“And how’d you know It’s ‘Miss’?” she couldn’t resist asking, and wished fervently that she didn’t sound so breathless. And wished he would move his leg, his arms, just not stand so close.
“Your Aunt Mattie and Uncle Hubert have told me about you in great, glowing terms, about your business, your astute … mind, the cute little things you did in high school, how you lived with an Aunt Ziza before you came to stay with them, your breakup with Ted Farnsworth. I’ve listened to your letters …”
“Oh, no!” The day had started badly. With Oregon Brown’s words it went downhill like an avalanche.
“Oh, yes. I know all about Theodore Farnsworth and … what was the name of the guy you dated three times after you broke up with Farnsworth? Brogan?”
“Dammit!” She gasped for breath. “That is none of your business any more than kissing me is!”
He grinned, that wide, infuriating grin that was as inviting as the yellow brick road. Well, she was immune to that grin. Absolutely. Inoculated by fury, rage, and anger.
He tilted her chin up. She tried to jerk away, but his fingers tightened on her jaw. “I kissed you because you needed to be kissed. I’ve heard the letters about how you’re swearing off men, how terrible Farnsworth was, about how you decided to swear off men after Brogan …”
She managed to glare at him, but what was the matter with her heart, her lungs, her nerves? Her heart was thumping wildly, her lungs wouldn’t function, and her nerves were overfunctioning because of a freckled-faced, tousled-headed, mulish man! “You keep out of my life!” she snapped.
“It’s too interesting, hon,” he said with maddening cheer. “You’re very particular about men, you know that?”
“That’s enough!”
He took hold of one of her hands before she could snatch it away. “Who’s the current guy?”
“That’s none of your business!” He was studying her hand as if he had never seen one in his life. One of his big fingers traced up and down her small, slender ones, trailing lightly between them, sending fiery tingles spreading upward that were more intense than such a light touch warranted. “I’ll have to have a talk with Aunt Mattie about my letters,” she added.
“Don’t worry your sweet aunt.” His eyes caught and held hers. “It’s been fun to hear them. You have a nice sense of the ridiculous. Too much humor for Mr. Farnsworth. That was good riddance. Brogan, too.”
Odious Oregon Oliver Brown. He really was unbelievably odious. As irritating as his goat. “You and Billy belong together. What a perfect pair!”
He grinned and twisted a golden curl around his finger. “Such blond curls. Who has the curliest hair?”
“I don’t really care!”
“Let’s put our heads together and see.” He leaned forward until his forehead touched hers and ran his big hand over the tops of their heads. Harmless, except his eyes were absorbing her and his lips were a fraction of an inch away. Too, too close. Then they weren’t away at all. They brushed hers, melded with hers, and his bold tongue played havoc with her nerves.
This time she recovered faster, but the residual effect went deeper. Her mouth tingled and ached for more, but what did her lips know about anything?
He laughed and his dimples showed, twin indentations that were mirth and fun. The pesky man was “danger” in big red letters!
“I’ll nail up the fence,” he said, “then come over and look at the damage.”
“You do that.” His arms dropped away and she felt degrees cooler. She stomped off down the street, but from her head to her heels, the back of her tingled with an irresistible tug. She fought it past one more house, to the corner, then she had to yield. She looked back. He stood facing her, his muscled arms folded over his broad chest, grinning from freckled ear to freckled ear, sunshine creating a nimbus of red-gold curls around his head. He waved.
Charity gritted her teeth and marched around the corner. She hated the thought of selling Uncle Hubert’s paper to such a lazy, ornery man. A man who owned a goat so he wouldn’t have to mow. Who lazed in a hammock at eleven in the morning. A man whose kiss was the devil’s own temptation!
Now, why had she thought that? His kisses weren’t temptation. No. She was just lonesome. They merely seemed better than Ted’s or Hank Brogan’s—Charity stopped in her tracks, then clamped her jaw shut until it ached. They merely seemed better because it had been so long since anyone had kissed her. It was loneliness. The same dreadful loneliness that made Rory Craig Runyon’s voice sound so sexy, so tempting. She chewed on her lip. Mr. O. O. Brown was obnoxious! Probably the only reason the old goat didn’t attack Brown was because the man was as big as a tank. The goat knew when he had met his match. Billy goat. What a name. No originality at all!
