Vivi shoved back her hair and wondered uncomfortably if she’d left mud across her cheek. “These were the directions he gave me last week, before I took off. He must have forgotten. I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s been distracted lately. Love, and all.”

“I see,” he said.

“But just for the record, I’m not a teenager. I’m almost twenty-eight. Nor am I a neo-hippie. Nor am I flaky, in any way.” She crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at him. She couldn’t deny the itinerant or tattooed parts. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to deny the sexpot part. That was a matter of context, mood. Inclination.

He raised an eyebrow. She willed herself not to drop her gaze. A raindrop rolled down the sculpted contours of his jaw. She watched it, breathless.

“You don’t look twenty-eight,” he observed.

She shook herself loose of the hypnosis, and steeled herself to do the grown-up, dignified thing. “Well, I am. If you’ve drawn your conclusions about my intrinsic value as a person after two minutes of conversation, there’s nothing left to be said. I’ll just hike back to town and find a motel and someone who can help me pull my van out.”

He frowned. “Don’t be silly. We’ll talk about it later. Get what you need out of your van for the time being. You can’t walk back to town.”

She drew herself up to her full height, which was about five three, unfortunately. “I can do what I goddamn well please. I don’t need your help, and I don’t need your attitude. I’ll just pack my bags, if you don’t mind, and Edna and I will be on our way.”

“You can’t—” He cut himself off, looking irritated. “This rain isn’t stopping. It’s six miles back to town. You aren’t going to find anybody to help you with that van today. Get your stuff.” He stared at her stiff, stony face, sighed, and said, “Okay. I apologize, already. Let me rephrase. Please, get your stuff.”

Vivi was cautiously mollified. She climbed into the van and shoved clothes into her duffel, too nervous to be methodical. She tossed cans of dog food into her backpack, attached her sleeping bag, and jumped out with both bags. He was examining the lurid fantasy mural on the van while he waited. “What’s this, a dragon?”

“No, it’s a serpent,” she informed him, ridiculously defensive.

He harrumphed. “Is that your work?”

She snorted. As fucking if. “No,” she said crisply. “That’s not my style. Actually, I don’t paint. I’m a sculptor. An old friend of mine named Rafael painted that. I bought the van from him years ago.”

“Hmmm. Whatever. Let’s go, if you’re ready.” He grabbed the heavy duffel from her shoulder, flung it onto his back, and headed straight into the thickest-looking part of the forest.

She struggled after him with her backpack as he wove and ducked through evergreens, brambles, and clinging foliage and festoons of lichen with supernatural grace and ease. She felt clumsy and heavy with every step, dragging her mud-covered high-tops out of the ground with a wet, squelching sound. Fir boughs slapped her face, snagged her hair.

Kendrick glanced back to make sure she was following and started up a steep incline. The soft mud was very slippery. She climbed the hill, half-crawling, grabbing trunks of little sapling firs for balance. She started sliding downhill, and tried to steady herself by reaching for a clump of innocent-looking broad-leafed plants. Their tough, leathery stems proved to be covered with thorns. She lost her footing, and fell into the sloppy mud. Painfully.

“Need a hand?”

Jack Kendrick was looming over her, though to be fair, it wasn’t his fault. He was standing above her on the slope, after all, and the guy was ridiculously tall to start with. His silvery eyes examined her narrowed thoughtfully. “Are you hurt?”

She pointed at the plant, and struggled to rise, cradling the stinging hand. He helped her to her feet, his hand under her elbow.

“Let me see.” He turned her hand over, examined it, and began pulling out the tiny thorns embedded in her palm.

Vivi’s breath stopped. Her senses were swamped with close-up sensory details. His head bent over hers, rain dripping from the ends of his shaggy, dark hair. Every detail of him etched itself into her brain. The way the hair grew back from his forehead, the white streak on his temple where the scar disappeared into his hairline. His sensual mouth. Very sensual, when it was relaxed. His lower lip, so cushiony and pink. It looked like it would be hot, soft. Kissable.

She was close enough to smell him. Soap, pine trees, wood smoke. Coffee. She wanted to touch his face, smooth the rain-drenched strands of hair that clung to his forehead.

She recoiled, alarmed at her own impulses. “Let’s go on.”

“Give me this,” he said, pulling her backpack off her shoulders.

She was irritated at the implication that she couldn’t handle it. She was small, yes, but no weakling. “I’m fine!” She tugged it back.

He plucked it from her hand with an impatient jerk and slung it over his shoulder, along with her duffel. He started back up the hill, and she scrambled after, knees wobbling. “A little farther, and the hard part’s over,” he said over his shoulder.

“And I’m not helpless! I was doing fine!” she shouted after him.

Her words seemed to bounce off his back. His lack of response made her sound foolish and ineffectual. She hated that. Dirty trick.

Over the crest of the hill, the forest opened into a broad sweep of gentle downhill slope. The trees here were taller, with more space between them. Edna pranced around, sniffing at the fallen tree trunks. The rain had slackened. The air was luminous and heavy with fog.

The silent grandeur of the forest worked magic on her jangled nerves as they padded along. It was beauty that sobered her, calmed her. Luminous, magic. The pattering rain, the feathery delicacy of pine boughs, the paler green festoons of moss, and tiny star-shaped white flowers floating ethereally in shiny green clumps of ground cover. It was so beautiful, she forgot her stinging hand, slimed shoes, and outraged sensibilities.

About a half hour later, he led her through a waist-high tangle of blooming wild roses. And then she saw the house.

He watched as she caught sight of the house, and felt ridiculously gratified at the smile that lit up her face. Yeah, of course she likes it, Kendrick. What wasn’t to like? He’d worked his ass off on that place.

Still, it pleased him that she appreciated the grace of the old-fashioned house under the enormous pines. The comfortable porch. The huge flower and herb garden that he’d meticulously landscaped. He was proud of it. After all that work, she damn well ought to appreciate it.

That, however, did not mean that he would let some wandering wild child whose body made him break out in a fever sweat park her lurid van in his driveway and disrupt his peace of mind. He hadn’t signed up for that.

He’d known, in his bones, that something was up. The tone in Duncan’s voice, that hidden smile. He knew that sneaky bastard. He’d been keeping something back, and there it was, in the flesh. His job was to babysit a doe-eyed, wet-T-shirt-clad mini-sex-bomblet and keep her out of trouble. Served him right, for letting Duncan jerk him around. It was true that he owed Dunc, but, God. This kind of trouble he did not need.

Duncan had said that the chick was in danger. Some muddled, improbable tale about evil Nazis, treasure maps, lost art. Christ on a crutch. He’d given up on drama. He wanted peace and quiet. Simplicity.

Still, he disliked the idea of Vivi D’Onofrio in danger. She was so small and delicate. Her skin, so pale against that red hair. He wondered if the color was fake. Its brilliance seemed exaggerated.

There was one quick, surefire way to find out, he thought suddenly, and he tried to squelch the thought in his mind before his dick could swell to maximum capacity again. Thank God for the rain poncho. Every detail of her figure had been visible in the damp tie-dye T-shirt. Those high, perfect tits, the kind that fit into a champagne cup. The classic, tender mouthful. He cursed under his breath.