Mountain Laurel Page 2

  The front door opened and closed. As Laurel tucked another towel around her body and secured it under her arm, she wondered how Ginny could have gotten back so quickly, then realized she must have forgotten to take money.

  "Hey! You in there?" The loud rap on the bathroom door caused every muscle in Laurel's body to clench. But what chilled her blood was recognizing the deep male voice.

  Chapter Two

  Oh, God! It was him. He'd followed them. He must have lurked in the bushes until Ginny left. And now he's in the house!

  Panic flooded through her body, through her brain, making it difficult to move, difficult to think. Her mouth felt dry as dust and she swallowed painfully. Through the haze of hysteria one thought streamed in her mind: lock the door! She pushed the button of the flimsy lock. The click echoed loudly in the utter stillness.

  "Hey!" Excitement turned his voice insistent.

  Turning, she scanned the room for a weapon. She wouldn't let him get her without a fight. Brush. Mirror. Mascara. Nothing heavy enough to hurt a man. Laurel had never been so frightened in her life. Frantically, she looked around the tiny bathroom. Her eyes lit on the window high above the toilet. Would it be possible? It was small, the type where the glass moved out and up as it was cranked open.

  She quickly glanced down at her towel-clad body and decided she couldn't possibly escape stark naked! Seeing a discarded outfit that Ginny had wadded up and tossed into a corner, Laurel was grateful for her sister's usually infuriating habit of changing clothes three times a day. Laurel pulled the lime-green sweater over her head and, after pushing one arm through, noticed it was inside out. This is no time to be chic, she thought, shoving her other arm into the soft knitted material.

  "Open up!"

  Laurel's eyes darted to the door in time to see the knob jiggle violently. Thrusting one foot, then the other, into a pair of rumpled culottes, she had to suck in her breath and shimmy them over her hips. They were tight, but they'd work. She scooped up one crew sock and pulled it on, the sock's heel protruding awkwardly over her ankle. The two sharp raps that sounded against the door forced her to leave her other foot bare.

  Not losing another second, she stood on the toilet seat lid, cranked open the window and punched out the screen. It would be a tight fit, but it was the only way out. Tiny bug carcasses crunched under her palms when she placed her hands on the sill, but she barely noticed. She pulled with all her might. The shiny pine paneling was slick and she slipped twice, both times her knee banged painfully into the wall. She squealed when, in her thrashing to get up to the window, her foot hit the hand mirror, sending it crashing to the floor.

  "What the devil is going on in there? Open this door!" Angry bangs vibrated in the room.

  Sweat broke out on her forehead and upper lip. Pulling with all her might, she hoisted herself up to the window. Tears of fear and frustration blurred her vision and her arms quivered from exertion. Her head and shoulders were through the opening, but she could no longer reach the porcelain tank with her feet, so she lost her leverage point. Shifting her torso one way, then the other, she inched further out the narrow window.

  She heard a great weight crash against the bathroom door. Oh, God, I'll never make it, she thought, wriggling more desperately.

  The second impact against the door caused the wood to splinter, and Laurel screamed with what little air was left in her lungs. When that was gone, she breathed as deeply as the tiny window opening would allow and screamed again.

  After rubbing his shoulder, Michael hit the door a third time. It finally gave way and slammed against the wall.

  He stepped into the bathroom, shards of glass crunching under his shoes. "What the hell..."

  Seeing the half-clothed, definitely female body squirming half in and half out of the tiny bathroom window stopped him in his tracks. Her bloodcurdling screams made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He stood for several seconds, stunned motionless. What the heck was he supposed to do?

  The screeching finally ceased. He watched as the wiggling stopped and one satiny leg stretched down. The toes of the one bare foot were a scant two inches from reaching the toilet tank. He considered grasping the slim ankles and guiding them down but quickly rejected the notion to touch the intruder.

  Michael turned and strode out of the bathroom and out of the front door. He rounded the corner of the house to where the body protruded from the window.

  The woman's head was draped in a towel that covered her face. Reaching up, he snatched it off and was rewarded with another scream.

