Wishmakers (5 page)

CHAPTER THREE

M
ARGARET FELT
A flickering of panic at the sight of his bare chest, sprinkled with golden-brown hair, and his flat muscled stomach. His feet were bare, and the white edge of his underwear was visible at the top of his low-slung jeans. He certainly was virile! She hid her confusion with arrogance. “Do you practice being rude, or does it come naturally to you?”

His laughter filled the room. “Ouch! I felt those icicles! Was I being rude? I knocked.”

“Then barged right in.” She hid the shock of having him walk into her room quite well, she felt. At least he wouldn't know that a thousand tiny nails were clawing at her stomach.

“Why were you wrapped in that blanket? Are you cold? Well, for Pete's sake! Didn't you bring anything warmer than that thing you're wearing?”

“How was I to know I'd be staying in a barn without heat?”

“We have central heating. I just haven't turned it on.” He grinned ruefully and flipped the towel from around his neck to around hers, gently drawing her toward him.

“What are you doing?” Alarm made her hands grab at the towel, but they found his wrists instead. She quickly released them and laid her palms flat against his chest to act as a barrier between them. Her eyes widened with fear. “Don't!” Her voice was shaking. He watched her with narrowed eyes, his head bent toward her.

“I still don't know why you came, Maggie. But I'm damn glad you did.”

She pushed against him, her palms in the curly hair of his chest. “I told you, Mr. Thorn.”

“Chip.”

“Mr. Thorn,” she said stubbornly.

“Chip,” he said so softly that a shiver touched her spine. Then he continued in the same soft voice, “Have you ever made love, Maggie? Real love? Vital, hungry, gut-crushing love?”

“Why are you talking to me like this?” The warmth of his body, the minty smell of his breath, the charm of his smile, was invading every corner of her mind.

“I don't know. I think I like to tease you. You're awfully pretty, Maggie Anderson.” He left the towel hanging around her neck and released her, turning to open the small wardrobe. “Is this all you brought?” He looked at each garment and pushed it down the rack. “Where in the hell were you going to wear these?” He brought out a blue silk suit and a white ruffled blouse. “Didn't anyone tell you this is rough, cold country? Pack it all up. Tomorrow we'll buy you some jeans and flannel shirts. Anyone could look in that closet and tell there's five hundred dollars' worth of clothes there and that you're no ordinary working girl.”

“More like five thousand,” Margaret said waspishly, angrier at herself for standing meekly and allowing him to go through her things than at him for doing it.

“My God!” He shook his head gently, chidingly. “And you expected to lose yourself in this country dressed in those?” He jerked his head toward the closet. “You'd stand out like an outhouse on a moonlit night!”

“A
what?
” she squeaked.

He seemed to have difficulty swallowing, and for a moment Margaret thought he was going to choke. Then he flung back his head and roared with laughter. It was the last straw, the very last straw. She charged for the door, giving him a hard jab in the stomach with her elbow on the way by, which caused him to sit down on the bed so hard that the frame gave way. Mattress, springs, and all hit the floor.

Margaret threw a look over her shoulder and saw only his legs and bare feet protruding from the bedclothes. His head was covered, and he was blindly trying to grab the bed rails. Wild, hysterical laughter bubbled up from inside her and echoed through the room. She scrambled for the bathroom, slammed the door, and frantically shot the bolt into place. She leaned against the door and laughed until her sides hurt and tears ran down her cheeks.

The knob rattled. She jumped away from the door.

“You little devil! You'll have to come out of there sometime.”

“You asked for it! I don't particularly appreciate being compared to a latrine.” She tried desperately to sound angry, but it was impossible to keep the grudging amusement out of her voice.

“Hurry up and get out of there. You'll have to help me set the bed up again.”

“I don't have my case.”

“Soap and towels are in there. What more do you need?”

There was a brief silence, and then a door slammed. Margaret waited a moment, before easing the bolt back and opening the door. She scurried across the hall and into her room. Arms clamped around her from behind. “Gotcha!” he whispered.

“That's not fair! You tricked me!” The laughter continued to escape her lips as she struggled in the arms that held her.

