Debra Webb - In His Touch Box Set (Here To Stay, Up Close, Tempting Trace, Basic Instincts) (27 page)

Keeping a vigilant watch in all directions, Abby chastised herself for allowing a childhood terror to haunt her more than twenty years later. Of course, being attacked by a dog at the impressionable age of five would make anyone wary of the four-legged beasts. So what if it had only been a poodle—six stitches was nothing to scoff at. Even if all six were in her... behind. Abby folded her arms over her chest and remembered the indignity. She hadn’t been able to sit down for a week. That was nothing to—

What was that?

Abby whirled in the direction of the sound. Nothing. She was getting paranoid. She exhaled shakily. It was nothing—or maybe just a squirrel. She scanned the branches of the massive maple trees, leaves fluttering in the faint breeze.

Probably just a squirrel.

Cautiously, Abby took a step back toward the truck. If she needed to make a dash for the truck, she might as well get a little closer. Maybe even another step—

The meter key halted her retreat, twisted, then gave way. Abby and the key tumbled to the ground. Before she could scramble back into a vertical position, Matthew’s heated shouts echoed from inside the house. She had no idea what he was saying, but, judging from the tone, it wasn’t pleasant.

Abby dusted herself off, then picked up the meter key. Should she stick it back in the hole?

Before she could make a decision, Matthew stormed out of the house and across the yard. He looked as if he’d taken a shower—with his clothes on.

Abby frowned. “What happened to you?”

A muscle flexed in his tightly clenched jaw, he towered over her for a beat or two, then wordlessly snatched the meter key from her hand and tossed it into the grass.

“Come with me,” he ground out as he snagged her by the arm.

Abby opened her mouth to protest, but quickly snapped it shut at his quelling look. All but running to keep up with his long strides as he towed her across the lawn and up the steps, she entered the house with him. She got a vague impression of country-style decorating as he hauled her through the living room and into the hall. He led her into the bathroom and stationed her at the far side of the little room.

“Don’t move,” he said tautly.

Abby harrumphed. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t move, don’t talk.” He swiped a droplet of water from his face and glared at her for two beats before he turned away.

“Fine,” she muttered.

He shot her a look.

She promptly ignored him.

Matthew stepped into the shower stall and began working on the showerhead with some sort of huge wrench. The wrench slipped and he swore.

“What are you doing?”

His look was withering. “Don’t... talk.”

Abby rolled her eyes and sighed mightily.

“And don’t move,” he added hotly.

Abby shot him a look this time. “I didn’t move!”

His gaze narrowed to the nails tapping against her upper arm. Abby hadn’t even been aware of the action. She clenched her fingers to halt the nervous habit.

“No wonder you work alone,” she groused. “Who would put up with such a grouch?”

Without a word, Matthew placed his wrench on the floor and took the three steps that separated them. Abby backed away only to bump into the wall. When he extended his hand, some long-hidden romantic reflex made her accept it without protest. He led her to the shower and silently ushered her inside the glass enclosure. Maybe he planned to show her what he was attempting to do.

Before she could ask what it was he expected of her, he twisted a knob. Cold water pelted her skin, she squealed and then the water stopped.

Shoving Matthew aside, she stepped out of the shower. She swiped the water from her face with the back of her hand and glared at him. “Are you insane? You... you...” she gasped.

“Now, we’re almost even.”

~*~

Matthew gave the nut holding the S-trap in place another twist. Damn, he felt guilty. He exhaled wearily and scrubbed his free hand over his face, then stared up at the bottom of Mrs. Hadley’s kitchen sink. He’d given Abby the silent treatment all morning. She hadn’t really deserved it.

It wasn’t her fault that her fine-looking backside had distracted him when he’d been loading the tools he needed for the day in his truck. She’d only bent over to tie her shoe.

His gut tightened.

But the sight of her bent over in those form-fitting jeans...

Then, when she’d straightened and turned to face him, the way her old NYU T-shirt clung to her shapely breasts like a second skin took his breath away. Maybe if she hadn’t tucked the shirt in... He passed a hand over his face again.

What a body the woman had.

