chapter Four
Allison woke to a spring breeze and a robin’s song wafting in her open window. Sunlight peeked under the undulating curtains to make moving patches of gleaming amber on the polished hardwood floor.
Where am I? Oh, right. At the Lodge. She yawned and stretched. It felt good to be there.
Then a thought struck her and she sat bolt upright. She hadn’t gone to sleep with the window open. He must have used his manager’s pass key to come into her room while she was asleep. What a nerve! She bounded out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
In front of the dresser mirror she paused and fluffed her hair. How did I look when he was in here? She threw up her hands. What is wrong with you, Allison Armstrong? As if it mattered. As if you cared. With a disgusted growl, she strode into the bathroom, locked the door, and shed those pajamas he’d deemed sexy.
Fifteen minutes later, dressed in jeans, sweatshirt, and sneakers, she entered the kitchen. The aroma of more of the delicious coffee she remembered from the previous evening greeted her, along with a note from Heath that informed her milk, juice, cream, croissants, and homemade strawberry jam were in the refrigerator, bacon and eggs, too, if she felt like cooking.
She didn’t. She poured coffee and juice, buttered a croissant, and carried it all into the dining room.
First she tried sitting in her grandfather’s place, but it didn’t feel right. Next she tried Heath’s chair on the right.
Definitely, no.
Then, feeling like Goldilocks in the forest home of the three bears, she moved to her grandmother’s place at the foot of the massive table. Ah, yes. With a sigh she settled to her breakfast.
When she’d finished, she put her cup, glass, and saucer in the dishwasher and headed out the back door to find Heath. They had to talk before the lawyer got here.
She paused with her hand on the knob as she saw her grandfather’s favorite sheepskin-lined rancher’s jacket hanging on a peg behind the door. Impulsively she snatched it up, pulled it on, and turned back to the breadbox on the counter near the window for a slice of bread. Every morning Gramps had taken a piece of bread out to the bold jays he called Whiskey Jacks.
When the birds saw her, they descended, silent as snowflakes. She didn’t flatter herself on the attraction. The bread had garnered their interest. When they landed about her feet, she knelt to offer each a chunk and wondered if Heath fed them, too. Had he cared enough to carry on Jack’s concern for local wildlife?
Enough! Come noon, her mother would be sole owner of the Chance, and the Armstrongs could legally send one mighty Oakes packing.
She let the last bird snatch the remaining bit of crust from her fingers before she arose and headed for the small log cottage Heath and his mother shared.
The inner door was open. When Allison went up the three short steps she could see a small, neat kitchen through the screen and hear music playing softly from a radio on the counter near the sink.
“Heath?” she called through the mesh door. “Are you in there?”
The only answer was the announcer’s voice at the end of the song, telling his listeners not to be deceived by the fine morning. More rain and fog were on the way.
Presented with an opportunity, Allison’s curiosity flared. Easing open the screen she slipped inside.
The kitchen held an apartment-sized refrigerator, stove, and a cozy breakfast nook built into one wall below a window that looked out into the forest. Hand-quilted placemats with a wildflower design decorated its Formica tabletop and matched the seat and back cushions of a rocking chair near the opposite window, the ruffled curtains, and a tea cozy covering a pot on the counter. Framed needlepoint floral designs decorated the walls above the cupboards.
How could the woman who had made this welcoming place also be responsible for the creation of Heath the Barbarian? Allison shook her head and tiptoed down the short hall at the back of the room.
The open door at its end revealed a small, tidy bathroom. Two others, one to her left, the other to her right, she guessed led to bedrooms. Opening the door to her right, she saw a bed covered with a dusty rose spread that matched the window drapes and a mahogany dresser with neatly laid-out toiletries, a large wicker basket of needlepoint materials nestled against its side. She closed the door and turned to open the one opposite.
That room contained a large bed covered with a patchwork quilt, plain white window curtains, a wide dresser with only a hairbrush on its polished surface, a well-filled floor-to-ceiling bookcase against the rear wall, and a chair and desk in one corner.
Papers neatly stacked on the latter intrigued her. She tiptoed over to get a better look.
