Love Came Just In Time Part 37

Chapter Three.

"d.a.m.n woman," Sam grumbled as he flipped a chunk of b.u.t.ter into the pot of drained potatoes. "First she tracks mud in this morning"-he dumped in a splash of milk-"then she leaves all her gear stinking up the front room"-he jammed the beaters into the mixer-"then she does a strip-tease with clothes that ought to be burned, not washed." He turned the mixer on and savagely beat the potatoes to a pulp. "As if I had time to baby-sit a barbarian!"

"What are you still doing here?"

The voice was as smooth and husky as whiskey and immediately brought to mind the vision of a cozy evening spent cuddling in front of the fire on a fur rug. Sam turned off the mixer and shook his head, amazed that such an appealing voice could belong to such an unappealing woman. He wanted to get to know Sydney Kincaid about as much as he wanted to get to know the porcupine that ambled across the front yard every now and then. He turned, prepared for battle.

And forgot every word of the speech he'd thrown together over the past half hour.

It was no wonder she hid under all that mud. Her hair was as dark as midnight, her skin flawless and not needing a speck of makeup to enhance its beauty. Sam put down the mixer and walked over to her, mesmerized. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so affected by the sight of a woman in a ratty bathrobe. Without thinking about it further, he put his hand under her chin, lifted her face up, and bent his head to kiss her.

And then he froze at the feel of something hard against his belly. He really wanted to believe it was the belt of her robe. Really.

"Get your hands off me," she said in a low, rather unnervingly calm voice.

"Sure thing," he said, lifting his hands and backing away slowly. "Don't shoot. That thing isn't loaded, is it?"

"Want to find out?"

He smiled weakly. "I'm right in the middle of cooking dinner. Filet mignon. Know what that is?"

The sound of the gun being c.o.c.ked echoed in the stillness of the kitchen."

"I guess you do," he conceded. "Are you hungry?"

"Starved. And I get kind of cranky when I'm starved."

"Yes, I can imagine that's true," he said, wondering how in the world such a good-looking woman could have such a bad temper. He backed up until the counter stopped him. "Think you could put that gun away?"

She gave him an a.s.sessing glance. "Why would I want to? It isn't as if you've been very gentlemanly."

"Well, how does 'I can't cook under stress' sound?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Did you make that chocolate cake I saw today, or did you buy it?"

"I made it."

She considered, then lowered the gun. "You won't try anything?"

The barrel was level with his groin. He looked quickly at her face and knew she realized just where she was pointing her weapon. He shook his head vigorously.

"Wouldn't think of it."

The gun was unc.o.c.ked, then lowered. "Well, then. I'm going back to change. You finish cooking."

"Yes, ma'am."

With a toss of her shoulder-length, unbelievably silky looking hair, she walked out of the room. Sam leaned back against the counter and blew out his breath. Sydney Kincaid was definitely not what he'd been expecting.

He finished the mashed potatoes, pulled the steaks out from under the broiler, tossed a salad, and hastily set the table. He was just pouring water into gla.s.ses when Sydney came back into the room. She sat down at the table and started to eat. Sam couldn't believe what he was seeing. He walked around the counter and plunked down a gla.s.s of water in front of her.

"Haven't you ever heard of waiting until everyone is sitting at the table before you start eating?"

"Got to get it while it's hot," she said, her mouth full. "And before anyone else gets to it. It's the only way to survive in the wild."

"Well, this is civilization. We can reheat things in the microwave here."

She ignored him. Which was just as well, to Sam's mind, because he was still trying to figure out just what in the h.e.l.l he was going to do for the next three months, living with a woman whose face said "touch me" and whose actions said "do it and I'll geld you." Oh, why had he ever decided Alaska would be a nice place to hide and write?

He really should have headed for California. Nice, warm beaches overflowing with women whose come-hither looks probably meant come hither. Trying to second-guess Miss Wilderness was too complicated for his poor overworked brain. All he wanted was to go back to his room, turn on his computer, and deal with characters he had control over. The character sitting across from him was way out of his league.

"This is all there was?"

Sam blinked at the sight of her empty plate. He looked at his housemate and blinked again.

"Where did you put it all?"

"I haven't eaten a decent meal in almost four months. Are you going to finish yours? No? Well, I'll do it

for you."

Sam watched as his plate was removed from under his nose. She finished his supper, then sat back with a sigh. "I'm going to sleep now," she said, putting her hand over her mouth and yawning. "Don't be here when I get up." "Look," he began, "I signed a contract..." "You also let a who knows what into my garage, screwed up my water heater, and cleaned my house. If that wasn't breach of contract, I don't know what is." "You've got to be kidding." "I never kid." She rose. "I sleep with a gun, so don't think about trying anything funny." "I'd rather waltz with an angry polar bear." Her mouth tightened into a thin line. "I'm sure you would. Which is just fine with me, mister. You can stay the night, but you sure as h.e.l.l better be gone when I wake up." And without a single compliment about dinner, or even a thank-you, she left the room. Sam gritted his teeth at her rudeness. No wonder Mr. Smith had laughed so gleefully when Sam had signed his name on the dotted line. Sam had never thought to wonder why no one had wanted to board at the Kincaid house. It had been a cabin straight from one of his Sunday-morning, lots-of-snow-on-the-ground snuggling fantasies. How was he to know the snugglee would rather be snuggling with a rifle than him? Sam sighed and rose, cleaned off the table, then made himself a peanut-b.u.t.ter-and-jelly sandwich. Though he was tempted to stay just to irritate Sydney, he knew he was probably better off cutting his losses and leaving. But not until after Friday. He needed Sydney's kitchen for his day job. She could put up with him for a while longer.

He cleaned up the kitchen, then headed back to his room. He sat down and turned on his computer, ready to dive into chapter twenty-one.