As she turned the next corner, she glanced overhead and saw gray clouds darkening the day, gathering, rolling swiftly across the sky while the wind blew in fierce gusts. They needed rain, but the clouds might blow right over without spilling a drop. Too bad a storm hadn’t come early enough to keep Billy in his own backyard!
She marched up the walk; Aunt Mattie wasn’t in sight. She found her aunt in the kitchen.
“Aunt Mattie,” she shouted.
“Oh, dear, what’s wrong?”
“Oh, you have on your hearing aid. Aunt Mattie, Mr. Brown will be over shortly. His goat got into our yard and ate up my plants this morning.”
“Billy did?”
Charity felt a sinking feeling. “You know Billy?”
“That sweet little goat. Isn’t he cute? Almost like a puppy.”
Charity wanted to grind her teeth. “Aunt Mattie, that goat is mean as hel—as heck.”
“Billy? He wouldn’t harm a fly. You should’ve seen the way he let Hubert feed him little bites of cookies. Oregon took a board out of the fence so Billy could come over. Hubert would rock and Billy would stand on the patio, wagging his little tail, waiting for Hubert to break off a bite and hold it out. Then Billy would whisk it out of Hubert’s hand so cutely.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes while Charity wondered if O. O. Brown had two goats.
“It was Billy?”
“Yes. You’ll love him.”
“I don’t believe so. Aunt Mattie, what does Mr. Brown do, besides owning the radio station?”
“He inherited his father’s wheat land—there’s oil on it. He has a man to manage the farm.”
“I vaguely remember the Browns when I lived here during high school, but I don’t remember Oregon Brown.”
“Oh, no, dear. He’s older than you. Oregon is thirty-two, and when you were in high school, he was already out of college. He’d moved to Virginia and was working on the Washington Post. He came back here after his parents’ death. He’s been here about six months now. He goes to the same church we do. You’ll see him when we go.”
Charity’s mind was on something else. So he did know how to work. Journalism. No wonder he wanted the paper. “Aunt Mattie, please don’t read my letters to Oregon Brown.”
Aunt Mattie laughed. “Your letters are interesting, and Oregon used to come sit on the patio with us and I’d read your latest letter.”
The doorbell interrupted Charity’s reply about the letters. “That’s probably Mr. Brown,” she said. For one fleeting moment she thought of his green eyes and wished she had brushed her hair and washed her face. Ridiculous. She compressed her lips and walked to the door and opened it.
The sight of Oregon Brown made her heart jump in the most absurd manner. She had been too long without kisses and hugs and dates, and her heart, her lips, her entire body didn’t understand that she didn’t want to notice the man standing before her. Down to her most insignificant little nerve, she noticed Oregon Brown. Noticed and quivered like willow branches in the summer wind. “You’ve already hammered that board in place?” she asked suspiciously.
“It fits on. I used to keep it off so Billy could come see your uncle Hubert. Wind blew it off last night.” He leaned close to her throat and sniffed.
She looked down at his freckled cheek, the thick copper-colored lashes. His breath tickled her throat, and she had to fight an urge to jump back. “What are you doing?”
“I thought maybe it was your perfume that Billy didn’t like. Mmmm, he couldn’t dislike that fragrance. What is it?” He straightened.
Why did she suspect everything he said or did? Maybe it was the ever-present laughter in his eyes, as if he found her a constant source of amusement. She said, “It’s Chloe. Billy just doesn’t like me. He wasn’t, close enough to smell my perfume.”
“Let’s go look at the disaster area.”
“Aunt Mattie!” she called as she led the way. “I don’t know where she is. She was just here.” When they reached the patio. Charity waved her arm in a sweeping gesture. “There!”
He looked at the plants, the littered floor. His gaze shifted to the porch swing, drifting up the chain fastened to the ceiling, and his lips pursed again. His brow furrowed, and her anger shot up accordingly. “I’d like to see you hang up there an hour!” The moment she said it she wished she could take it back. Oregon Brown would never be treed by a goat. And she knew it made his amusement deepen.
His eyes met hers. “I’ll pay for everything.” He reached into a back pocket and withdrew a pencil and note pad. “Let’s sit down and you list them off.”
She didn’t want to sit down with Oregon Brown, but she perched on the swing anyway. When he settled beside her, his broad shoulder touching hers lightly, she had a ridiculous urge to jump up and move. Determined not to be bothered by the man, she studied her wrecked greenery instead of him. But it was so difficult to ignore his fresh scent, the jean-clad knee near hers, and his big hands moving close to her.