“This is just so you'll know who's boss around here, my girl.” He swatted her on the behind with familiar ease. “Wash up and put on some work clothes. Do you want to eat before or after we tackle that mountain of dishes in the sink?”

“I don't have any work clothes, and besides, I'm a guest.” She was trying to get past him to the door. Her eyes were dancing, and she couldn't keep the grin off her face.

“There're no guests around here, princess. No work, no eat!” His voice was stern, but his face wore a warm smile.

By this time Margaret had reached the bathroom and shut the door. She stood before the mirror over the wash basin. The woman who looked back at her had healthy pink cheeks and sparkling eyes. Oh, dear, she thought wildly. This is the most fun I've had in my entire life.

Thank you, dear Rachel, for jarring me out of my humdrum existence.

When she returned to her bedroom, a worn gray sweatshirt lay across a chair. Margaret slipped into the tailored slacks of her Jourdan suit, then pulled on the sweatshirt. It came to mid-thigh, and the sleeves were about a foot too long. There wasn't a mirror in the bedroom, so she couldn't see herself, but she knew she must look ridiculous. What would Justin say if he could see her in this getup? At that moment, her life in the dark mansion on Riverside Drive seemed a million light years away.
You're awfully pretty, Maggie Anderson.
Why did the words keep coming back again and again, and why the devil was she feeling so happy?

Margaret came into the hall at the same time Chip was passing through with his arms full to overflowing with dirty clothes. He went into the kitchen, opened a door, and threw them down the stairway into the basement.

“Gotta do the wash. This is my last pair of clean jeans.” He looked her up and down. “Warmer now?” He reached for her arms and began to roll up the sleeves of the sweatshirt. “We'll go into town tomorrow and buy you some decent clothes. How long are you staying, anyway?”

The question caught her by surprise as she watched his strong hands rolling up her sleeves.

“I have no definite plans. I want to stay long enough to make up my mind whether I want to keep my shares or not.” It sounded like a lame excuse even to her own ears, and she glanced at him quickly. He frowned slightly, then lifted his head and looked full into her eyes.

“Good. I hate timetables unless they're absolutely necessary. I meant it when I said to pack up all that stuff in there. Dolly will be back the first of the week, and she's no dummy. She'd spot those expensive clothes right away, and she might figure out who you are.” He had finished with the sleeves and turned back to his room. She followed and stood in the kitchen doorway. “Everyone would feel awkward and uncomfortable if they knew you were Ed's girl, half owner of the mill that's been their bread and butter all these years.” His arms were loaded with clothing again, and he tossed them down the stairs after the first load.

“I don't understand why they'd be any more uncomfortable with me than they are with you.” The statement was unreasonable—she knew it the moment she said it—but she had to defend her right to be here.

“They've known me all my life. I'm one of
them.
” He put his hands on his hips and eyed her narrowly. She wished he would put on a shirt. “Dolly and the rest of the women would watch every word and count to ten before they spoke to you, afraid you'd take offense and their husbands'jobs would be in jeopardy. Or else—”

“That's not true. I wouldn't—” she began.

“Let me finish.” His voice, harder now, stopped her in mid-sentence. “Now that I've met you, I don't think it'd be something you'd do consciously. But people used to having as much money as you just naturally throw their weight around. Oh, I don't mean in any obvious way, but it's there all the same—the air of knowing who you are, the important Miss Margaret Anthony. If they think of you as Maggie Anderson, they'll be natural with you.”

“Who do you mean by
they?
” Her voice came out sounding very taut.

He raised his eyebrows. She stood very still, waiting. “The women, the people in town, the men who work their tails off so this company will show a profit and their jobs will remain secure. Me. I'm trying damn hard to forget who you are.”

“Why? I'm no threat to you. Daddy took care of that in his will. You're the man in charge. You don't have to sell your shares or buy mine if you don't want to.”

He gave her a dry smile. “That only goes to show how naïve you are. I wasn't talking about business, Maggie.” His eyes glinted as if he were angry. “This was something that had to be said. Now let's get on with what has to be done. Do you want to do the wash or the dishes?”

