The Rebel (6 page)

Man, he liked her.

Nate went up to his bedroom, unpacked, threw some clothes in the wash and then headed out to the lawn. She'd made it all the way through the side lawn and was about to tackle the grass that ran down to the lakeshore.

He walked up to her. “Hey.”

She stopped mowing and regarded him as coolly as someone sweating and panting could.

“You need some help?” He smiled as she shook her head. “I didn't think so. How about I phrase it like this. I like to mow lawns. I'd like to mow this one. How can you stand in the way of my dream?”

She wiped her forearm across her brow. “Shouldn't you be in the kitchen?”

“Daily prep is done. I've got everything under control in there right now.” He eyed the sun, which had emerged from the clouds, and then her shirt, which had a dark V of sweat running from her neck to her breasts.

“So how about I spell you?” He leaned in. “You know, accepting help is not a sin.”

Before she could answer him, the Littles came out onto the porch. Frankie's eyes fled to them as if they were a welcome relief so he looked over, too. Mr. Little was wearing a pastel polo shirt and khakis. So was his wife. They looked like dolls, perfectly dressed, perfectly coifed. They reminded him of his super-wealthy Walker relatives, a group of people he avoided at all costs.

“Guard of the entrance to the underworld in Greek mythology,” the man said, tapping a pen at a crossword puzzle. “Eight letters.”

“I'm not good at the
Times
puzzle,” his wife said, sitting down in a chair out of the sun. She flipped open
Architectural Digest.
“You know that.”

The man looked up with annoyance. “Yes, I do. I was talking to myself.”

Nate refocused on Frankie. “So what do you say?”

“God!” Mr. Little exclaimed. “This is impossible. Guard of the entrance—”

Nate rolled his eyes and spoke over his shoulder. “Cerberus.”

Mr. Little glanced up as if someone had lobbed a rotten tomato at him. He eyed Nate's ratty T-shirt, his gaze lingering on the oil stains.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Cerberus,” Nate repeated. “You want me to spell it for you?”

Frankie tugged at his arm. “Excuse us, Mr. Little.”

But the man wasn't listening. He'd pursed his lips and was busy counting off the letters. He looked up. “Ah—you're right.”

“I know,” Nate said, just as Frankie pulled him out of the man's sight. “What's the matter?”

“Do us all a favor and don't upset that guy. Once he gets rolling, he can go on forever. This morning, he was upset when a boat went by on the lake and woke him up. He wanted to know if I could post buoys out in front warning that noise pollution will not be tolerated. I thought he'd never shut up,” she whispered. “He's impossible.”

“Doesn't know his classical myths very well, either. Now, about the lawn.”

She frowned, considered him strangely, and then shook her head as if clearing it. “Listen, I need you in the kitchen, not doing grounds work. I appreciate your offer—”

“But you'd really rather do it yourself,” he finished. “You know, with the amount of work that needs to get done around this place, you should be looking for volunteers, not turning them away. You have better things to do with your time than mowing the lawn.”

He cocked an eyebrow, challenging her to
contradict him. Her mouth opened as if she was going to, but then she closed it slowly. She put her hands on her hips and looked down at her grass-covered sneakers.

“Don't tell me you're trying to turn over a new leaf or something,” he said, thinking it was very possible he was developing a crush on her. “I'd rather be berated by you than have to watch you trying to be good.”

She laughed and then cut the sound short. “I really want to argue with you.”

“Because I'm being insubordinate?” He grinned.

“Worse. Because you're probably right.” She scanned the lawn, the lilac bushes, the boathouse down at the shore. As she looked around, she seemed so solitary, so self-contained. So tired.

“How long ago did you buy this place?” he asked.

“Buy?” She squinted up at him. “My sixth great-grandfather built it.”

“The last stand,” he murmured. No wonder she was hanging in.

“Something like that.”