She took a deep breath and said, “There’s a philodendron, my banana plant, which was five—” Forgetting her resolve not to look at him, she turned and glared accusingly at Oregon. The hint of longing in his eyes startled her, and she instantly lost her train of thought.
He waited for a moment, then his brows arched questioningly. “Yes?”
He had the most enticing mouth, a beautifully shaped upper lip and slightly full lower lip. He smiled, and she realized he had asked her a question.
“You have a five-year-old banana plant?” he prompted.
“No, I don’t know how old it was! What difference does its age make?”
Even though his expression remained Impassive, she heard the suppressed laughter in his voice. “Charity, you said you had a banana plant that was five. I presumed you meant five years old.”
She clenched her jaw. “It was five feet tall.”
“Oh! Five feet tall. You didn’t say that.”
Damn the man. He was every bit as odious now as he had been earlier! She wished she knew how to stop a blush. His eyes were twinkling, but then the twinkle disappeared, replaced by a solemn look. Something was happening between them. He focused on her intently, sitting absolutely still. The air fairly crackled between them, and then it was gone. There was no air to breathe. She couldn’t get the smallest breath. She couldn’t talk. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from Oregon Brown’s. And he seemed to be suffering the same malady.
Only, he could move. He leaned over and kissed her. It was a light, questing kiss, his lips brushed hers, his knee barely pressed hers, and his hands didn’t touch her. Again he brushed her lips with his, and it was so delectable! Her heart was thudding as his mouth settled on hers, parting her lips sweetly, and his tongue probed inside.
Somewhere in the depths of her being she felt the tension that gripped her tighten its hold. It became too constricting to bear. She struggled to gather her wits, vaguely aware that they weren’t alone, that Mattie might appear any minute.
She straightened and leaned back. Oregon’s mouth was parted from their kiss, and his lids were drooping over his blazing eyes. “Let’s stick to the plants,” she said, her voice a breathy whisper.
“Plants?”
She knew he was about to reach for her again. And she knew that part of her wanted him to, that she might not be able to resist. She stood up and crossed the patio to the plants. Her thumping heart didn’t seem to realize she had moved away from the source of trouble. When she turned to look at Oregon, her pulse raced just as rapidly as before.
“He ate a five-foot banana plant.” She could barely say the words. Oregon sat back, one foot on his knee, one arm stretched on the back of the swing. He was looking at her with such intensity she felt as if she were the first and only woman he had ever desired. With an effort she tore her gaze away. “You’re not taking notes,” she said.
“No, I forgot all about notes,” he answered in a husky voice that was as sexy as his kiss.
“Well, write it down!” She risked looking at him.
One corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked grin that showed off his dimples and aggravated her. He looked so damned smug! As if he knew his kisses or his voice or his eyes could turn her knees to jelly. She raised her chin, and his grin widened.
“Will you stop that!” she snapped, then instantly wished she hadn’t lost control. They were locked in a contest and he had just scored.
In a sensual, suggestive drawl that shook her to her toes, he asked, “Stop what?”
“Just write down the plants Billy ate.” She ground out the words, hating the blush that burned her cheeks. She turned with determination to study another destroyed plant. “One palm, very healthy and very large.”
“You like plants, don’t you?”
“These were left from my landscaping business.”
“Why did you have tropical plants in a landscape company?”
She tried to talk without looking at him, and it felt ridiculous. “People wanted me to do their patios, and occasionally I’d provide plants inside a house or business.”
“You had a run of bad luck last summer. Hubert told me about the employee who lost control of the mower and drove through the plate-glass window and lobby of a building.”
“Insurance covered most of that one, but they canceled the policy when another employee hit a parked car with a mower,” she said to the stub of the palm. Her pulse was almost down to normal. She faced him. He smiled, and it wasn’t as earthshaking as she had feared. It was pleasant, downright pleasant to look at Oregon Brown!
“Where’d you find the employees?”
She shrugged. “I had a hard time keeping any. They’d come and go. That was the biggest problem. Another one drove a mower into the lake in front of the Tower Center complex, and that really cost me. I had to pay for two more ride-on mowers and the damaged cars.” She looked back at her plants. “Well, here’s what’s left of the fern. I guess it’ll come out again and survive.”
He made a note. “One fern.”
“And he ate a cactus! How could he chew up a cactus?”