Margaret took a deep breath, her pulses thudding like a jackhammer in her head. Her eyes went to the dark stairway leading to the basement, and she felt panic building. She'd never started a washing machine in her life!

“I'll do the dishes,” she said quietly. “That is, unless you think your precious Dolly will resent her kitchen being tidied up by a snob like Margaret Anthony.” Hurt pride thickened her voice.

Chip's hard hands grabbed her arms and turned her toward him. Her eyes, faintly misted, met his.

“Little fool! I told you this for your own good. Believe it or not, I want your visit here to be pleasant. You'll need a tougher skin than what you've got if you're going out into the real world. You've been cushioned against the nastiness of life, and you're not used to being told how things really are. I've spoken the truth, whether you like it or not.”

Margaret had never seen eyes like his on any man.

There was strength and stubbornness there, just as there was in the rest of his face—and in his hard muscled body, for that matter. But it was mostly in his eyes, so soft a blue, yet so deep, seeming to contain a knowledge that was strangely disconcerting. It was as if he knew everything about her—everything, from her sheltered life, which was common knowledge since the kidnap attempt, to the fact that this was her first sojourn into the world without backup assistance from the Anthony conglomerate. He even knew about Justin!

“You're tougher than you look,” he said at last. “You'll make out.” His voice softened, and Margaret realized she had been staring. Her eyes turned cool. She tried to restore a calm facade, angrily thinking that he expected her to fold under his criticism. She'd be damned if she would!

“Have you anything more to say? Any more expert opinions?” She hoped she'd manage to inject an I-don'tgive-a-damn-what-you-think note into her words.

“No. Sure you don't mind getting dishpan hands?” He was baiting her now, and his wide grin proved it. “You can do the wash and I'll do the dishes, if you prefer.”

“I'll get on with it if you ever turn loose of me.”

“Okay. Hop to it, and I'll be back to help. Then we'll have to rustle up some grub. I don't know what's here, but we'll find something.” He disappeared down the basement stairs, and Margaret looked despairingly at the stack of dishes in the sink.

A line from one of her favorite movies leapt to her mind.
You can do it, Bronco Billy.
She pushed the rolledup sleeves of the sweatshirt past her elbows and began to stack the dishes in some semblance of order on the counter as she had seen Edna do before putting them in the dishwasher. The next step was to stop up the sink and fill it with water, but the water drained out as fast as it ran in. She was sure it had something to do with the small metal basket in the bottom of the sink, but she wasn't sure what. She lifted it out, looked at it, and set it back. The water still drained. Damn!

An arm reached around her, and a hand gave the basket a twirl. It settled deeply into the hole. “Try that.”

She filled the sink and generously added the detergent she found beneath it. The suds bubbled up. She slid a plate from the stack on the counter into the suds and began scrubbing vigorously.

Again an arm encircled her, and this time a large hand lifted hers from the suds and unfastened her diamondstudded wristwatch. Chip wiped it on a towel and held it to his ear.

“You can't wear this thing around here. Where shall I put it?”

“In my cosmetics case,” she said without looking at him. She continued to wash the plates, placing them carefully in the other side of the sink.

Chip returned and began drying the dishes. They worked silently. Margaret found it soothing and satisfying to see the pile of soiled dishes gradually becoming smaller. She wondered what he'd think if he knew this was the first time she'd washed dishes since her last year in high school when the sisters gave her cleanup duty for sneaking a copy of
Peyton Place
into the dormitory.

“Why are you smiling?” Chip suddenly asked.

“You wouldn't understand,” she said.

“Try me,” he replied, apparently not a bit abashed. “It must have been something funny to make your lips curl like that.”

“It wasn't anything, really. I was just thinking about my years at the convent school.”

“I can't think there'd be anything about
that
to make you smile.” He walked to the end of the counter and put the clean, dry dishes on a shelf.

“It had its moments.”

“Is that where you'd been that time you came home from school and I was there with Ed?”

“Yes. The furnace needed repair, and they sent us home for a few days.”
Damn!
She'd just admitted remembering his visit! Mercifully, he didn't seem to feel like teasing her this time.

“Did you like the school?”