit the ground running and loped toward the small lake. He halted in confusion seconds later when she whistled. Whirling, he caught up with her as she crossed the road to Sam's cabin.
Juggling her unwieldy load, she managed a peek at her watch. Just before seven. She sniffed the air, loving the mingled scents of roses, dew-moistened pine, juniper. How she loved her mountain, especially early like this. Humming, she walked straight to Sam's door and, knocked. When no one answered immediately, she knocked again, louder.
No response.
Had Sam had second thoughts about giving her his weekend? Had he slipped away in the night and run back to Memphis before she could change his mind? She dumped the food and gear on the porch.
"Sam!" She banged on the door with both fists. "Wake up!"
She heard a muffled "Go 'way." Overwhelmed with relief that she still had a reluctant guest, she sagged against the door.
Go away, huh? She grinned. Fat chance. She'd spent much of the night before planning the rest of Sam's weekend. Nothing short of disaster would sway her from her goal.
Libby dug out her keys and inserted the master into the lock. Sam was sprawled face down on the bed in nothing but boxer briefs, with one leg and arm under the blanket and his head buried beneath two pillows.
After hanging back for a second, she got up the nerve to approach the bed, for a short moment toying with the idea of kissing him awake. She abandoned that foolhardy notion almost immediately. She knew her limits, but didn't know Sam's. One husky "Morning" might be all it would take to send them both over the edge...or between the sheets.
"Sic 'em, Fetch." Gleefully, the dog leapt onto the bed. A second later, a very cold nose and an eager pink tongue found the small Sam's bare back.
"Arrrgh!" Her boss rolled off the bed and landed at her feet in a tangle of pillows, blankets, and long, muscled legs.
Her hoot of laughter turned into a surprised screech when Sam grabbed her ankles and yanked her feet right out from under her. She fell heavily onto the bed. Sam dragged her into his waiting arms and fell back on the heap of bed linens on the floor.
"You rat!" Libby laughed as she struggled to free herself. But she couldn't, and a twist of Sam's body put her fully beneath him, hands pinned between them. Their eyes met. Her laughter died.
Sam smiled lazily at Libby and lowered his face with slow deliberation. Her lips tingled with anticipation of his kiss, a kiss that never came. Instead he nuzzled her neck with his whisker-rough face and teased her ear lobe with his lips and tongue.
She melted into a puddle of submission beneath him.
Chuckling softly, Sam shifted his weight onto his forearms, a move that freed her hands. He tangled his fingers in her disheveled hair and gave her the kiss she craved. Intensely aware of every bare inch of him, Libby abandoned her token resistance, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and her legs around his lower body. She returned his kiss with enthusiasm, until Fetch decided he wanted to play, too. With a yelp of joy, he pounced.
"Damn dumb dog!" Sam ducked his head to avoid Fetch's handy pink tongue. "It's no wonder you're not married, with that flop-eared mutt around."
"Fetch is not dumb!" Libby pushed her boss and her dog away so she could get to her feet. "He just wants us to quit fooling around so we can get on with this."
Sam glared at her from the floor. "How can we get on with this if we quit fooling around?"
Huffing her irritation, Libby stalked to the door and reached outside to retrieve the fishing rods. She held them up. "Not that—this. I came to take you fishing."
"Why didn't you say so?" Sam leapt to his feet and snatched up a pair of jeans from his open bag. As soon as he got them on, he dug around for a T-shirt, which he quickly pulled over his head. "I'll be ready as soon as I find my glasses and brush my teeth." He began laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"Support your local hooker?" He disappeared into the bathroom.
She glanced down at the bright red letters and grinned. "A present from my dad last birthday. Like it?"
"It's, uh, colorful. And the point is well taken. Tell your dad I'd willingly do my part if that dog of yours would just let me."
Libby had to laugh. "My dad is six-foot-four and weighs two-fifty. He bought Fetch to guard the place. Still want me to tell him?"
"Not so much." Sam turned and led the way out the door.