Moon Dance (19 page)

"You're welcome," he called to her back as she walked away.

Not below the chin
didn't count if he couldn't
see
her chin, he rationalized,
and for one long, sweet mo
ment, he watched those killer legs carry the rest of her across the farmyard.

He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to think of what to do next. He had thought perhaps he'd try to talk her into leaving, but recognized the
sheer futility of that. She wasn't going anyplace. There was no point in even discussing that. He'd seen the look on her face. Hell, he'd seen the look on Ally's face. He may not like it, but he wasn't stupid enough to think he could actually do something about it.

Okay, fine. She was staying. He'd just have to find things to do while he was here that would keep him out of her way.

Like
…
like
…
he looked around, searching for possibilities.

Like painting the old henhouse.

He went into the ba
rn
in search of a ladder and some sort of implement that would scrape off the old paint.

"
M
atthew Bishop, what the hell are you doing?" Laura demanded from eight feet below the ladder he was standing on.

"I'm scraping old paint off the henhouse," he replied calmly.

"Why?"

"Why?" He looked down and frowned. "Because I can't paint it until I scrape off the old, loose paint."

"I meant, why are you painting the henhouse? We haven't had chickens in there since Aunt Hope died."

"Well, now's the best time to paint it. While there are no chickens living in there."

Laura shook her head as if to clear it. "We're getting ready to leave, so come down from there and say good-bye to Ally. And try to be pleasant to Georgia, please. I don't want you to upset Ally."

"Why would my being less than pleasant upset Ally?
"
he asked, even though he knew the answer. Worse, he knew that Laura
knew
that he knew.

"Matt
…"
Laura sounded exasperated.

"Okay." Conceding defeat, he climbed down the ladder and stuck the scraper in his back pocket.

"Uncle Matt, will you come to my birthday party?"

Matt knelt down so that Ally could jump onto his back. "Now, when have I ever missed a birthday party?"

"Never. You never have." She hugged his neck.

"And I never will." He twirled around so that her head dropped back and her hair, now out of its ponytail, spun around, and she laughed heartily. His niece had never failed to touch his heart. One day, he knew, she would break it by falling in love with someone her own age, but not yet, he reminded himself. Not yet.

"You promise?"

"Of course, I promise." He lifted her over his head once more before setting her feet on the ground. "How could it be time for your birthday again?"

She giggled and nodded. "It is. In two weeks."

"Two weeks? That's not possible." He frowned. "Didn't you just have a birthday?"

"Last year, silly." She hopped into the car.

"Well, then, I guess I'll see you in two weeks at the inn." He closed the car door, reaching through the window to tweak her nose. "Anything special you might want this year?"

"Ballerina Barbie," she answered, nodding enthusiastically. "But my party won't be at the inn. It's here, at Pumpkin Hill. All my friends are coming!"
She leaned halfway out the window so that he could kiss her cheek. "And we're all going to dance!"

Matt heard laughter, like the tinkling of fairy bells, behind him. He didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

"And Aunt Georgia said that next Saturday, Jamie and Carly can come dance with us, too!"

Laura looked across the hood of the car. "Georgia, you can still change your mind. It's good enough that you're willing to take a few of her friends from Bishop's Cove. You don't have to
add kids from O'Hearn, too…
"

"It will be fun. I'm really enjoying it." Georgia dismissed her concerns.

"I'll talk to you later." Laura waved and drove off, three little girls in the backseat calling "Thank you!" as she drove away.

The car left the drive, leaving both Matt and Georgia painfully aware that they were alone.

"Well, I guess I'll go back to scraping paint," he said awkwardly.

"You do that," she told him and walked off toward the garden.

He could
n
't help but notice that she had changed into jeans and a shirt. He liked the pink thing better.

It was almost dark when he decided it was safe to come down from the ladder. He'd just go right on up to his apartment, take a shower, then run out and grab some dinner.

His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

Maybe he'd run out for dinner first.

As he lowered the ladder, it occurred to him that if
his arms were covered with paint chips, his face probably was, too. And he probably had lots of it in his hair, too. He'd have to shower or settle for some fast food. He hated fast food.

He put the ladder away, then whistled for Artie. The dog was nowhere to be seen. Laughter drifted from the open windows in the kitchen of the farmhouse, and he'd bet anything that
that
was where his traitorous dog was. He went to the back door and listened.

"Artie, you are so cute," he heard Georgia say. "Now, sit, and I'll give you another carrot. Good
boy."

Matt's stomach growled again.

He knocked on the screen door, which was open. He could see her as she walked toward him, looking more graceful, more elegant in jeans than most women did in designer gowns.

"I was looking for my dog," he explained.

"Oh. Come on in. He's having a snack. I hope you don't mind."

"I usually don't let him eat between meals. It's not good for him," Matt said, pretending not to see the
Liar, liar, pants on fire
look on Artie's big slobbery dogface.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

Artie's look changed from accusatory to displeasure. Matt continued to ignore him. Just as he was trying to ignore the aromas that wafted around him, teasing his nose and tantalizing his stomach.