“Billy can crunch down most anything that doesn’t get him first,” Oregon said with an engaging grin. “What else?”
“As I said before, he ate my philodendron, but don’t worry about it. I can replace it easily.” Suddenly she felt silly for making such an issue of five plants. To Oregon, who probably had seen whole wheat farms destroyed by hail, it must be absolutely absurd.
Oregon wrote it down anyway. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s all. The plants were all I had left from my business, and somehow, as long as I had them, I felt as if I still had part of my business, as if I could start again.” She shook her head. “I guess that sounds silly.”
“Are you going to start over?”
“I’d like to, but I don’t think I can for a long time.” She didn’t add the reason, but she had a suspicion Oregon Brown had already been informed about her debts to the last penny. She had written detailed letters to Uncle Hubert.
“Are you going to stay in Enid a while?”
“Yes. I have to decide what to do about Aunt Mattie. You know, now that I’ve calmed down, the whole thing doesn’t seem that important. I don’t need a five-foot banana plant or a palm tree. Maybe I wanted something that was mine to take care of. Just forget it, Oregon.”
He rose, a coordinated unfolding of his big frame that made her feel as if the patio had suddenly shrunk and he was filling it completely. “It’s nothing,” he said easily. “Hereafter I’ll keep Billy home. I can’t imagine why he doesn’t like you. Shows a definite lack of intelligence.”
She smiled. “Thanks.” Now, why couldn’t Oregon be nice like that all the time? Just pleasant, instead of ornery and teasing and disturbing!
“I’ll just go home this way. See you later.”
He sauntered across the yard, and it was difficult to stop watching him. She went to the kitchen, and when she looked out the window he had disappeared. Deciding that, for her own peace of mind, she should think about anything but him, she started cleaning the kitchen cabinets, changing shelf paper that hadn’t been changed in years, and thought about Rory Runyon. An idea came to her and sent her into her room to make a list of song titles that she would request just to hear them repeated in Rory Runyon’s husky voice.
That night, hours after Mattie had gone to bed. Charity bathed, pulled on a cotton nightie, and climbed into bed with the list of songs. At the same time that the familiar music started, a flash of lightning briefly illuminated the room. Outside a steady patter of raindrops was beating on the sloping patio roof. Charity settled against the pillows, closing her eyes to conjure up an image of Tom Selleck while she listened to the radio.
“Here we are again,” Rory Runyon said. “It’s ‘Nighttime,’ coming to you from Station KKZF with songs for midnight, soft, lulling music to put you in the mood. Have you been outside? There are rain clouds over us tonight, a gentle spring rain. Snuggle up, darlin’. We’ll listen to music while raindrops pitter-pat on the windows.”
Oh, how Charity wanted to snuggle up! His voice wrapped its shaggy warmth around her, enveloping her.
“Darlin’ …” Pause. Charity opened her eyes and looked at the radio. Then, in a lazy baritone voice, so sexy she quivered from shoulder to knee, Rory continued. “This song is for you, darlin’, just you.” Didn’t she wish! “Here’s your song, darlin’. Here’s ‘Just You and Me.’ ”
She sank down, pulling the soft sheet to her chin while she listened to the music and wondered about Rory Runyon. Was he married? Did he have a woman in his life? Where did he live? She would ask Oregon Brown. Rory worked for Oregon, and surely Oregon would know whether the man was married or not. What a voice he had! “Just You and Me.” Oh, to hear him say it again! Oregon had a sexy voice, too, but his personality ruined the effect. She did not want to think about Oregon Brown. She refused to think about him. Her lips tingled. She pressed them together, squeezed her eyes closed, and waited. The record finally finished.
“ ‘Just You and Me,’ darlin’.” Rory said. “There it is for you alone.” His voice raised a fraction. “Here’s something special—Captain Nemo’s Fudge Bars. Fresh, delicious chocolate, melt-in-your mouth bites. I mean to tell you, these are mouth-waterin’, oozy”—his voice lowered with every word, and every word wafted over Charity’s simmering nerves, causing tremors—“ sweet fudge, the thick, dark fudge like Momma used to make. Did you like to lick the pan?”
“Yes,” Charity said, agonizing over his drawling pronunciation.