And then he found himself staring blankly at the computer screen, distracted by the image of a beautiful

woman with dark hair and pale eyes. He sighed and turned off the machine. Creation would have to wait until morning. He needed to go to bed before the day could hand him any more surprises.

Though he doubted the Fates or Mr. Smith could top what he'd been handed already.

Sydney woke, disoriented. Then she realized she was in her own bed, under a toasty-warm comforter,

and she smiled. There was nothing quite like coming home. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed her work so much. She never appreciated home more than she did after three or four months out in the wild.

She fumbled for her watch, wanting to know the time and the date. She flopped back on her bed and groaned. Twenty-four hours gone without a trace. She vaguely remembered a trip or two to the bathroom, trips made without encountering her housemate.

She sighed deeply and burrowed back down under the covers. Much as she wanted to kick Sam's arrogant, overbearing self right out the door, she knew she couldn't afford it. Though she was just as good a guide as any man out there, city boys were reluctant to use her. She'd had to cut her fees drastically just to get business. It was the reason she'd decided to rent her spare bedroom. Joe had a.s.sured her he would find a suitable renter. d.a.m.n him, anyway.

Well, it was either keep Sam or starve. She couldn't give him back the rent money he'd paid all up front because she'd already spent it. She hated the thought, but it looked like she was stuck with him until December.

She rolled out of bed and pulled her robe around her. She rubbed her arms vigorously as she left her bedroom and made her way to the kitchen. She was used to traveling in the dark, when necessary, and had no trouble finding her way. Or spotting the creation that sat cooling on the counter.

Cake. Sydney's mouth began to water at the sight. She wanted it to be warm, but no, that might be too much to hope for. She got a knife, for the sake of propriety, and cut herself a generous slice right out of the bottom tier. Whatever else his flaws, Sam certainly could bake rings around Sara Lee. Sydney closed her eyes and brought the slice up, then opened her mouth to bite.

"Stop!"

Her eyes flew open. She squinted into the beam of a flashlight.

"Don't move."

Sydney stood, frozen to the spot, as the flashlight approached. The cake was very carefully and gingerly removed from her hand.

"Hey-" she protested.

"Quiet," Sam growled. "You just ruined six hours' worth of work, lady, so right now it would be a very good idea for you to just wash your hands and go back to bed."

"It's just cake-"

"It's a wedding cake!" Sam exploded.

"You're getting married?" This guy was certifiable.

"It's not for me! It's for Eunice and Jeremy. Tomorrow afternoon at one o'clock."

His face was illuminated by the flashlight he held between his forearm and chest as he carefully set the slice of cake onto a plate. And she wanted to laugh.

"You make wedding cakes?"

"It pays the bills. Turn on the light. I've got major surgery to perform here."

Sydney obediently turned on the kitchen light, then she caught an un.o.bstructed view of Sam's face-and

his furious expression. She backed up a pace in spite of herself.

"Uh, I'm sorry..."

Sam reached behind her and jerked a cake knife out of the pottery utensil holder sitting on the counter.

He didn't spare her a glance.

"I didn't realize..." she began.

Sam was pulling ingredients out of her cupboards, strange things she didn't usually keep, like flour and

sugar. He didn't respond as he got out a bowl and started mixing these foreign substances together.

"Look," she began, his silence starting to make her uncomfortable, "can't you just fix it? Patch it together? It would probably take a lot of time to rebake it."

Sam stopped and turned his head slowly to look at her. "Too bad you couldn't have thought about that before you ruined it."

"I didn't mean to!"

"That hardly matters now, does it?"

"I didn't ask you to come live here," she said, sticking out her chin stubbornly, struggling to find some way to defend herself.

"That really isn't the point, is it, Sydney?"

Sydney felt lower than the lowest grubworm. So she bristled even harder.

"You should have told me not to touch it."

"You've been asleep for twenty-four hours. I didn't want to wake you and find myself without my family jewels." He turned and reached into the refrigerator for a plate encased in Saran Wrap. He handed it to her. "Roast beef sandwich. Here's a can of pop. Go eat it somewhere I don't have to look at you."

"This is my house," Sydney said in a last bid to save her pride.

"Yeah, well, this is my kitchen at the moment and I don't want you in it."

Sydney clutched the cold can in her hand and walked out of the kitchen with her head held high. No, she wasn't upset. Sam's kindness in making her dinner didn't hurt her. His anger didn't bother her. His a.s.surance earlier that he'd rather dance with an angry bear than touch her didn't trouble her either. After all, she was Sydney Kincaid, wilderness woman. She was every inch her father's daughter, bless his crusty old soul. She'd survived on her own since her seventeenth birthday, since Sydney the elder had died on his way back in from the woodpile. She didn't need anyone. She'd made it all by herself, and d.a.m.n anyone who tried to imply differently. The very last thing she needed in her life was a man, especially a man who would probably starve to death five yards from the house unless someone showed him the direction back to the kitchen.

She shut and locked her door, put the supper Sam had fixed for her on her nightstand, then threw herself onto her bed and tried to burst into tears.

It didn't work. So she rolled over on her back and looked up at the ceiling. She hadn't cried in thirteen years, not since before her father's funeral. If she hadn't cried then, a simple snubbing by her housemate certainly wasn't going to bring tears to her eyes now.

She ignored her supper and crawled back under the covers. Tomorrow was Eunice and Jeremy's wedding. If she didn't go, the town would think her a chicken and the Clan down at the store would grumble about her cowardice. If she went, the women would shake their heads sadly and pity her that she couldn't find a husband.

Not that she wanted one; no, sir.

No, she reminded herself again as she drifted off to sleep. The very last thing she needed was a man.

Especially one as handsome and useless as Sam.