  "Don't you touch me! Don't you come near me!" She furiously brushed at the wet hair plastered against her forehead and cheeks.

  Michael's eyes widened. It was the woman from the car. Laurel. But what in the world was she doing here?

  "I mean it!" She twisted, hitting her elbow against the heavy logs on the outside of the cabin. Her sharp intake of breath knocked him out of his shocked silence.

  "Are you okay?" he asked.

  "Don't you come near me!" Her voice sounded deadly intense.

  "Look," he said, "you're obviously in trouble up there. Let me help you."

  "You touch me," she threatened, glaring at him, "and you'll be the sorriest man to ever live."

  "I don't know what you're thinking, but I'm not here to hurt you."

  Laurel heard the words but didn't believe them. And then her brows knit together in confusion. He looked different.

  "Let me help you down," he said.

  "No! I mean it. I don't want your help." Her voice was weakening as she tried to put her finger on it. Decent, that was it. He looked decent—freshly shaved. And clean. But it was him all right. She'd never forget those dark eyes.

  "Fine, that's fine. I'll stay right here." He held his hands up as though surrendering.

  "I want you to go away. Right now." To her mortification, a single, fat tear welled in her eye and slid down her cheek.

  "When you get down, we'll talk." He spoke with firm intent, his fists resting on his hips.

  She was afraid. Probably more so than she'd ever been in her life. But pain began to flare around her ribcage, where the dead weight of her body pressed against the metal window frame.

  "Please, just go away." The pleading in her voice angered her into a new resolve. "Now!"

  "Get. Down." He put equal emphasis on both words.

  "I can't!" she yelled. "I'm stuck!"

  They glared at each other for several seconds.

  Heaving a sigh, he said, "I'm coming in to help you."

  She watched him stride out of sight, helpless to do anything but hang there. She felt like a snared rabbit. A snared rabbit wearing too tight shorts that were riding up her back side. Fighting down the panic that was rebuilding in her chest, she focused on his words of assistance and prayed he was being truthful. The powerlessness she felt was totally unnerving.

  Back in the bathroom, Michael wondered what to do first. Those long shapely legs were distracting. After placing several towels over the broken glass on the floor, he reached up and planted his hands on her hips—and he was promptly rewarded with a kick to his chest that left him gasping.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled, his gaze latching onto the two perfect crescent-moons of creamy flesh peeking out from under that skimpy skirt-and-shorts-thing she was wearing. He stifled a groan, and then silently admonished himself, averting his gaze as much as was possible and still see what he was doing. Just get the woman out of the window!

  As he wrapped his hands around her waist, he grazed the heated skin of her stomach under the sweater. He felt rather than heard her sharp intake of breath and held his own as he secured a less intimate hold on her hips. He gave a light tug and realized the effort hadn't moved her at all.

  Her skin was warm beneath the thin fabric. And she smelled good. Like musky soap and some sort of flowery shampoo. Ignoring the electricity coursing through his veins, Michael muttered aloud, "Keep your mind on the work, man." He tugged agai
n, this time a little harder. She didn't budge.

  "You really are stuck!" He couldn't help his laughter. Her heel grazed his shoulder and he was grateful he couldn't hear her angry reply.

  "Okay! Okay!" he soothed. "We'll get you out. But you've got to calm down." He stepped up onto the toilet seat and held Laurel once more around the waist. Each pull on the shapely human cork caused him to chuckle harder until he was shaking with laughter.

  Suddenly the toilet seat cover slipped, toppling him off-balance. He grabbed at Laurel in a vain effort to keep from falling. The forcefulness of his yank pulled Laurel from the window, her head thumping softly on the casing before they tumbled to the floor in a sprawling heap.

  Aware of the hard body beneath her, Laurel scrambled to her feet. "Get out of here!" she demanded as she backed into the tiny space between the toilet and the wall.

  Michael ignored the order, resting his weight on his elbows and giving himself time to catch his breath. He stared at her slim ankles a second. Then his gaze slowly traveled up her legs, noting a scrape on her knee, then continuing on to delicious-looking thighs. Lord, they were gorgeous!