“Oh, so did I. Scrape a little bit of thick fu-udge”—and “fudge” became a two-syllable, drawn-out word that made Charity take a long, deep breath—“off the pan and lick the last drop off the spoon. Well, I’ll tell you what. If you like fudge, get some Captain Nemo Fudge Bars and unwrap the silver paper to bite off a chunk and s-a-v-o-r it”—Charity savored his voice, wriggling her hips unconsciously and running the tip of her tongue over her dry lips—“hold it in your mouth and just let it melt. That soft, creamy rich chocolate, so thick. Let it melt. You’ll agree Captain Nemo’s Fudge Bars are the most delicious candy you’ve tasted. Try some soon, y’hear? Listen to that rain. Makes you want to curl up where it’s warm and dry, doesn’t it?” Charity wanted to curl up with Rory Runyon.
“Here’s a song for a rainy night, for you, darlin’,” he said in a voice like a distant rumble of thunder. “Here’s ‘I’ve Got Love on My Mind.’ ”
Charity wiggled her toes and wondered what Rory was wearing, what kind of car he drove. Again she went over his talk of the past few minutes, the way he said certain words that made them sensuous, suggestive, so sexy! At the same time she felt ridiculous. Never in her life had she acted so silly or felt so lonesome. Maybe it was everything rolled together—being away from home, away from her friends, the worries, the loss of her business. Her attention returned to the radio as Rory came on to ask for requests. Charity reached for the phone and dialed, only to receive a busy signal.
Aggravated, she listened to a young girl’s giggly voice talk to Rory Runyon.
“Rory, this is—” The girl giggled and finally gasped, “Gloria!”
“Hi, there, Gloria. Do you listen to ‘Nighttime’ often?”
More giggles. Charity groaned. Gloria’s squeaky voice said, “I listen every night you’re on.”
“Do you, really? My goodness, what a fan you are! What would you like to hear tonight?”
Charity rolled her eyes while she listened to giggles, but she did notice Rory’s voice had raised from the intimate, husky level and he wasn’t using “darlin’.” The man had some sense as well as a sexy voice. Gloria giggled and gasped as she answered, “I’d like, ‘Mean Mr. Mustard.’ ”
“ ‘Mean Mr. Mustard’ it is!” Rory laughed softly. “Here he is, just for Gloria.”
Disgusted, Charity threw back the covers and went to the kitchen to get a drink of water. As she stood at the kitchen sink, lightning flashed and she saw Oregon Brown’s dark house. Oregon Brown. For an instant she remembered his kisses and felt as if an invisible bolt of lightning had streaked through the stormy sky and struck her. An electric jolt sizzled in her; then she shook her head to clear away the memory. The man could kiss. No doubt about it.
She hurried back to the bedroom and climbed into bed in time to hear the end of “Mean Mr. Mustard,” and Gloria’s final giggles. Then Rory’s velvety voice glided like thick fog into the room.
Charity continued to listen and wasn’t able to call in a request until the last half hour of the program. Finally she breathed ecstatically into the phone, “Rory, this is Charity.”
“Charity, darlin’.”
Oh, my! A dreamy sensation swirled in her. “I thought you’d never call,” he continued. “Just tune in, darlin’?”
“No. The line was busy before.”
“You’ve listened since the beginning?” He sounded so satisfied! What difference would it make to him whether she listened or not?
“I’ve listened from the very first. Since you played ‘Just You and Me.’ ”
“Good! What would you like to hear now?”
Ahhh. Even though she knew it from memory, she held the list beneath the red glow of the radio. It was a toss-up between “You Do Something to Me,” and “You’re My Thrill.” She chose “You’re My Thrill,” and put heart and soul into it when she said it to him. “Rory, ‘You’re My Thrill.’ ” Her heart thudded violently, and she blushed.
“ ‘You’re My Thrill,’ “ darlin’,” he repeated, only he changed the emphasis to “my” . “Don’t go ‘way.”
The music came on, an old instrumental song, then faded into the background as Rory said, “Darlin’, I’ve been waiting for your call.”
She was sure he said that to everyone. Everyone maybe except the gigglers and kids like Gloria. But she loved it anyway and sighed with satisfaction. “I’ve tried, Rory.”
“I wish we were together. Listen to the rain, darlin’. I’d like to be beside you and we’d listen to the rain and I’d hold you.” His voice dropped to a raspy purr. “Hold you and kiss you.”
“Oh, you don’t know me! You might feel differently if we met.”
“We’re going to have to meet soon, darlin’. Real soon.”
“Rory, are you married?” The words came out as if of their own volition. Why had she asked him that? She sat up, burning with embarrassment.