She turned her head to the house, running her eyes over it as if she was a mother inspecting a child for cuts and bruises. He watched as she lingered on the gutter, which was listing away from the roof edge.
He was willing to bet she was making a mental note to fix it and that she'd do it herself.

The idea of Frankie high up on a ladder made him uneasy.

“So you grew up here?”

“Born, raised, the whole bit.” Her eyes went to the lake.

“Where are your parents—are they retired?”

She looked away from the water abruptly. “No, they're dead.”

Her tone of voice told him their conversation was going to be over in a matter of seconds so he didn't dawdle in offering his condolences.

“I'm sorry.”

He watched as she shut down in front of him and the change happened so fast, it was like having a door slammed in his face. Her eyes went impassive and her expression assumed a deliberate calm that made him wonder about the emotions underneath.

“Thank you, but it was a long time ago,” she said.

“You know, I lost a parent five years ago. We didn't get along, but the death changed everything, anyway.” He didn't want to mention it was an improvement because clearly what had been left for her was not. “It takes quite a while to get over losing a parent, much less both of them.”

She shrugged and he mined the angles of her face
and the color of her eyes for some sign she would let him in.

Eventually, he said, “So about the lawn.”

She nodded downward, towards his feet. “I don't know that you should be pushing a mower around with that ankle of yours.”

“I'll go until I can't go anymore.”

“Funny, that's my motto, too.”

As she smiled and looked back out to the lake, he noticed that her glasses were smudged. Moving quickly, so she wouldn't have a chance to jerk away, he took them off her face.

“What are you doing?”

He easily stepped out of her reach while she tried to grab them. “Cleaning your glasses.”

“Give them back.”

He rubbed one side and then the other with the clean corner of his shirt while moving around as she tried to take them. Lifting the lenses up to the sun and high over her head, he measured his work.

“There. All better.”

Intending to slip them back on the bridge of her nose, he looked down just as she leaped up. Her body collided with his and he gripped her around the waist to keep them from falling over.

As soon as she was in his arms, he felt as if he was out of control and on the way home at the same time. She must have felt it, too. Her lips parted in surprise as she looked up into his face.

Those eyes, he thought. Those miraculous blue eyes should never be hidden. At least not from him.

“Put me down,” she whispered. “I'm too heavy.”

But she wasn't. He felt as if he could hold her forever.

Nate leaned in, getting his lips close to her ear. “Do you really want me to?”

He felt her nod into his shoulder and told himself he could still keep her in his arms even if her feet were touching the ground. It would be easier to kiss her that way, too.

He held his breath as he let her slide slowly down his body. When she was standing on her own, her breasts were against his chest and her hips pressed into what was quickly becoming his rigid arousal. He waited for a moment, wondering if she was going to pull back. Her hands were on his shoulders, lying lightly against the material of his shirt. She seemed to be focusing somewhere to his left, but she didn't look as if she were really seeing anything.

He put a fingertip under her chin and tilted her face up. Her eyes came to his reluctantly.

“Hi,” he said. Stupidly.

But what else could he say? My God, woman, where have you been all my life? Or the ever popular, how'd you like to go upstairs, right now, and get naked with me?

A blush hit her cheeks, spread down her neck and he knew he'd ruined the moment by talking. Breaking
free, she snatched the glasses back and fumbled to put them on. When she got one of the ear pieces stuck in her ear, she had to try it again.

“If you'll excuse me—”

As she turned away, he reached for her, taking her hand.

“Don't go.” He wanted to tell her he wasn't some scumbag macking on her randomly. He liked her. He wanted to get to know her better. They could go slowly.

Even though it would probably kill him. Light speed seemed like a lazy jog to him at the moment.

Frankie lifted her chin and shot him a level smile. “But I wouldn't want to hold you up.”

He frowned, thinking that he didn't have anything to do but stare into those eyes of hers. “From what?”

“Mowing the lawn,” she said and yanked her hand free.

As she raced around the corner, he threw his head back and laughed.