To her disappointment, they appeared to be purely business, letters from people seeking reservations or information about the Lodge, repair estimates, competitive prices on canoes, paddles, groceries, and the like.
Something pink in the wastebasket beside the desk caught her attention. A letter. She couldn’t resist. She bent and picked it up. The delicate blue handwriting and light scent of expensive perfume assured her it was no business document. Her heart racing, she began to read.
It was a love letter filled with reminiscences of intimate moments spent with none other than Heath Oakes. Allison felt a hot gush of anger crawling up her neck and face. It was signed, “All my love, C.B.” Candace Breckenridge?
Nausea roiled in her stomach. Accusing Heath of this kind of liaison was one thing; finding absolute proof was another.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
She whirled to face Heath framed in the doorway. The piece of pink paper slid from her fingers and fluttered to the floor.
“Nothing…I…that is…”
“I wouldn’t call reading someone else’s personal mail nothing.”
He crossed the room and snatched up the letter to wave it under her nose. “This is none of your business, Ms. Armstrong. None at all.”
“Your turning the Chance into a spa where lonely middle-aged married women can live out their romantic fantasies is,” she exploded back at him, although inwardly she was unnerved by his blazing eyes and clenched fists. “This is a respectable lodge, not some…some…”
“So you think this just confirms what you suspected, that I’m a backwoods gigolo who fools around with the wives and partners of the men who come up here?”
“Are you telling me none of what is in that letter ever happened, that this woman is lying? Oh, come off it!”
“Show me where it says we had an actual affair, that we slept together. Go on, show me.”
Allison re-read. He was right. Nowhere did Candace refer to an actual affair. But that wasn’t proof.
“I happen to know this woman.” She glared up into his mocking expression. “She’s much too smart to commit anything to paper that could be used as evidence in a divorce court. You see, Nature Boy, while she might enjoy a two-week fling with you and your muscles, Candace Breckenridge is not about to risk her comfortable lifestyle for you.”
“She never did.” He pulled the letter from her hand and threw it back into the wastepaper can. “Nothing she or I did constituted infidelity. She’s just a lonely, neglected woman who wants to feel attractive and desirable, who wants to be listened to with interest and genuinely cared about.”
“And you managed all that…on a purely platonic level? Quick, let me look outside. There must be a few white crows around.”
“So now I’m a liar, too.” He turned and sauntered over to his bookcase with amazing, icy calm. “Would you like to borrow a book while you’re here? I’m a fan of murder mysteries. I’m sure that somewhere in my collection you’ll find a scenario that matches Jack’s death to a T. Then you’ll be able to promote me from gigolo and liar to killer.”
He swung back to face her, his move swift and catlike. His eyes had narrowed, his lean bronzed face gone hard and cold.
“I never said…suggested…” Her heart bumping against her ribs, she began to back toward the door.
“No, but you thought…and thought…and thought.” He slammed it shut, then held her trapped against it, his hands on the panel on either side of her head, towering over her, making her shrink before his pure animal power. “Let me add a bit more color to the picture you’ve painted of me.” His tone became dangerously soft. “I have a criminal record. I’ve spent time in prison. Do outlaws turn you on, Allison Armstrong? Do they?”
He was all but touching her now, so close she felt she was drowning in smoldering amber pools and a rock hard wall of muscle and sinew. His nearness frightened her, excited her, left her gasping.
“Don’t…” The word was a strangled whisper. Her heart raced out of control, partly in fear, but mostly—she hated herself for it—in wild anticipation. She remembered his kiss, that earthy, head-spinning, belly-turning kiss on the floor the previous night, and her knees turned to mush.
“What do you really believe about me, Allie?” He astonished her with his use of the pet name her grandfather had given her years ago. “In your heart?”
“I think…” she breathed softly, looking up at him with what she hoped was a beseeching look. “That I couldn’t hate you more.” She lunged out with both hands and a knee.
“Ahhhh!” He stumbled backwards, and she yanked open the door.
“I believe you’re a conceited, money-mongering ape!” she yelled as she ran, stumbling, out of the cottage.