Eyes that were dancing with amusement.

“I fainted,” she said lamely.

“Aye.”

Libby blinked.Aye? “Aye?” she repeated aloud.

The giant nodded.

Libby felt the heat of her blush travel up her neck to her cheeks. She also felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach.

“Papa, can’t you see how huge her eyes are? You’re scaring Libby.”

Libby turned to the child who had spoken. The boy was sitting beside his father on the coffee table in front of the couch, grinning at her. She immediately recognized him from the picture in the ad on the Internet.

He patted her knee. “It’s okay, Libby,” he said. “My papa’s just afraid you’ll faint again.”

His papa was most likely getting ready to cop another feel, Libby thought. She looked back at Robbie MacBain’s father and gave him a good glare to let him know what she thought of his chivalry. She quickly decided she’d rather deal with the younger MacBain when Robbie’s papa simply smiled back.

“You know who I am?” she asked Robbie.

The boy nodded but lowered his eyes. “I knew you were Libby Hart the moment I saw you, but Papa looked in your purse just to make sure.”

Libby shot the man another glare. He finally let go of her shoulders and leaned away, crossing his arms over his chest, his deep gray eyes still dancing with lazy humor.

The wordgiant came to mind, but somehow even that label seemed inadequate.Goliath might fit better. Libby imagined Goliath had looked just as intimidating.

This giant was wearing a flannel shirt that clung to an impressively broad chest and strongly muscled arms. There was a towel draped around his neck, which obviously had been run over his still damp hair to dry up the pond water. The shadow of an emerging beard covered his angular jaw, and his high cheekbones were tinged red as his body worked to replace the heat he’d lost to the pond.

Libby couldn’t decide if he was ruggedly handsome or simply imposing in a very male way. He did make her pulse race, but then, that just might be her body trying to warm itself up.

Libby decided to give her attention to Robbie.

But Robbie was looking at his father. “See, Papa. She’s already making you smile. And you laughed at the pond.”

Libby looked back at the giant, who had lifted one brow at his son. “Aye. She did make me laugh,” he agreed. He shot Libby a grin. “She’s the smallest fish we’ve pulled from that pond all year.”

Libby snapped her gaze down to her lap, brushing her wet clothes as she felt heat climb back to her face. Oh, he was a nasty man, making fun of her size.

“Do ya think we should throw her back and let her grow a bit more?” the older MacBain continued, humor lacing every word.

“No, Papa. I want to keep her.”

Libby reached up to push one of her short, damp curls behind her ear.

“Well, Papa? Can I keep her?” Robbie asked.

“You’re a jewelry maker?” the older MacBain asked.

Libby dismissed his question with an absent nod and directed her own question at Robbie. “Does your papa have a name?”

Robbie grinned at her. “Aye. It’s Michael.”

Libby snapped her gaze to Michael MacBain. Surely this man had nothing in common with that great angel. But then again, maybeMichael did fit. The archangel he was named for must be large and powerful and ferocious-looking if he was capable of defending Heaven.

Michael MacBain looked capable enough.

“What happened to your hair?” Robbie asked. “Did you have a terrible fright when you were young that turned some of it white?”

Libby reached up to touch the white streak of hair over her forehead and smiled. “No, I didn’t have a fright. I was born with it that way.”

Libby noticed that Robbie leaned forward in interest and that Michael MacBain leaned back in… well, in suspicion. She considered both of their reactions rude but refrained from saying so.

Libby let her hand trail down from her hair to rest on a bump on the left side of her forehead. It felt as large as a goose egg and made her head throb when she touched it.

“Can you tell me if ya’re hurt anywhere else?” Michael asked with a grin that made him look more devilish than angelic. “I noticed your knee appears to be swollen,” he said, looking down at her wet trousers clinging to an obviously swollen knee.

Her knee did feel swollen and hurt when she tried to bend it. She must have hit it on the dash when her car slammed into the water. Her left shoulder and chest felt bruised—

from the seat belt, most likely. But other than a few bumps and a pounding headache, she felt relatively intact.

“How long was I out?” she asked, wondering about a concussion.

“Maybe ten minutes,” Michael said.

Libby forced herself to look at her rescuer. “Thank you for pulling me out of the pond,”

she ungraciously muttered, remembering how he had taken his damned time to do it.

She gave him a less than warm smile. “I’m glad you finally realized that I wouldn’t grow any bigger and decided to fish me out.”

Michael stood up. “And now I must go fish out your car,” he said, giving her an equally ungracious smile. “And see what are left of my Christmas trees.”

He leaned over, placed one hand on the back of the couch, and set his face uncomfortably close. “Your little accident has cost me first place at the state fair next year, lady,” he whispered. “And I intend to see that I’m compensated.”

With that warning—or maybe it was a threat—Michael MacBain straightened and walked out of the room. Robbie immediately scooted along the coffee table until he was sitting beside her and patted her arm.

“Don’t let him bother you, Libby. Papa likes to growl a lot, but he don’t mean anything by it.” He suddenly grinned and held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Robbie MacBain.”

Libby took the young man’s offering. “It’s nice to meet you finally, Robbie MacBain,”

she said, shaking his hand, trying not to notice that it was nearly as large as hers. Or that she probably outweighed the boy by only twenty pounds.

She couldn’t decide how old he was. He spoke and acted much younger than he looked, and there was an aura of eager innocence about him. Did eleven-or twelve-year-old boys still call their fathers Papa?

“How old are you, Robbie?”

The boy puffed up his chest. “Eight,” he told her. “But I’ll be nine in January.”

Libby didn’t believe him. He was nearly as tall as she was. And his eyes, for all the innocence she saw in them, also hinted at a wisdom usually found in adults.

“Eight?” she repeated. “You’re sure?”

He frowned at her. “Of course I’m sure,” he said, as if she were simple-minded. “I was born the year of the ice storm.”

Libby hadn’t heard about any ice storm, but she nodded agreement. It was possible the boy was just large for his age, especially considering the size of his father. Michael MacBain must be nearly six and a half feet tall.

Libby stood five-foot-three in heels.

She still couldn’t believe she’d actually attacked the man in the pond. It must have been temporary insanity induced by her fear of drowning. Or maybe the cold water had momentarily frozen her brain.

“Ah, Robbie? Do you think you can find me something dry to wear?”

He thought about that and said, “Gram Ellen’s clothes are still here, but I don’t think you should use them. It might upset Grampy if he sees you in them.”

“Grampy?”

Robbie nodded. “Grampy John. He’s not really my grampy, but he likes that I call him that. He’s not here right now, but he lives with Papa and me ’cause he used to own this farm. But he sold it to Papa before I was born.”

“And your Gram Ellen? Where is she?”

“Dead,” he said, lowering his eyes. “Papa and Paul buried her in the cemetery up back two months ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Robbie,” Libby said sincerely. “Who’s Paul?”

“Grampy’s son. But he’s gone back to Hawaii now.”