still no answer, she glanced around, a little nonplussed.
“Dammit, someone was supposed to be here,” she grumbled, and made a decision to go looking. She left all her belongings on the porch and wandered around to the side of the house. She gazed about and noticed the neglect evident in the flower beds, lawn and house. Gingerly, she stepped over an extension ladder lying on its side, as well as various tools carelessly scattered on the ground. Upon closer inspection she discovered that the side of the house had been scraped down, as if being readied for a new coat of paint.
She rounded a corner to the back and shaded her eyes to see rail fences and several other buildings. One was a small, one-story version of the main house. Its porch was shaded by blooming wisteria vines desperately in need of pruning. From the location of a truck and other machinery, she figured that two of the buildings were garages of some sort.
Despite the warmth of the sun, she shivered. The whole place was eerily quiet, as if everyone had just disappeared. Still, it awarded her the luxury of looking around and studying everything.
The last building puzzled her. It was a huge, square, redbrick structure with a slate roof and few windows. She looked from the Victorian house to the buildings again and realized what it was that nagged at her. While everything else seemed run-down, the redbrick building was modern and well kept, expensive looking. Though she knew little about ranch life, she figured it was the barn. Maybe she’d find someone there.
She’d just skirted the big truck, which was halffilled with hay bales, when she heard the sound of running water. She checked her pace, and it was then she saw him. Maybe it had been too long since she’d been so close to so much testosterone, but the sight of him made her tingle with nervous energy.
He was solidly built and naked to the waist, his tight, sun-faded jeans riding low on his hips. Bent forward with the hose held above him, he let a stream of water wash over his dark head and upper body.
Avery felt her heart slam against her ribs as she watched the water slide over his muscular shoulders and roll across his broad back, then trickle to his narrow waist and soak the waistband of his jeans.
She was transfixed by the way his muscles rippled under the tanned skin. Then he dropped the hose, straightened to what appeared to be at least six-four, and ran his fingers through his hair. Lifting her eyes from the knotted stomach muscles to his face, she bit her lip. He was not a pretty man. His nose was hawkish, his cheekbones high and sharp. His jaw, while strong, looked unrelenting. His chin and cheeks were lightly scarred from what she assumed was adolescent acne. His eyes were large and light brown, the color of autumn leaves, yet distant somehow. The only remotely soft feature that hinted at any flexibility was his wide mouth with its well-defined lips. At the moment they were held in a stern line.
A breathy sigh trembled across her own lips. He wasn’t handsome, not by her standards. But there was an aura of strength and pride about him. He was, she thought, the sexiest man she’d ever laid eyes on.
“Are you going to stand there staring,” he snapped, “or are you going to throw me that towel?”
She jumped, every nerve in her body alive with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, grabbing the towel from the truck bed she was standing beside and pitching it to him. He plucked it from the air and began drying his hair, chest and stomach, never once taking those eyes off her.
“You want to tell me what you’re doing here?”
His voice was deep and smoky soft. Her own voice was stuck somewhere in her throat. Suddenly he smiled, and the appearance of a dimple in his right cheek was enough to jolt her out of her trance. “I’m Avery Jensen,” she told him.
He waited. When she didn’t continue, he returned to his task of drying off, and gave his hair another rough rub before pitching the towel into the back of the truck. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
If she could have, she would have kicked herself for acting like a dimwit. “I guess not if you don’t recognize it. I’m looking for Logan Monahan.”
“You got him.”
“What?”
“I’m Logan Monahan.”
To cover her confusion, she stuck out her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Logan. I thought you were going to pick me up at the bus station this morning. When you didn’t show up, I tried to call, but no one answered.”
He was looking at her as if she was crazy. When he took a few steps toward her, she felt threatened. Reflex made her drop her hand and step back before she realized he was simply reaching for his shirt hanging on the corner of the tailgate.
She tried not to watch the way his muscles moved under the smooth skin as he slipped it on. She swallowed. “Mr. Wilson gave me a ride.”
Logan nodded. “He’s a neighbor. You say I was supposed to pick you up at the bus station today?”
“Three hours ago, actually,” she said, and barely managed to keep the irritation out of her voice.
“Me? Logan Monahan?”
She was becoming impatient with his questions. “That’s right. You did hire me, after all.”
“Did I?” Logan knew he was making her nervous, but he didn’t give a damn. His first impression was that she was a strikingly beautiful young woman, with her long, jet-black hair and clear gray eyes. Maybe eleven or twelve years his junior—twenty-eight, or younger. She carried herself proudly, shoulders straight and her full breasts thrust out.
A closer look made him scowl. Although her skin was a beautiful milky-white, there wasn’t a drop of color in her cheeks. She looked strained, exhausted. The kissable mouth seemed to tremble. She appeared too thin and a bit wired, as if she were running on air and sheer guts.
“Oh, hell,” he grumbled under his breath. She resembled a wounded animal. All his life he had tried to fix what was hurt. He hadn’t always managed, though.
“I hired you?” he asked again.
Avery felt light-headed, but there was no way she was going to end up a fainting female—not in front of this man. With a hand that shook, she reached for the truck’s tailgate and sat.
“I believe your specifications were very exact,” she said, “and I was the only one to fit the job description. You needed someone with computer savvy and bookkeeping skills, a no-frills cook, a general dogsbody to do light housekeeping, even-tempered and easy on the eye.”
“You mean I didn’t demand a strong back and good teeth, too?” Logan propped one worn boot on the side of the tailgate and gave her a long, amused look. She tried to hide her quick smile by ducking her head.
“Denise didn’t mention those.”
“But you fit the bill otherwise?”
She steeled herself. “Yes, indeed, and feel free to call Denise if you want to double-check my qualifications.” Oh, she was qualified, all right. She just couldn’t back up any of her qualifications. The only one willing to vouch for her was Denise Kirk, and they’d been best friends since they were ten. Denise would lie, cheat and steal for her. Fortunately, so far her friend had only had to lie.
Logan laughed. Then he said, “I think I see my father’s hand in this. He’s Logan Monahan, Senior. Mac to his friends and enemies. He has a few other names I won’t mention—they’re for when he sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong, which happens to be most of the time.”
A heavy sick feeling settled in her stomach like a brick. “You mean I came to the wrong place? Your father hired me?”
“No and yes. And no again. Oh, hell.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t need any help.”
She’d come so far, traveled by bus, of all things. She’d borrowed money from Denise for clothes and the ticket, and now it appeared she didn’t have a job. She didn’t even have the money to buy a return ticket. If