They were the words of a dreamer, someone who wanted to change the world. A man who understood pain and sorrow and death . . . and hope and redemption and second chances.
A man who believed in love.
Mariah was mesmerized by the thought, drawn to it like a moth to a burning flame.
Somewhere behind the cocky grin and drifter bravado lay the true Mad Dog—or whatever his real name was.
Absently she pulled the notebooks from the bag and gently piled them in the bottom drawer, then shut it.
Folding the bag, she slid it under the dresser and reached for the sheets, then crossed the room and started to make his bed.
In quick, practiced motions, she stripped off the wrinkled old sheets and tossed them outside. Then she whipped the bottom sheet in place and started smoothing it out.
The sound of footsteps interrupted her concentration.
She froze.
A shadow crossed the open door.
She glanced sideways. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing his dirty black cowboy boots and a Turkish towel. And nothing else.
She gasped. "Oh, my Lord . . . " The top sheet slipped through her fingers and slumped on the bed.
He grinned, his teeth startlingly white amidst the shadows. "Now, aint this a surprise. . . . "
She couldnt speak. Not for the life of her.
His left eyebrow cocked upward. "A pleasant surprise. "
"Good evening," she managed, though there was no air in her lungs.
She stared at him, unable to glance away. At the look in his eyes, seductive and predatory, her control started to unravel. All the questions about him, about her, about them, spiraled through her mind so fast, she felt lightheaded. And his words /
could be the best time you ever had hung in the air between them, tense and heavy.
He might as well have said them again.
"Here, let me help you. " He strolled to the bed and stood at the other side. The crisp white sheets spread between them, cool and inviting. Mariah tried not to look up, tried to concentrate on the bed and only the bed. But no matter which way she turned, she saw the flat, well-muscled flesh of his stomach, and the soft, coffee brown hair that furred his chest. The acrid scent of lye, softened by masculinity and woodsmoke, hovered between them.
He bent toward her. A long lock of damp, wheat blond hair fell across one gray eye.
She tried not to look at him, but couldnt help herself. He was so devastat-ingly handsome. His eyes were crinkled in the corners, dancing with seductive gray light.
Deep, grooved laugh lines bracketed his full lips. Without the scraggly stubble of beard, his jaw was strong and squared.
He grinned at her and leaned closer. Their gazes fused above the blinding whiteness of the sheet. She swallowed hard and dropped her gaze. His hand moved in a seductive, circular motion on the sheet, smoothing out the wrinkles.
Mariah watched his hand, mesmerized for a moment by the contrast of his deeply tanned skin against the stark linen. Then she realized what she was doing. Jerking away from the bed, she nervously brushed the curly wisps of hair from her face.
"There. Its done. "
"Thanks. " His voice sounded soft, intimately beguiling. It reminded her of the words shed read, dreamers words, and she felt herself soften inside.
She looked up, met his intense, burning gray eyes. A shiver coursed through her, brought goose bumps to her arms. "I . . . I cleaned the bunkhouse. " She glanced down. Heat spread across her cheeks. She knew she shouldnt say the next words that came to her mind, knew, too, that she would. "For you. "
He glanced around, smiling. "It looks—" Suddenly his smile faded. A frown creased the tanned flesh of his brow. "Wheres my bag?"
She cast a guilty glance at the corner of the room. "I put your belongings away. The bags under the dresser. "