H
OPE HE ENJOYS THE AFTERNOON,
Frankie thought, as she stepped under the shower. Rinsing off her sweat, she pictured Nate slaving over that old mower, cursing the moment he'd
volunteered
for the job.

She squeezed out some shampoo and rubbed it into her hair, stirring up a lather. Her hands stilled.

God, that man. He was so…inconvenient.

Actually, there were quite a number of more accurate words she could have used but they all scared her. She didn't want to describe him, even to herself, as sexy or compelling. Or exciting. Even though he was of all those.

And to top it all off, he seemed to be attracted to her.

Which meant he was delusional, too.

When her eyes started stinging, she ducked under the spray. She rinsed, turned off the water and stepped out onto the bath mat. After toweling dry, she wiped the mirror clean with her forearm and leaned in for a closer look.

What did he see in her, she wondered, pulling a
length of hair straight out from her scalp. She let go and felt it hit her shoulder with a wet slap.

As she stared at herself through the streaks on the mirror, she was not exactly inspired. Her hair was thick and long but the color was a dull brown. Her eyes were nice enough, she supposed, spaced well and lined thickly with lashes. She flashed her teeth. They were in great shape, straight and white, just as her father's had been.

Okay, so she wasn't completely gone. But she wouldn't exactly give Miss America a run for the money.

Frankie let the mirror fog up again, dried her hair and told herself to forget about the midair collision with Nate. He certainly would, the moment he went down to the Stop, Drop and Roll and got a good look at a few of the local hardies. Hell, if she had any luck, he'd head there tonight because she couldn't afford to be distracted.

But as she went to her room, she wondered
from what?
What exactly was so pressing that she didn't have ten minutes to spare in the bathroom fantasizing about some guy? It wasn't as if reliving a little thrill was dangerous. She wasn't throwing herself at him, for God's sake.

So what was the problem?

Well, for one thing, nothing that felt that good, that exciting, could possibly be harmless, she thought.

Which was why doctors told people not to overdo
it in hot tubs and pregnant ladies couldn't go on roller coasters.

Besides, she wasn't a daydreamer. Fantasies, especially the romantic kind, required something she didn't have. They needed hope to flare, even if it was for a mere ten minutes in a fogged-out bathroom. Thanks to David, most of her foolish optimism about love had been drilled out of her. A couple of bad dates had polished off the rest.

No, dreams were totally out of character for her. Out of context. Out of the question, really.

Just like any romance between her and her new chef.

Frankie pulled on her pants and tucked her shirt in. After brushing out her hair and twisting a scrunchie around it, she put her glasses back on and went down to the office. Sitting at the desk, she tried to balance the bank account, but she couldn't seem to get her mind focused.

On anything other than Nate.

Everything reminded her of him. Her desk because he'd moved it. The inventory sheets because he'd admired them. Her pencil…because he'd borrowed one, this morning.

God, she was desperate.

Frankie pushed her calculator away and stared across the room. Twenty-four hours ago she'd never met the man and now she couldn't get him out of her head.

But this was how it worked between the sexes, she thought. This was the biological imperative at work. David had been gone from her life for nearly ten years and she was an otherwise healthy woman. It was inevitable that someone would come along and catch her eye. Eventually.

Except the attraction was a surprise. Sure, there had been some handsome guests over the years, even some who had been single. But they hadn't been interested and neither had she. Wealthy men were a turnoff to begin with for her, because they reminded her of David, and the rich guys usually liked a different kind of woman entirely, anyway. And as for the indigenous Saranac Lake male, well, she just couldn't get all that excited over them. To begin with, she knew too much about each one, small towns being what they are.

At least Nate wasn't some privileged dandy. He was a hard worker who seemed to have a clear picture of where he wanted to go. And she didn't know a thing about him, which made him mysterious. Although why that was a virtue, she couldn't begin to guess.

