The Unknown Malone. Anne Eames
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if the...ladies...felt better about themselves when they thought they were...helping? Could a helper be—?
No! The ad couldn’t be for that. She cringed, pushing aside the possibility. It had to be for something else. Exactly what seemed irrelevant since she was short on options and long on responsibilities. Besides, unemployment was on the rise again, now that that Hollywood production company had left the area. As long as their movie was being shot at that ranch to the north, there had been extra work in motels and restaurants. Now the locals were lucky to hold on to their modest wages, and she had exhausted her last lead.
Still seeing no action inside, Nicole walked along the wraparound porch and noticed for the first time a wicker swing near another entrance to the west. Tired, she sat in it and swung slowly, listening to it creak and wondering what stories it could tell if only it—
She heard the clopping and snort of a horse on the other side of the house and she jumped up with a start. Her car was near the main entrance. Whoever was there had to see it and had come looking for her.
Resigned to her fate she flung back her shoulders, thrust out her chest and jutted out her chin. She added a hipswiveling sashay as she rounded the porch and thought she had captured her character perfectly.
Until one red spiked heel sank and stuck in a crack.
A good-looking cowboy dismounted. She tugged unsuccessfully and nearly broke into hysterical laughter. He stopped short and appraised her, hands on hips. With one mighty yank she heard the crack of her heel as it separated from the sole.
Improvise, she told herself. Maintain a sense of humor. She dug into her shallow well of theatrical experience and limped toward him, tempted to try a joke as an ice-breaker. And ice definitely described his demeanor.
Losing her nerve, she smiled coyly instead, acting as if this sort of thing happened all the time. He folded his arms against his broad chest and simply stood there, staring at her.
Exasperated, she said, “Well, at least I didn’t lose my soul!” It was all she could do to keep the big red smile pasted on her face. Oh, Lord, help me. I’m dying here! Okay, it was corny, but what was wrong with this guy? Most would have found this entrance amusing. And what was he gaping at? Regardless of her getup, she still had to be the most wholesome-looking woman around this place.
Maybe he was testing her under pressure. There had to be some mighty tough hombres frequenting this...this establishment. That had to be it.
She stepped off the porch and thrust out her hand, forcing all the confidence she could muster. “My name is Nicole. I came about—” she hoped he didn’t see her gulp “—the job.”
He looked at her hand as if measuring the possibility of contamination if he touched it.
“Nicole what?”
“Nicole Bedder.”
“Better than what?” he asked all too seriously.
Another time she might have laughed, but this guy had already proven he didn’t have a sense of humor. Nonetheless, she played his game. With an exaggerated look over her shoulder, she said, “Better than all the other applicants standing behind me.”
Reluctantly he took her hand, gave it a quick shake and said, “Michael Phillips. I own the place.” And what in the hell are you doing on my porch is what she read in his squinting blue eyes.
“Wait a minute. A man owns the—” She’d lost her character a moment, but quickly recovered. Beaming again, her voice sweet enough to cause diabetes, she said, “Hmm. Only fair, I guess. Equal rights and all.”
She let go of his long, callused fingers, stepped back and thrust her arms out to her sides. “I’m ready to start right now,” Please! Please!
He pushed the Stetson higher on his tanned forehead and stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t flinch. But after what seemed to be the most pregnant pause of the decade, she caved and spoke first.
“So...do I get the job?”
Two
When hell freezes over, Michael thought.
“I don’t know what job you’re applying for, but I need a helper, not a—” he stopped short of hooker and let her fill in the blank. He watched the slow batting of her dark lashes and noticed one corner was jutting straight out like a perched insect ready to take flight. He felt a smile tug at one corner of his mouth, but he controlled it. The last thing he wanted to do was encourage this...this spitfire.
“I can help,” she said.
He was afraid to ask how. He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. You’re not what I’m looking for.” He turned away and started for the door. She was right on his heels.
“How can you tell? You haven’t even asked me any questions.”
He kept moving, hoping she’d give up and go away, knowing she wouldn’t. “For one thing, I need a man.” When she didn’t respond, he couldn’t help but turn. Her brown eyes were round, her mouth open.
“A man? Here?”
“Well... yes.” No way could someone so small and frail looking possibly carry a sheet of drywall or a bunch of two-by-fours up a flight of stairs. But then, he was certain that wasn’t what she came for.
She closed her mouth and looked defeated, then she took a step closer. “Wait a minute. Isn’t that sex discrimination?”
He hiked an eyebrow before giving her his back and walking up the steps to the front door. “Only if you’re willing to hire an attorney and take me to court.” He knew he had her now. If one thing was certain, her kind wouldn’t go looking for a day in court. Not intentionally, anyway.
Michael was halfway through the door when he heard a thud behind him. He turned and found her lying on the brick walk. In two long strides he was beside her and hunkered down.
“Ms. Bedder?” He watched and waited, hoping this was some sort of last-ditch effort to win sympathy. He touched her thin arm. “Ms. Bedder?” He could see her chest moving, though her breathing seemed shallow.
Faking or not, he couldn’t just leave her there. He scooped her up in his arms, her remaining shoe falling to the ground, and he was surprised at how light she was. At closer inspection he could see her pale and sallow cheeks, and for a moment he almost felt sorry for her...until he remembered what kind of woman she clearly was.
He carried her to the door and pushed it open with his shoulder, just as her eyes started to flutter open. A quick flash of surprise was followed by an indignant palm against his chest.
“What do you think you’re doing? Let me down this instant!”
He had a mind to drop her on her cute little backside, but he didn’t. He headed for the sofa and dropped her there instead. The errant eyelash was now pointing straight up and a grin escaped before he could control it.
“What’s so funny?”
He pointed to his own eye and watched her squirm. She removed the lash and tucked it in her skirt pocket, leaving her with one long-lashed round eye and one...one beautiful brown one. He wiped the grin off his face and started for the kitchen.
“Where are you going?”
“To get you a glass of water.” He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Or would you rather have something stronger?”
“I’d rather—” She started to stand, then fell back down.
Michael watched and waited. This woman was definitely not okay. In more ways than one.
She lifted her head off the back of the sofa, removed the remaining eyelash and stared at him for the longest time. It was as though he were seeing a different woman. This one had far less bravado and looked far more vulnerable. Damn. He hoped she wouldn’t cry. He hated it when