  She crossed her arms in an effort to hide her tight clothing, but he remembered the feel of her hips and tiny waist in his hands. Her still-damp hair fell about her shoulders in tumbled disarray. But when he looked into her emerald eyes, they were spitting fire.

  Her obvious ire tripped his own defenses on. Why was she so angry? And who was she? He sat up. "Just what the hell are you doing in my house?"

  "Your house?" She stared at him for the shortest moment, then her face paled with understanding. "You're Jim's uncle?"

  "Cousin. I'm Jim's cousin." He rubbed the back of his neck, checking for soreness. "You know Jim?"

  "He was supposed to call and let you know we were coming. He didn't call?"

  Michael shook his head.

  "I'm sorry," she said, her tone soft as a whisper. "About...everything. Really, I am. This has turned into such a mess."

  Apparently agitation had her wiping her palms down her too-short skirt.

  "I feel awful about this," she continued. "I'm Laurel Morgan. Jim works for my father."

  He watched her shift her weight on her feet; then she reached up and touched the back of her head. She winced.

  "Are you okay?" Michael stood, not taking his eyes off her face. Once she'd nodded, he said, "I don't understand. Where's Jim?"

  Laurel remembered that she must look pretty ludicrous. The sweater's tag poked into her chin, letting her know that not only had she put the top on inside out, she had put it on backward, as well. Looking down, she saw Ginny's sock flop limply in front on her foot. She reached down and snatched it off.

  "Look, couldn't we talk...after I'm...dressed?" She inched toward the door at every pause. "I won't be a minute."

  His only response was a curt nod as he stepped aside to let her pass, but he was sure she didn't even see it as fast as she'd scampered out of the bathroom.

  Hearing the bedroom door close with a soft click, he breathed a sigh of relief. His heart beat faster just thinking of the smooth skin of her taut stomach under his fingertips. A wicked grin spread across his face as he pictured those creamy legs dangling from the window, and he knew it was a sight he'd never forget. Michael glanced up at the narrow window and shook his head. How she ever thought she could fit through that opening was beyond him.

  Laurel sat huddled on the bed, a miserable wreck. How could she have made such a fool of herself? Getting stuck in a window, for heaven's sake! She rolled her eyes thinking of the picture she must have made.

  Pushing the embarrassing image aside, she stripped out of Ginny's clothes and dug into her suitcase, pulling out panties and a sweatshirt. Like it or not, she had to go out and face him. Sliding the soft cotton over her head, she grimaced at the soreness on the back of her skull, in her shoulders and ribs. Would she ever be able to live this down?

  She searched through the rumpled clothes, pulling out a pair of blue jeans. She hadn't had a chance to unpack and wondered if she'd even get to at all now. She'd treated Jim's cousin terribly, rewarding his offer of help with the flat tire with outright rudeness. And she'd given him a good, solid kick just a few minutes ago.

  The denim raked against her scraped knee and she inhaled sharply. She jerked off the jeans and tossed them on the bed, substituting a pair of worn, fleecy sweatpants instead. She stuffed her feet into socks as her mind conjured excuses for her behavior; he had looked rough when they'd first met. And dirty. And that rifle hanging in his truck window had frightened her. Two women traveling alone couldn't be too careful these days. Add to that Ginny's recount of his review of her body and it was enough to make anyone jump to the wrong conclusion. Wasn't it?

  Well, wasn't it?

  Her sigh was full of self-reproach. He may have been scraggy and whiskered, but now that she thought about it, he hadn't been a bit threatening. That had been the work of her overactive paranoia.

  She yanked a comb through her thick, damp hair. Knowing it would be unruly if she didn't blow it dry, she quickly sectioned it and worked the strands into a single thick braid.

  She stood with her hand on the doorknob feeling extremely timid. Should she try to talk him into letting them stay or let him throw her out on her ear as she deserved? Taking a deep breath, she slowly opened the door. She saw he had helped himself to a glass of iced tea.

