The Marriage Stampede. Julianna Morris
said than done. You’re stuck in my tree. Need any help?”
Merrie lifted her chin. She’d do what every independent woman should do in a similar situation—bluff. “I’m just fine. I’ll manage.”
“What are you going to do? Wait until dark and hope the neighborhood boys don’t have flashlights? I’m sure they’d enjoy the lesson in human anatomy.”
Her toes curled. At the moment, she truly disliked Logan Kincaid. She hated cleaning his already immaculate house, trying to substitute for her heartbroken sister. She disliked the way he’d turned a lovely home into a sterile status symbol. And she especially disliked him.
Oh, yeah?
Merrie cringed at the clamor of her feminine instincts.
Okay. So Lianne hadn’t mentioned that her stuffy, uptight client had broad shoulders and a gorgeous voice. Imagine, failing to mention he looked better than Clark Gable and Cary Grant rolled up together.
Big deal. Lots of men had sexy bodies and great voices. Nice men. Different men from Logan Kincaid, whose idea of a good time was poring over a stock portfolio. Still, Merrie had envisioned him as a boring overachiever with a perpetually annoyed expression on his face. Not... this.
Not pure heartthrob.
Not a guy driving a flashy little Mercedes convertible. It was still a prestige car, but a lot more fun than a sedan. The men she knew didn’t drive prestige cars—fun or not. They drove foreign economy models or old pickup trucks, being mostly teachers and cowboys. Lianne kept saying she should get out more, but Merrie had a schedule that didn’t include a lot of time for socializing.
“That’s a very strange expression,” Logan called up to her. “Are you all right?”
No. I’m having an attack of lust, she thought, totally disgusted with herself. Brother, she had to get a grip. This wasn’t only embarrassing, it was silly. Lianne’s housecleaning client might have the body of a matinee screen idol, but he was pure poison for someone like her. She wanted someone who enjoyed the country and animals and kids, and didn’t care if he made a billion dollars by age forty.
Besides, he couldn’t actually look that good. It had to be an illusion.
“I’m coming up.”
“Don’t bother...” Merrie’s protest petered out because she didn’t have a lot of options. She’d climbed up, confident of her ability to rescue the kite and get down. She hadn’t contemplated getting caught like a treed cat. “Well...be careful,” she said lamely.
Wood scraped against bark as the ladder was adjusted against the trunk. A few seconds later Kincaid swung onto the top of the tree house with surprising ease and he inched across the neglected structure. When she didn’t move he lifted an eyebrow at her.
“Something wrong?”
Yeah. Everything.
The breath had whooshed out of Merrie’s throat as though she’d been hit with a sledgehammer. Blast. Not only did Logan Kincaid look fabulous face-to-face, but he also looked...likable. Kind of tired and bored with life, but also endearing with a slightly‘crooked line to his teeth and little crinkles. at the corners of his eyes. Her sister was right, she should get out more.
“I’m...I’m fine,” she stuttered.
“Okay. Lift up a little so I can get you loose.”
With bemused obedience, Merrie turned so he could put his hand beneath her back. The contact of warm, hard fingers against her skin created another shock and she closed her eyes. It was better that way. Safer, because she couldn’t see him. Of course, she could still smell him.
God, he smelled great.
Merrie shook her head. This was crazy. Lianne had encountered a couple of his girlfriends over the years; she’d described each one as sophisticated, elegant, and possessing the personality of a dead mackerel. He even had a list of the characteristics he wanted in a woman, taped to his bathroom mirror. Merrie Foster—small town junior high-school teacher—definitely wasn’t his type.
“You’re sure stuck,” Logan muttered as he tugged at the T-shirt. To get a better grip he bunched it in his fist, dragging the hem up her stomach again.
Merrie tried to pretend it didn’t matter. Her breasts were cupped by the soft fabric. They were mostly covered except for the rounded underswell, and the tiny front buttons were too closely spaced to gape. Besides, Kincaid didn’t seem to notice her impending exposure. Now that irritated her. She might not be his type, but she wasn’t chopped liver, either.
“You’re right, this stuff doesn’t like to rip,” he muttered. “And if I pull too hard we could both go flying.”
She peeked beneath her lashes and saw a look of electric concentration in his brown eyes. He nudged her hip with his knee and she bit her lip. Hard.
“Uh, do you have a knife?” Merrie mumbled, feeling a little desperate. She’d never felt such heart-fluttering attraction in her life. It was embarrassing. Silly. Sophomoric. She was a twenty-nine-year-old woman, for heaven’s sake! Almost thirty, though she didn’t like thinking about that despised birthday.
“No knife,” he said, frowning in concentration. “Maybe it will help if I pull up, instead of out.”
He nudged her again and she almost screamed. She should have let the kids call 911; a fireman in full gear would have been lots better than Logan Kincaid in jeans and a faded shirt that fit like a second skin. How could Lianne have spent four years doing his housekeeping and cooking for his dumb parties without experiencing meltdown?
“This isn’t working,” she said distinctly.
“I know. I’m going to give it a good yank, but I want you to hang onto that tree branch, just in case.” He shifted position again, gathering the back of her shirt with both hands.
Merrie hooked her arm around the branch, telling her overheated mind to forget the show of concern for her safety. Kincaid was just worried about his homeowner’s insurance. He didn’t want a claim for injuries if she fell on his property; it wouldn’t look good and would raise his premiums.
“Here goes,” he murmured.
He yanked and the crack of splintering wood filled the air. The tree house roof disintegrated instantly and Merrie lost hold of the branch as they crashed down. With a powerful twist of his body, Kincaid rolled in the air to avoid landing on her. Instead she landed on him in an ignominious heap. Luckily the floor was a lot sturdier than the roof.
“Umph,” she gasped, trying to get oxygen into her lungs. She wasn’t sure if hitting the ground wouldn’t have been softer. Logan Kincaid had a hard, fit body without an excess ounce.
“Are you all right?”
Putting her hands on his shoulders, Merrie pushed up to look at him. The rat didn’t even look startled and he was breathing just fine. “I’m...phhft...dandy.”
“Anything hurt?”
“L-like my pride?” she asked, still breathless.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “I was thinking more along the lines of cuts and bruises and broken bones.”
“Oh...” Merrie shrugged. “Nothing to worry about. During the summer I normally work as a wrangler on my grandfather’s dude ranch. I’m used to stuff like this.”
His gaze drifted down. “That’s interesting. Exactly like this?”
“You know... it happens. Falls and tumbles of various kinds. Even the best riders get thrown.”
“I see.”
Abruptly Merrie realized the intent of his question and she plastered herself to his chest again. Her pride wasn’t the only thing she’d injured—her T-shirt had disappeared completely. But the worst part was the temptation to take