Frustrated because she couldn't concentrate, she decided to go check the tables for dinner set-up. It was obvious she was going to get nothing done in her office.

She pushed open the door to the dining room and frowned. Mrs. Little was leaning on one of the tables,
staring out of the window, completely absorbed by something.

“Is there anything wrong?” Frankie asked.

The woman whirled around, clasping her strand of pearls. “Er—no. Nothing. At all. Excuse me.”

Which meant as soon as Mrs. Little tore out of the room, Frankie went right over to the window. She put her hands on the sill and bent down, expecting to see a woodchuck or maybe a bird of some kind. City people like the Littles probably thought chipmunks were worthy of a
National Geographic
special.

Frankie's breath left her in a rush.

Holy, Mother of…

Nate was pushing the mower, making even lines in the grass. With his shirt tucked into his back pocket.

No wonder he hadn't been bothered by her weight, she thought, looking over every inch of him.

He'd just gone by the window so she had a clear shot of his back. Muscles fanned out from his spine, filling his shoulders, wrapping around his rib cage. He was built big and hard, and when he turned and started coming towards her, she saw the front of him was as cut as the back.

It made sense, she supposed, given that muscling around a kitchen was a physically demanding job. Cooks were constantly lifting things, moving, on their feet. Still, considering how he looked, she figured there were some serious genetics at work and
some weight training, too. Had to be. No one got shoulders that wide from picking pans off a stove top, even if the things were full of water.

No wonder Mrs. Little had been so entranced.

Frankie stepped out of the way before he could see her. Looking blindly around the dining room, she couldn't remember why she'd left her office.

 

L
ATER THAT NIGHT, AFTER
the kitchen had been closed down and everyone had gone upstairs, Frankie finally got some work done. The day had been worthless. Between stewing about Nate and waiting for Mike Roy to bring his mystery guest over, she'd been distracted and jittery.

Mike had finally called at six and apologized, explaining that his friend had been delayed and wouldn't be arriving until next week. She'd been gracious because it wasn't as if she'd had another option. She couldn't very well tell him that an impending visit from him, with or without a hanger-on, was enough to make her want to make jam.

The urge to melt down piles of fruit and put the residue into little jars with wax seals was her response to stress. It was one of Frankie's few inheritances from her mother and she'd have much preferred it if the woman had been a knitter. Bags of yarn were easier to deal with, and there were the seasonal problems of trying to find fresh strawberries in upstate New York if Frankie hit a rough spot in the winter.

Then again, you couldn't put an Irish sweater on toast, so the compulsion wasn't a complete loss.

Frankie took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. It was almost midnight. Unless she was planning to sleep at her desk, she'd better make a run for the stairs. Judging from her bobbing head, she had another ten minutes until she'd be sound asleep, wherever she was.

As she slowly climbed the back stairs, she thought of Nate and wondered what he wore to bed. Boxers? Briefs? The preoccupation with his night-time wardrobe didn't shame her in the slightest. Considering the depths to which she'd sunk while picturing herself kissing him, his underwear was a nonstarter. And as for his BVD preferences, she wouldn't have been surprised if he slept in his birthday suit. Or maybe she just hoped that was the case.

One thing was clear. The man was a hell of a chef. Tonight's
coq au vin
was so good Mr. Little had sent his regards to the chef. The man had actually been smiling with satisfaction as he'd pushed back his chair at the end of the meal. Even his wife seemed to relax as if the pin was back in the grenade.

Their other diners had similar reactions. Mr. and Mrs. Barclay came in from town for their anniversary dinner and commented that Chuck's skills had dramatically improved. When Frankie told them there was a new chef who'd come from New York, they'd been suitably impressed. And given Mrs. Barclay's
penchant for talking, it was a good bet phones would be ringing all around Saranac Lake with the news. Thank God.

As she got to the head of the stairs, Frankie was wishing that someone else could floss and brush her teeth for her when Nate stepped out of the bathroom.