“No, darlin’, I’m not married. You’re not either, are you?”
“No. I didn’t mean to get so personal, but all I know is a voice. I get curious …”
“Ask away, darlin’. I’ll answer anything you want to know,” he said in such intimate, suggestive tones that she blanked out completely. Not one question came to mind.
“No questions, darlin’?” He chuckled softly. She nestled in the soft, warm sheets and let his voice nuzzle her, sending her senses into a trembling longing that wiped out logical thought.
She listened in silence to the music, then Rory said, “Darlin’, we’re going back on the air and it’s time to close. Call me tomorrow night, will you?”
“Oh, yes!”
“I’ll think of you when I go home tonight. Sleep well, darlin’.”
How could she sleep after that! She hung up the phone and listened to him say good night to her on the air, then play his last song and close. It was an hour before she drifted to sleep, and then she dreamed about green-gold eyes and aggravating dimples.
The next day, Tuesday, she woke to a sunny morning and dressed again in cut-offs and a blue T-shirt. Forgetting about Oregon and the plants, she helped Mattie clean out Uncle Hubert’s desk and dresser, unaware of the change in the weather as the morning went on. Gray clouds appeared on the horizon and gradually moved overhead, bringing rumbles of thunder and the threat of more rain. About eleven o’clock the doorbell rang. Charity answered to find a uniformed man holding a large basket of philodendron. He peered at her over it. “Are you Miss Webster?”
“Yes,” she answered. Beyond him she saw a truck with “Smith’s Flowers” painted on the side.
“Well, I’m supposed to deliver some plants. Where do you want them?”
“Around the back, on the patio, please. I’ll take this one.”
“Sure.” He handed over the basket and sauntered to the truck. Charity explained to Aunt Mattie and went out to the patio to tell the man where to set the plants. And discovered that Oregon had doubled the replacement. When the man had finished and left, Charity stood on the porch with two six-foot banana plants, two potted palms, two baskets of philodendron, one tall, spiky cactus and one short cactus, three kinds of ferns, two pots of ivy, a new airplane plant, and another dieffenbachia. As she surveyed the greenery, a mixture of emotions churned in her. She was embarrassed that she had demanded Oregon replace what Billy had destroyed, she was aggravated at his generosity, and she loved the plants. While she mulled it over, Aunt Mattie called to her, “Charity, here’s Oregon.”
With a startled glance at her cut-offs and T-shirt, she turned to the back door as it opened and he appeared. Her heart jumped ridiculously over the big smile he flashed at her. Dressed in a blue plaid cotton shirt and faded jeans, he was as forceful as ever. “I see the plants arrived,” he said.
“Thanks, but you went beyond the call of duty. I feel silly for getting so angry about a bunch of plants.”
He shrugged and strolled over to one of the banana plants, measuring its height against his shoulder. “That’s okay. I owed them to you.”
“Not twice as many! You sent me more than Billy ate.”
He looked at her, and her body tingled from her head to her toes. “That’s what I wanted to do.”
End of subject. “Well, thank you. I love them!”
“Good.” He walked back to her and braced one hand against the wall and leaned over her. “What else do you love besides plants, Charity Jane?”
“You ought to know, you’ve heard all the letters!” she snapped, losing the friendly warmth she had felt for about one minute toward Oregon. She wanted to run, but he had her blocked between the wall, the banana plants, his arm, and his body. Thunder rumbled and a flash of lightning crackled across the cloudy sky. To Charity’s relief, the back door opened and Aunt Mattie appeared with a chilled pitcher of lemonade, ice cubes rattling and clinking as she struggled through the door. Oregon relieved her of the pitcher instantly, stretching his long arm over Charity’s head to hold the door.
“It’s almost lunch time,” Aunt Mattie said, “so I fixed some sandwiches.”
Oregon grinned while Charity groaned inwardly. She didn’t want to have lunch with him. A gust of wind whipped across the patio, bringing cooler air that smelled like rain.
“Oh, my.” Aunt Mattie looked up. “Maybe we’ll have to eat inside.”
“I think so.” Oregon squinted at the overcast sky. “Storm’s coming up fast.”
Another gust buffeted them, flinging gritty dust against Charity’s bare legs. At the end of the patio, the dieffenbachia bent dangerously beneath the onslaught.
“Oh, the plants!” Charity cried. “You two go inside. I’ll take in the ones that can’t stand the wind.”