And it sure as hell wasn’t her fault that the crowd of knuckleheads hanging around the store that morning had acted like some famous supermodel had just walked in. Their whistles and catcalls—no, scratch that. Abby’s reaction to their blatant flirting had distracted him. Distracted him, hell! He’d poured coffee all over the counter.

She had no business smiling at those guys, encouraging their adolescent behavior. She should have...

Closing his eyes, Matthew swore. He was jealous. He swore again. Jealous of a woman he barely knew and certainly had no claim on.

“Are you all right?”

He opened his eyes to find Abby hovering over him, her body wedged inside the cabinet next to his. He moistened his lips and forced himself to ignore the way she smelled. Sweet and soft, and deliciously womanly.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled.

She propped on one elbow and stared up at the plumbing over their heads. “What are you doing under here?”

The feeling of her breasts pressing against his arm rattled him. He had to think long and hard to dredge up a response.

“I’m removing the S-trap.” He tapped the S-shaped pipe that connected the sink to its dedicated drain line. “It’s old and it leaks. So I have to replace it.”

Abby leaned toward him to get a closer look at the pipe. “Oh,” she said thoughtfully.

Between her warm breath fanning his face and the feeling of her body against his, Matthew felt ready to explode. He held his breath in an effort to slow his heart rate, and because he couldn’t bear to inhale any more of her lust-arousing scent.

“Can I help?”

Oh, yes
. Matthew tamped down the desire to roll her over and make love to her right there in the middle of Mrs. Hadley’s kitchen. “You could get me that new S-trap. It’s on the table,” he said instead.

“Okay.”

When she’d wriggled away from him, Matthew sucked in a breath. Holy smokes, he had to get a grip. He couldn’t spend the rest of the week panting after the woman. Six more days and she’d be gone forever. He could live through just six more days.

And seven nights
, a little voice reminded.

Matthew squeezed his eyes shut and swore again. He might not make it through the nights.

“How are things going under there, son?”

Matthew’s eyes shot open to find Mrs. Hadley peering down at him. “Almost done,” he assured her, producing a smile.

Crouching next the elderly woman, Abby thrust the new S-trap in his face. “Thanks,” he muttered, grateful she hadn’t climbed under the sink with him again.

“This sure is an attractive helper you’ve brought along this morning, Matt.”

Matthew made an agreeable sound. Why had he agreed to let Abby tag along after him like this? Because he hadn’t known that she would send his internal thermostat into the red. Because he wasn’t in the market for a woman right now, he hadn’t been concerned as to how he—or more accurately, his body—might react.

Because he’d agreed to this interview by telephone.

Because he was a first-class fool for allowing himself to fall for someone out of his league—way out of his league.

Matthew stilled and his surroundings suddenly faded into obscurity.

Fall for? Was he falling for Abby Wade? He shook his head adamantly, even if only the plumbing could see.

He wasn’t falling for anyone.

Absolutely not.

As he slowly regained his sense of time and place, Matthew could hear Abby fielding the numerous personal questions Mrs. Hadley tossed her way. Where did she hail from? Was she married? Had she known Matthew long? And then the dreaded, “
Oh, so you’re the fancy New York reporter here to write a story on our Matthew
.”

Fifteen minutes later, Matthew had Mrs. Hadley’s kitchen sink squared away. “No, ma’am, I appreciate it, but it’s not necessary,” he insisted again as she thrust a basket of tomatoes and cucumbers in his direction.

“You know my check doesn’t come for another two weeks. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Reluctantly, Matthew accepted the vegetables she had picked from her backyard garden. “Thank you,” he said in all sincerity. He knew how proud the woman was. She would not tolerate being in anyone’s debt.

“Now, you come back and see me real soon, Abby.”

“Thank you, I’d like that,” Abby said with a gracious smile. One that tied Matthew’s tongue and tripped his pulse.

“I was Matt’s third grade teacher.” She gave Abby a knowing look. “There’s lots I could tell you about that young man.”

Determined to get Abby in the truck before her journalistic instincts kicked in and she started asking questions, he ushered her across the yard.

“What a sweet old lady,” Abby said as he settled the basket between them.

“Yes, she is,” he agreed, starting the engine, then he shot Abby a grin. “When she’s not wielding a paddle anyway.”

