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.If I have something Bubba needs, he can have it.” She sauntered over to him, hands on her hips, eyes an even deeper, darker, sexier green at twilight.“You know, Sinclair, you’re starting to piss me off.”He grinned at her and before he could talk himself out of it, he tucked a finger under her chin, gave her that half second to tell him he was really pissing her off, and kissed her.Hard, quick and with no plans for regret.“Well, I—you’ve your nerve,” she said, pretending to be stunned.He laughed.“Don’t tell me you’ve got all the men around here too afraid to kiss you.”“I’m not telling you anything.”She sniffed, straightening her ragged flannel shirt, which, he noted, he hadn’t had a chance to unstraighten.He wanted that chance.Now.He’d have taken her right there next to the fire, in the mud, with the wind blowing and the storm coming, if she gave him the slightest indication she wouldn’t pull the hot sap down on him should he try.All the coolness had gone out of her eyes, and he could see that a part of her—however unacknowledged—was thinking about making love in the mud, too.“You’re awfully kissable for a crank pot, hardheaded New Englander,” he said.“Come on, jump in the shower and put on a dress.I’ll take you to dinner at the inn.”She didn’t move.“I should resist.”Like she was Scarlett O’Hara.“Why?”“Because you’re dangerous and you’re irritating.”“Jesus, you sound like my father.Look, you have to drive me back, anyway.We came in your truck, if you recall.”She licked her lips.He wondered if she could taste him.“All right.I’d probably just open a can of soup if I stayed here.You can douse the fire and cover the sap—if you don’t mind.I’ll bring it in after it’s cooled.”He did as she asked.It only took a few seconds, and even from her driveway, he could hear her shower running.He couldn’t resist.There was no point in wasting time trying to resist.He slipped inside, surveyed the kitchen and living area with a more clinical, neutral eye than he had last night.It was a curious mix of an old-fashioned, rustic lake camp and a young woman’s home.Most disconcerting was the musty moose head on the barn board wall.A leftover, Wyatt suspected.He moved quickly, silently, with very little premeditation to her study.Fluorescent lights glowed over a trestle table of sprouting plants, all neatly marked with Popsicle sticks.Foxglove, delphinium, petunias, marigolds, Canterbury bells, coleus, pansies.She had a small yard, but he could imagine her filling her deck with pots of flowers and greenery—and giving away the excess.But he hadn’t ventured in here to check out her plants.He turned his attention to another, larger trestle table desk with its jumble of computer, printer, fax, telephone, jars of pens and pencils, file folders, notebooks.A prosaic metal shelving unit overflowed with books, scrapbooks, photo albums.One shelf was devoted to flying, planes, helicopters, flying in wartime, flying in peacetime, everything from technical to coffee-table picture books.Another offered books on New England, history books, guides to its trails, flora and fauna, birds, inns, mountains, coastlines, waterways, cities and attractions.On the bottom shelf were two loose-leaf notebooks marked Colt and Frannie and a box of cassette tapes, each neatly hand-labeled.Penelope’s research.Obviously this was a more consuming hobby than she was willing to admit to him.But Wyatt didn’t risk a closer look, although he could still hear the shower running.He tried not to imagine Penelope under its steaming spray.On the wall were two framed prints, one of a golden, romantic Piper Cub J-3 against a clear blue sky, the other a page of the local paper announcing the disappearance of Frannie Beaudine.There was a big picture of her, smiling, young and so beautiful.There was no picture of Colt.Even Wyatt had seen few pictures of his uncle, remembering him vaguely as a dark and handsome man—and young.He and Frannie had both been so damned young.He pulled himself away from the study and took a quick peek into Penelope’s bedroom, in case she’d squirreled away an obvious clue to why she was lying.He surveyed the small, cozy room from the doorway.Double bed with a billowing down comforter, lots of colorful pillows, white curtains, a small television, an antique oak bureau.Her sap-boiling clothes hung over a wooden chair painted a bright yellow.“Just who’s dangerous here,” he whispered, his mouth dry, his throat tight, and headed stiffly outside.A few minutes later, Penelope emerged in an ankle-length black knit dress and black boots.She’d put on makeup, pinned up her hair, her blond curls damp from her shower.“I put on lip gloss,” she said, smacking her raspberry-colored lips together.“I’ve never met a man who likes to kiss a woman with goop on her lips.”Wyatt said nothing.If only she knew.She grinned at him, her green eyes sparkling.“That ought to keep even a fearless Sinclair at bay
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