While Oregon held the door for Aunt Mattie and disappeared behind her, Charity picked up a flowerpot and carried it to her room.
When she turned to leave the bedroom, she almost collided with Oregon and a large potted palm. He smiled through the fronds. “Thought I’d help.”
“Thanks.”
He was blocking her path, and slowly lowered the plant and looked around. “This is your bedroom.”
A tingle, definitely unwanted, slipped down her back. He had a sexy, vibrant voice. It didn’t match the rest of him. In fairness, she realized that was a harsh judgment. If they had met under other circumstances, she might not have felt that way at all. His green eyes could be so inviting!
“Yes, It is,” she said coolly. “Will you step aside, please? My plants will get ruined.”
“Oh, sure. Just curious about where you sleep.”
He could fill the most innocuous statement with such innuendo. She hurried outside, glad to be on the cool patio. Black clouds were boiling overhead, darkening the day to dusk. Wind gusts swept against the house, spattering big, cold drops of rain. She picked up another pot. Large hands took it from her. “I’ll get these. Go inside; you’ll get wet.”
“I won’t melt.”
He grinned, and his gaze drifted down. “Guess you won’t at that.”
She clamped her jaw closed and grabbed another plant. He held the door while balancing a huge potted palm. They just set the plants down in the kitchen, but when Charity turned back to the porch, it was being drenched by the driving gray rain. Determined to save the remaining plants, she braved the cold water and snatched up two more pots.
One more trip outside and they were through. And soaked thoroughly. As they stood dripping on the kitchen floor, she looked at Oregon. He was staring at her, and his heated gaze slowly lowered over her face, her neck, her shoulders, then paused.
And she realized her wet shirt was plastered to her, molding the full, soft curves of her breasts and revealing her hardened nipples.
His eyes flicked up to hers, and he smiled lazily. She blushed furiously, certain he could feel the heat.
“I’ll go change,” she said.
“Here, Oregon.” Aunt Mattie appeared from the hallway. “I brought you a towel. Give me your shirt and I’ll put it in the dryer.”
“Sure thing.”
Charity fled the kitchen as if the demons of hell were after her. She didn’t want to stand there and watch Oregon Brown take off his shirt. She hoped the mere thought didn’t disable her heart.
She closed the bedroom door, but she couldn’t shut out the feeling of invasion. Oregon Brown’s aura lingered in the room, big and male and overwhelming.
She changed quickly into jeans, a white shirt, and sandals. She brushed her hair and applied a little blush, a dab of perfume. And braced herself for the next encounter as she stepped into the kitchen.
She didn’t brace enough. Aunt Mattie and Oregon were sitting at the kitchen table, her aunt’s back to the door and Oregon facing it. He had a small blue towel thrown carelessly across his shoulders with the ends draping over his chest, but it didn’t hide his golden, freckled bare shoulders, the soft, curly red-gold fuzz that covered his impressive chest and tapered slightly to disappear beneath the low-slung damp jeans. When he saw her, he stood up in a sensuous movement that was filled with masculine grace.
He held out a chair while his languorous appraisal of her fouled up her brain. The room was suffocatingly hot; the walls were closing in. He was just so damned big and male and fit. There wasn’t anywhere to look. She didn’t want to meet his amused, knowing eyes. She didn’t want to gaze at his powerful, sexy body—and it was so sexy! And she didn’t want to ignore him, because it would reveal to him how disturbed she was. Another muddle brought on by Oregon Brown! She opted to look into his eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t. He was very obviously amused.
The chair he had pulled out was next to his. Why hadn’t he been so damned polite yesterday when he was stretched in his hammock? She didn’t want to sit by him, but she wasn’t going to let the man scare her. So she took the chair he offered.
As soon as she sat down, he shifted his chair away. The relief she felt was short-lived, because in two seconds she realized that he had moved so that he was in her view. He could look at her and it would be natural for her to look back at him. And if he stretched out his legs, they would touch hers.
“Now we can eat,” Aunt Mattie said, oblivious of the broad bare chest that made Charity sure she couldn’t swallow one bite. That towel was so tiny.
“Have a tuna sandwich. Charity. The wheat-bread sandwiches are tuna and the white-bread sandwiches are pimento cheese.”
Charity reached for the plate. Just as her fingers closed on it, lightning crackled and an explosion reverberated in the storm. The kitchen lights blinked off.