  He looks as embarrassed as I feel, she thought. Surprised by that, she tried to smile, wanting to put him at ease.

  He set his glass on a table, then said sheepishly, "I'm sorry I disturbed your shower."

  Was that an understatement! She clamped her lips shut in an effort to suppress the all-out-grin struggling to take over her face. But the smile won the battle. Then a tiny chuckle forced itself out. She placed one hand over her mouth, the other on her stomach, and found herself helpless once again, this time to laughter.

  "I'm sorry." Raising her eyes to his, she saw he was trying valiantly to wrestle down his own amusement.

  "You really were stuck." He, too, finally gave way to laughter.

  "Like a cork in a bottle," she wailed.

  "I thought the same thing!"

  They both bent forward slightly, their laughter filling the room.

  Finally, Michael approached her, reaching out his hand. "I'm Michael Walker, Jim's cousin and the owner of this humble abode."

  She found his grasp as warm and friendly as his laugh. His handsome face showed an amicable openness, and she wondered why she hadn't seen it from the start. Again she regretted her earlier treatment of him.

  "I really am sorry," she felt compelled to say as she held onto his hand.

  "It's okay. I looked pretty bad earlier." His lips tilted at one corner as he added, "Bad enough to give anyone the wrong impression."

  They both realized in the same instant that the handshaking had long since stopped, and they simultaneously released their hold. Awkwardly, he jammed his hands into his pockets. She clasped hers behind her back.

  "You were bleeding when you left the bathroom," he said. His eyes darted to her knee, then back to her face. "And you took a pretty sharp bump on the head. Are you okay? Do you want some ice?"

  Those dark eyes seemed to search for her soul.

  "The scrape is nothing," she murmured. "It'll be fine. And my head's pretty hard. At least, that's what my sister says, anyway."

  It was difficult to believe this smartly dressed, soft-spoken man and the dirty, gruff one who had scared her so were one and the same. The thick growth of whiskers that had covered his face had hidden the strength of his jaw. But those dark, piercing eyes were exactly as she remembered them. No amount of grime could have clouded that intense gaze.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "Oh, no." She dipped her chin and stared at the floor, embarrassed and appalled by her unintentional inspection of him. "Uh, I was just wondering..." She focused on his face and saw him patiently waiting for her to finish. "When
you stopped earlier, why did you look so..." She searched for the right word.

  "Rough?" he offered. Then he shrugged. "I'd been out camping. I like to challenge myself to live off the land for a few days a couple of times a year. I always come back half-starved to death." He grinned. "You can only survive on roots and berries so long."

  "Then Jim probably did call and wasn't able to reach you."

  "Probably," he agreed. "I always lock my cell phone in the glove compartment so I have it in case of an emergency. But when I camp, I like to be as technology free as possible."

  She nodded, and after a quiet moment, asked, "Well, do you mind? That we're here? I mean, will our staying a couple of weeks cause a problem?"

  "It's just that I expected Jim home for the wedding." Halfway through his sentence she heard a muted beep. He reached into his pocket, took out his phone and flipped it open.

  "I'm on call tonight," he told her, scanning the screen. "And apparently there's a problem. Excuse me one second, I need to call the office."

  Laurel watched him punch a couple of buttons. As he talked, she studied his profile. His jaw was square and contrasted nicely with the angle of his cheekbone. An ever so slight groove rested in the middle of his chin below perfectly shaped lips. She was mesmerized watching them contract and relax as he formed the words of his conversation, and she wondered if they would feel soft and warm on her own. She snapped out of her daydream as he slid the cell phone closed and tucked it into his pocket. She had to force herself not to look away when his eyes met hers.

  "There's an emergency. I have to run," he said quietly.

  "You're a doctor?"

  "No," he said, smiling at her question. "I'm a park ranger for Garrett County. A few families are staying in the park and a smoke alarm in one of the cabins went off." He raked a hand restively through his dark brown hair and glanced toward the door. "It's probably nothing. Ten to one someone burned their fish dinner or forgot to open the chimney damper." His smile widened. "City folks do that sort of thing all the time."