To his surprise, Abby gave him a big smile. After the jerk he’d been all morning he was surprised she went to the trouble. But he was glad she did.

Chapter Six

At five-thirty Friday evening, Abby fell across the bed. As she stared at the cracks in the ancient plastered ceiling, she tried to imagine that she was at a fabulous spa. Say, the Golden Door. First she’d have a full-body massage, afterwards she’d steam for twenty minutes and then the grand finale—a soak in the Jacuzzi.

She moaned at the imagined pleasure.

A soft rap against the closed door shattered her fantasy. “Abby?” Matthew’s deep voice drifted through the barrier and settled around her like a comfortable quilt. But even that didn’t rouse her from the depths of exhaustion.

She mustered the strength to speak. “What?”

If he told her the house was on fire—lucky for her he really was a fireman—she wouldn’t move. Every inch of her was either sore or aching or both. Even her hair hurt. She couldn’t possibly be in anymore pain if she’d just completed twelve weeks of basic training at boot camp.

“Are you all right? You looked a little tired on the ride home.”

Unwilling to risk moving her head, she shifted her gaze from the ceiling to the door.
Tired?
The man was the master of understatement. “Oh. I’m fine.”

Though how she felt in no way resembled fine, uttering two words versus the litany that sprang immediately to mind required the least effort. In the last four days, she had painted walls and trim, replaced wind-damaged shingles, hung wallpaper, and helped put together three bookcases and a stationary bicycle. The description of Matthew’s occupation she had received one month ago had been an enormous misconception.

The man did it all. And for a mere pittance. During the past week she’d watched him accept everything from vegetables, to dairy products, to promises of clothing repairs. Ultimately, the majority of his customers paid money, but still... Abby found it amazing that he didn’t seem to mind accepting whatever they offered.

Matthew had to be a card short of a full deck. Normal people didn’t submit themselves to hard physical labor for next to nothing. Especially not someone as intelligent and skilled as Matthew.

“You’re not hungry?” The concern in his voice irritated her further. The Matthew Stone she’d been subjected to this week had been a harsh taskmaster. The hours he kept were completely unreasonable. She spent long hours at the office herself, but that was behind a desk.

Who could live like this?

“Go away,” she told him. The last thing she wanted to do was eat. She’d eaten like a horse all week. Abby had no doubt that she’d gained at least five pounds. How was she to know that such exhausting work would trigger an eating frenzy? She was going to go back to New York as fat as a pig, with bulging biceps and broken nails.

As weary as she was, she raised her right hand and mourned the deplorable condition of her nails. God, she needed a manicure. And blisters! She had the beginnings of two blisters on her palm. She’d never had a blister in her life that she could recall.

“I guess that means you don’t want to go out tonight,” he suggested.

Out?
Briefly she wondered what gong out meant in a small town like Salem, but the bottom line was—she didn’t care. She was too tired to care. Too tired to think past the next second.

“Right,” she said with as much force as her waning strength would allow.

“Right, meaning you’re not going, or right meaning you are?”

Abby squeezed her eyes shut and silently called Matthew every vile name in her vocabulary. Before she’d gotten anywhere near the end, he interrupted her mental tirade. “It’s okay if you don’t want to go. I’ve gone alone before. I always end up with somebody. So, don’t wait up.”

Her eyes snapped open.
End up with somebody?
As in the opposite sex?
Don’t wait up!

Just where the hell did he intend to go?

Abby didn’t care.

She inhaled deeply and cleared her mind. He could go wherever he wanted, do whatever he wanted, with whomever he wanted. She absolutely did not care.

Not in the slightest.

~*~

When Abby descended the staircase, Matthew felt as though he’d been sucker punched. A little black dress hugged her trim figure, and her long, long legs seemed to go on forever. And that hair... she’d bundled it up in some sort of wild stack on top of her head. Untamable, coppery curls fell in feminine wisps around her face and neck. She looked absolutely amazing.

This is not a date,
he reminded himself as an admiring, albeit reluctant, smile spread across his face.
Just a night out with the guys, and Abby tagging along to watch. Yeah, right!
If he kept telling himself that, he might even begin to believe it.