A Man of Privilege. Sarah M. Anderson
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the rest of her wheelbarrow when she heard it—the crunching of tires on gravel from a long way off. The hair on the back of her neck stood straight up. Wonderful, she thought. Tommy had been wrong. It had only been four days since she’d left James Carlson’s office in a huff—not eight. And here she was, covered in dirt and manure. Damn. She snatched her hat off her head and arranged her bangs over the side of her face. Individual hairs stuck to her skin, but her scar was hidden.
At least, she hoped it was James Carlson, despite the ratty overalls she was wearing. She didn’t want to think about who else it could be on a Saturday afternoon. Despite Tommy’s reassurances, Maggie was reasonably sure there were a few other people in this world who’d want to see her for all the wrong reasons.
She glanced back at the house, wondering if Nan could hear the approaching car over the TV. If so, she’d have the shotgun at the ready. A girl couldn’t be too careful, after all.
A shiny black SUV—the kind that looked as if it had never been on gravel before—hesitantly worked its way down to the house. She leaned on the handle of her shovel and watched it come.
Maggie smiled. So that was the kind of “off-road” vehicle that rich, East Coast blue bloods bought when they were roughing it. She’d stick to her Jeep, thank you.
“You’re a long way from home,” she called out when Mr. Special Prosecutor himself emerged from the driver’s seat.
The first thing she saw was the blinding white of his smile. Wow, she thought again. That smile wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been in the office. If anything, he almost looked glad to see her. Then she noticed that, instead of the suit, he had on a pair of tan cargo pants and a sky-blue polo shirt. Even though the clothes were pretty casual, they fit him well.
Broad chest, she thought with a sharp intake of breath. Without the jacket, she could see exactly how broad—and defined—his chest was, and how it narrowed into the V of his waist.
Whoa. Not just attractive. Downright gorgeous.
Heat—different from the swelter that had sweat dripping down the back of her neck—ripped through her, and she suddenly found herself doing some crude math. Exactly how long had it been since her last time with a man? No—wrong question. How long had it been since she’d last enjoyed a man?
His eyes were shaded behind wraparound sunglasses, but he leaned forward and slid them down his nose to look at her.
Way too long, she thought. Maybe never.
“I believe I was invited,” he called as he pulled something out of the backseat.
Sheesh. Only a lawyer would construe what she’d said as an invitation. “Did Yellow Bird tell you how to find me?”
He was carrying something. As he got closer, she saw that it was a bright orange garden trug, loaded with stuff. “Not too many people get away with calling him names.” He grinned at her, as if he was letting her in on some secret. “Here. I brought you something.” He set the trug in between the rows and took a step back.
She looked at him for a long second. Was this a gift, or a bribe?
“It’s a gift. No strings attached.”
Tommy hadn’t said anything about mind reading. Keeping an eye on her visitor, Maggie crouched down. Deerskin gardening gloves, a trowel with an ergonomic handle, copper garden tags, a matching copper watering can and a bunch of heirloom seeds were all nestled inside. All top-quality stuff that she would never waste money on. She lifted out the watering can. Was this a Hawes? She’d seen this one in catalogs—for a hundred and forty dollars.
The whole basket must have set him back close to five hundred. James Carlson was, in fact, a good lawyer. At the very least, a rich one.
“I can’t accept this.” Even as she said it, she picked up the gloves. The leather was softer than anything else she owned. These weren’t the everyday gloves they sold at the hardware store. “I won’t testify.”
“I didn’t say anything about testifying. I said it was a gift. I wouldn’t come to pay my respects empty-handed. I know better.”
She looked up at him. His feet were spread a shoulder’s width apart, his arms were crossed, and a cryptic smile graced his face. He looked like a man who reigned over everything he saw, and right now, he was looking at her.
Goose bumps shot up her arms. She swallowed as she stood. She didn’t want anyone—least of all him—to think she was kneeling before him. Not too many people knew about the Lakota tradition of giving gifts. “Yellow Bird tell you that, too?”
“It’s something I picked up along the way.” He turned around, taking in her garden. “This is lovely.” Then he caught sight of the wheelbarrow. “Is that what I think it is?”
She glared at him. “My garden is organic. Did you come all the way out here to compliment my vegetables?”
He managed not to be offended at her short temper. Instead, he almost looked as if he enjoyed her attitude. “No. I came to see you.”
There it was again—the feeling that wasn’t quite lust, but wasn’t entirely innocent, either. What she wouldn’t give to not be in overalls, or standing next to a manure-filled wheelbarrow. “Yellow Bird said you’d show up.” Which was probably a stupid thing to say, but she had to say something.
Oh. My. That particular smile lit up his whole face. “The fact that Yellow Bird said anything is impressive. Either your interrogation tactics are unparalleled, or he’s fond of you.”
Anger hit her like a bolt out of the blue. “I didn’t sleep with him, if that’s what you mean.” The words flew out of her mouth faster than she could figure out what she was saying. She grabbed the shovel and swung it onto her shoulder as if it was a baseball bat. She could take the head off a snake in seconds. At the very least, she’d break his nose. “I’m not like that anymore, so if that’s why you’re here, you can take your stuff and go back the way you came.”
Looking a little stunned, he held up his hands and took two steps back. “I’m not implying anything. I can’t believe Yellow Bird would be fond of anyone. Half the time, I think he wants to shoot me.”
She eyed him. Lawyers were prone to lying. Was he telling the truth or saving his backside? “‘Fond’? Who talks like that?”
A hint of red graced his cheeks, and Maggie immediately regretted her snippiness. At this exact moment in time, the man standing before her didn’t look—or act—like any lawyer she’d ever known.
Nice, she scolded herself as her own blush began to creep down her chest. Way to embarrass yourself. Was there any way to salvage this situation without acting like a total jerk?
She took the shovel off her shoulder and set it on the ground. In response, he lowered his hands. An uneasy silence settled over them. God, she was so out of practice. She didn’t talk to anyone but Nan, and Jemma over at the post office. Was she supposed to apologize now or what?
“Let’s start over,” he said, offering his hand. “Hi. I’m James.”
Start over? Just like that? If only life were that simple. Maybe it was. He stood there with a soft grin on his face as he leaned forward in anticipation. “Maggie,” she replied. Although she wasn’t sure it was a good idea, she placed her hand in his and gave it a short shake.
Not a good idea. Warmth that had nothing to do with embarrassment began a slow build from where their skin touched. She meant to let go, but she was paralyzed by the oddity of the sensation. Tingles followed the warmth as it moved up her arm. The combination of the two was enough to squeeze the air out of her chest.
Nope. Not allowed. She forcibly regained control of her limbs and wrenched her hand out of his. So what if James was hot? So what if he had a good smile? So what if he made her feel things she’d forgotten she was capable of feeling? He was off-limits. He was probably trying to manipulate her. He was some East