His Touch. Mary Baxter Lynn

      Ten

      Sparks.

      No, actually, her insides felt like rockets erupting on the Fourth of July. This kind of reaction to Brant had to stop. Somehow she had to maintain control when she was around him. The constant awareness of him as a man was wearing thin.

      Discipline. It boiled down to that. Nothing more complicated than that.

      Only it was.

      The way she reacted to him in a physical sense made it very complicated. She couldn’t get past this absurd need to touch him. Jessica felt her face flame. For heaven’s sake, how could she feel this way about a man almost as frightening, in his way, as the pervert interfering in her life?

      “Hello again,” Brant finally said, relieving the smothering silence while rising slowly to his feet.

      Jessica swallowed and forced herself to smile, though she knew it fell far short of genuine. “Are you looking for something to eat?”

      She might as well cut to the chase so she could get back to her room. But for the moment it appeared she would have to carry on a cordial conversation whether she wanted to or not.

      “Actually, I was looking for a lightbulb, then I was going to make some coffee.” He paused, massaging his slightly shadowed chin. “I hope you don’t mind.”

      She gave him an incredulous stare. “Not about the coffee, certainly. But why on earth are you looking for a bulb?”

      “The light’s out in the small hallway next to my room.”

      His room?

      Jessica swallowed the hysteria bubbling in the back of her throat. “I know it is. But it’s not the bulb. Something’s wrong with the electrical system, and I just haven’t had it fixed.”

      “No problem. I can take care of it. I’m a whiz at that kind of work. I wired my entire cabin.”

      She couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “That’s not your job.”

      “I know, but I don’t mind.” He paused and angled his head. “Unless you do, that is.”

      “Not at all,” she said lightly. It suddenly dawned on her that underneath her caftan, she was nude. Could he tell?

      “Why don’t I make the coffee?” he said, once again breaking the silence.

      Jessica shook her head, venturing farther into the room, suddenly feeling like a stranger in her own house. Renewed resentment welled up inside her. She curled her nails into the palms of her hands, wincing against the sting of the pain.

      “I’ll do it, but thanks, anyway,” she said, sounding out of breath.

      He shouldn’t be here. More to the point, he shouldn’t look so damn manly and attractive, half naked, standing in front of her. In all fairness, bare chested hardly qualified as naked. Still, he should have on more than a ragged pair of jeans and no shoes.

      Maybe at the root of her dismay was the fact he exhibited what she’d always envisioned as the perfect male “bod.” Hairy chested, but not too much hair. Tanned skin. Flat abs. Muscled, but not too muscled. Even the scar that jig-jagged down one side before disappearing beneath the waistline didn’t detract. In fact, it made him appear that much more rugged and manly.

      In a nutshell, perfect.

      And he acted like nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that it was his God-given right to parade around her home as he pleased, dressed any way he pleased. That galled her. It should have occurred to him that she just might appear unexpectedly.

      Apparently that was no big deal to him.

      Or was it all an act? Was he as cool and comfortable as he appeared, or was he as rattled inside as she was? For some perverse reason, she hoped for the latter, which was ludicrous, of course. She didn’t want him to think about her except as just another assignment. That way he would remain objective and in control at all times.