The Harder They Fall

years of traveling and hotel living, he needed his own furniture.

He liked that very much, and as he jogged at week’s end, he thought over his week.

On Monday, he’d had most of Eloise’s furniture picked up by the center he’d donated it to. Now suddenly, or maybe not so suddenly, he’d become eager to dig in and fix the place up.

It was a joke, or it would be if he had told anyone his plans. Dr. Hunter Adams drooling over fixing up a house. But the yearning deep within him, to have a real home that belonged to him, couldn’t be denied.

For now he’d start with the lower portion of the house. He told himself he didn’t want to take on too much at once, though he knew it was that he couldn’t bring himself to fight Trisha for full possession.

He hadn’t spent any time with her all week. Which was good, he told himself. It meant she hadn’t destroyed or ruined anything. It meant she hadn’t caused any trouble. He’d heard her music, and several times he’d heard her laughter.

Halfway through the week, he’d come home at dusk to hear a lawn mower. Curious, since he knew he hadn’t paid a gardener, he walked through to the back and suddenly stopped, riveted by a surge of surprise and pure lust.

Trisha, hair piled precariously on top of her head, singing at the top of her lungs and rocking her head back and forth to the tune only she could hear in her headphones, was mowing the lawn. The cropped white T-shirt she wore clung to her damp skin, becoming sheer enough to reveal the outline of her nipples.

His mouth went dry.

Not noticing she had an audience, she moved past him, sashaying her cute little butt, barely covered in the tiniest, shortest cutoffs he’d ever seen.

On her next turn through the yard, she caught sight of him and started in surprise. Stopping, she flipped up the headphones and smiled sweetly – completely unaware of what she’d done to him.

He’d covered the shock of his reaction to her by muttering grumpily and taking over the job of mowing. That she’d relinquished the chore with only a knowing smile, then disappeared, hadn’t improved his mood, or his raging hormones.

The next day he’d come home to find her on the front lawn, giving Duff a bath.

“He rolled on the driveway, under my car,” she explained over the yowling feline objections.

“So you decided to punish him by sentencing him to a bath?” he asked, watching in amusement as Duff’s ears flattened against his head when she carefully mopped his face.

“He was covered in oil,” Trisha explained, leaning back on her knees.

His gaze dipped, and he got an eyeful down her gaping, drenched sundress, enough to render him speechless for a minute. By the time he could speak, words weren’t necessary.

Because Trisha, with a wicked smile, threw a soaking wet washcloth in his face. Pulling it away slowly, he glared at her. “What was that for?”

“Take a picture,” she suggested with that irritating secret smile. “It lasts longer.”

“You’re not going to provoke me into a water fight.”

“No?” Those full lips pouted. “You’re no fun.”

“So I’ve been told,” he retorted. And, hard as a rock, he’d walked away.

The next morning, while shaving, he’d heard her shower running. Standing there in front of his bathroom sink, staring at himself in the mirror, he’d pictured what she was doing directly above him. He’d gotten hard, again. The image of her wet and soapy had stayed with him for the day, making it necessary for him to spend most of it behind his desk.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been unable to control his own body, and felt, quite ridiculously, like a teenager.

Now it was Friday, and as his feet pounded the cement, he realized he hadn’t seen Trisha the day before, and he wondered what she’d done, if she’d had a good day.

You’re no fun.

Trisha’s words echoed in his head. No, he was no fun, not in her eyes. Which was exactly why he had to stop thinking about her. She was so different, so full of life – happy to live her life as she saw fit, as wildly as she wanted.

He was the complete opposite. Even if he decided to risk it for himself and drown himself in her beauty, they were doomed. He could never make someone like her happy for long.

He had never made anyone happy.

As he ran down the dark driveway, past the newly mown lawn, he glanced at his car and came to an abrupt stop.

The scrawled words on his windshield – in what looked suspiciously like lipstick – read:

I’m sorry about the little dent on your fender! Think you could scoot over just a bit more when you park? Keep smiling, Trisha.

Beneath that, she’d drawn a happy face.

Disbelieving, Hunter strode to the back of his car and swore colorfully into the predawn morning. His left bumper had been neatly rearranged, dotted with red paint – the very color of Trisha’s ancient Nissan.

He jerked his gaze up and studied the amply wide driveway that ran alongside of his large house. Then he glanced at the equally wide street and the front of the house, where at least three cars could have fitted. Unbelievable. A small white, flapping piece of paper had been attached to the fender, catching his eye. With a snort of disgust, he ripped it off, brought it close in the waning dawn and read:

Ran out of lipstick! I’m really, really sorry. Hope you have a nice day, Hunter. (This time I insist on paying the damages!) See ya soon.

A little laugh escaped him. “Unbelievable,” he repeated out loud. He spared a last look of disgust at Trisha’s offending red car, which didn’t appear damaged beyond a few missing flecks of paint. Shaking his head, he shoved the note in his pocket, thankful he’d run, because it looked as though he would definitely need the stress relief today.

Hunter allowed himself one last thought before he focused his energy on his work.

A silent Trisha didn’t necessarily mean a quiet one. It looked as if he’d do well to remember that in the future.

Hunter would have liked nothing better than to bury himself in his work, of which he had plenty. He’d been doing it for years. But lately, for some reason he couldn’t fathom, his personal life kept interfering.

He’d no sooner set foot in his office when his phone buzzed. His secretary’s voice came over the line, sounding surprised.

“You’re late.”

If he was, it was the first time in his thirty-four years he’d been late for anything. “Seems that way.”

“Is anything wrong?”

He smiled grimly. “Lipstick doesn’t come off windshields. Remember that if you ever get the urge to paint a guy’s window with scarlet lipstick.”

“What?” Heidi exclaimed, obviously startled. They’d worked together for nine years and they’d shared exactly three personal conversations – occurring each time Heidi had gotten pregnant and needed leave. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” he answered wryly, shoving a hand through his short hair and sinking into his chair. “What’s up?”

“You’ve got a visitor down at the main building who’s awaiting clearance. Sheryl Adams?”

His niece. Tuition time already, he thought with a sigh, and okayed her clearance. Ten minutes later Sheryl entered his office, looking every bit the college student in her opaque black tights, thigh-high black leather boots, and a short black wool jumper over a stark white blouse. Hip-length, straight blond hair bounced as she danced into the room. “Hi, Uncle Hunter!”

Standing, he suffered her jubilant hug and kiss, then extracted himself from her arms when Heidi buzzed him again.

“You’ve got another visitor at the main desk,” she said, sounding wildly curious. Hunter knew two personal visitors to the reclusive Dr. Adams in one day would have Heidi the center of attention at lunch.

Not his mother again, he thought, knowing he didn’t have the patience today. Besides, his checkbook couldn’t handle it.