Matt couldn't help himself. Without wanting to, he gazed beyond her to the stove, the source of the
wonderful smell of curry, one of his favorites spices. His nose betrayed him by sniffing.

"That smells like—"

"Curry." She nodded, and turned to the stove to lift the lid off one of two saucepans. "I'm making curried vegetables with rice."

"It smells great." He had to call 'em as he saw 'em.

"Would you like some?" she asked without turning around.

"Ah, no, that's all right," he backed away from her, wishing he could look away from her trim little self leaning against the stove. "I have to get cleaned up and get back to Shawsburg."

When she turned around, he was still standing there. There were little flecks of paint in his hair, and a trace of tiny white speckles across the bridge of his nose like albino freckles. It was all she could do to keep her fingers from brushing them away.

"Was there something else?" she asked.

"Ah, no. Well, actually, yes. I was wondering if I could just go down to the basement and grab a jar of plum jam."

"Sure." She unlocked the basement door and turned on the light. "Of course. It
's your basement, your jam…
"

He tried to avert his eyes on his way downstairs, but that faint scent of spring flowers mixed with curry teased him as he passed her, and he couldn't help himself. His eyes lingered on her face. It was a hard face for a man to turn away from, and it held him for what seemed like a very long moment.

"I'll
just
…
go on—" he heard himself mumble
when he realized how long he'd been staring— "do
wnstairs…
" His feet made brief thumping sounds as he ran down the steps.

When he came back up, he was empty-handed.

"Did you change your mind?" she asked. "About the jam?"

"I couldn't find it."

"Plum?"

He nodded.

"I know there's some there. I saw several jars last week." She dried her hands on a towel and motioned for him to follow her back down the steps.

He followed.

She turned the small light
on in the corn
er of the basement and opened the cupboard doors. She knelt down and began moving jars around on the second shelf.

"Here," she said, handing up two large jars of peaches, "hold these so I can look around in here. You moved things a bit."

"I might have." He stepped up close behind her, taking the large glass jars from her hands.

"Ah, here they are. You must have pushed them toward the back." She swiveled around a bit and started to rise, not realizing how close he was. When she stood up, she found herself just below his chin, her hands and the jars skimming his chest.

She looked up at him, struck by the depth of his dark brown eyes, the long lashes like so much thick fringe. The proximity of his face startled her. She tried to move back, but the cupboard was behind her, and she was trapped between it and his body. There was a very male presence about him, and her reaction
to it caught her breath in her throat For the first time in a very long time, Georgia was speechless.

Matt looked down into her face, and fought back the bad angel who had come from nowhere to perch upon his shoulder and whisper in his ear.
Kiss her. Kiss her now.

"Ah…
I'll take
…"
Matt reached for the jars of jam she held, only to realize that he was still holding the larger jars.

"Oh. Right. Here. I'll take the peaches
…"
She seemed to be fumbling as much as he was, and they made an awkward exchange of the jars in a tight space.

It hadn't occurred to Matt that he could have just backed up.

It hadn't occurred to Georgia to ask him to.

"Well, then." He cleared his throat. "I guess we're done down here."

"Right." She turned her back and bent down to replace the jars of peaches on the shelf.

When she stood back up, he still hadn't moved. "Matt? Was there something else you wanted?"

"What?" The bad angel, who had been at that moment comparing the sight of her butt in jeans to that of her butt in her leotard, encouraged Matt to respond in a manner guaranteed to win him a smack across the face.

"Oh, no. No. This is fine." Matt slapped a hand over the bad angel's mouth and opted for the high road. "Thanks."

Georgia closed the cupboard door and turned out the light. For a moment, she was lost in the darkness. With his free hand, Matt reached out, seeking her
face, just to make certain that she had not, somehow, disappeared before his eyes. The fingers of his right hand found bone, and they lightly traced the line of her cheek before pulling back.

"You're welcome."

The sound of her voice broke the spell, and somewhat nonplused, Matt stood aside, motioning for her to go ahead of him to the steps.

She climbed them softly, and he followed closely, the bad angel filling his mind with randy thoughts as they ascended to the kitchen.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay?" she asked.

"I
…
um
…
really have to get back," he muttered. "To Shawsburg."

If he didn't leave, he'd be drooling as pathetically as Artie was. And not necessarily just from the curry.

"Oh. Okay." She lifted the lid again and tossed in a handful of raisins, then a handful of green onions.

"So, thanks." He opened the door and walked through it as quickly as he could.

"For what?"

"For…
for feeding my dog." He slapped the side of his leg and Artie caught up with him.

From the doorway, Georgia watched Matt cross the yard to the ba
rn
, where he went up the outside stairs to his apartment. She was still watching as the lights appeared in the rooms she knew to be his kitchen, his bedroom, his bath.

Unconsciously, her fingers followed the path his had taken along the side of her face.

She had instinctively known that there was no good reason why he had to rush back to Shawsburg.

In spite of the spark that had passed between them— his hand to her face—it was obvious that he wanted to avoid being anywhere near her. She had known that he didn't like her, didn't want to get to know her, so it shouldn't have come as a surprise, but it had.