Not exactly the someone she was looking for, she thought.

He'd changed into a Boston Red Sox T-shirt and had a towel draped around his neck. His smile was casual. His eyes were not.

“I thought you'd never come upstairs,” he said, as if he'd been waiting for her.

She began to struggle for words, especially as his smile widened. Being tongue-tied was a new one for her, but around him, she was getting used to it. Tragically.

“You work too hard, Frances. Good night.” He turned away and went down to his room.

She felt as if she'd been left behind, somehow.

Which was crazy, she told herself. You couldn't be left if you were in your own home. And the person in question was just across the hall. And you didn't want to be with him, anyway.

Oh, hell, she thought, shutting herself in the bathroom. She was still muttering under her breath when she came back out, turned off the hall light and headed for her room.

Nate's door was open and she paused in front of it. To do otherwise would have required a disciplined purpose she seemed to have left downstairs in her office.

He was sitting up in bed, back against the wall, legs kicked out. A book was open on his lap and he looked up from it with a grin as if he'd set a trap that had worked. That spider/fly parlor saying flared in her head and she was about to mutter a quick goodnight when his hand crept to the side of his neck and he scratched.

“Didn't you put calamine on that?” She looked over at the bag that she'd put on his dresser. It was unopened.

“No. I forgot.”

Frankie went over and took out the pink bottle. “Put this on and the itching won't keep you up all night.”

But when she held the lotion out to him, he merely tilted his neck.

“Would you mind doing the honors? I have a feeling you'll do a better job.”

“I'm not a nurse.”

“And we're not really talking about brain surgery here, are we?” He smiled more widely and she noticed that one of his front teeth had a very good cap on it. “Please?”

Grabbing a couple of tissues from a box, she
cracked open the bottle and tipped it over. Gently, she dabbed his skin with the chalky pink lotion.

“Mmm.” The sound he made was something between a moan and a sigh. He closed his eyes and leaned towards her. “That feels great.”

She paused, thinking she wished he wouldn't say anything. And no more noises, either,
please.

“Are you finished already?” he asked. His voice was a low growl, husky and deep. She imagined what it would sound like in her ear when he kissed her on the neck.

“Ah, no.”

Frankie snapped into action, going back and forth between the bottle and the inflamed blisters until the job was done. When she pulled away, he opened his eyes.

“Thanks.”

“It doesn't look like it's spreading.” She tossed the tissue into the trash can across the room and put the cap on the bottle.

“Good shot.” He was looking at her, with speculation in his eyes. “You mind if I ask how old you are?”

“Yes, but I have nothing to hide. I'm thirty-one.”

“And how long have you been running this place?”

She hesitated, not wanting to get into particulars with him. His questions about her past had disturbed
her earlier in the day. At night, alone with him, they felt even more intrusive.

She turned away and headed for the hall, thinking there was no way the conversation could continue with her out of the room.

“Good night, Nate.”

“Wait—”

She shut her door on his question and the searching look on his handsome face but a moment later, she heard a soft knock. Pivoting around, she grabbed the knob and opened wide, shooting him the level stare that usually got her what she wanted from people.

Which was to be left alone.

“Yes?”

He smiled, utterly impervious to her warning signals. “I don't mean to pry.”

“Yes, you do.”

Nate smiled. “You're very blunt. I like that in a woman.”

“It's a handy trait to have. Especially if you're being harassed.”

“Is that really what you think I'm doing?”

She looked down. He put her on edge and she resented it, but not enough to keep up the lie she'd started.

“I just don't understand why,” she said softly. “I'm not…”

She pushed her hair back as if the gesture of exposing her face would explain what she didn't want
to put into words. It was hard to say she was plain, even though it was a truth she'd come to accept.

He reached out, cupping her chin gently. “Not what?”

She felt him taking off her glasses. With nothing to hide her eyes, she felt as naked as if she'd left all her clothes in the bathroom.