The shed door shuddered again. Ben stepped back and pinned her against a rusty old water tank, apparently trying to protect her from harm.
Emma felt like laughing, but didn’t dare. Lord, he was big. And warm. He even smelled nice, too. Thank God it was dark in the shed. His broad shoulders blocked any light that might reach her blushing face. Medicine Creek was getting warmer by the minute.
“That’s just Pitiful, Mr. Jenkins.”
His eyes caught the light from the dusty window as he looked at her with consternation. “I know. I was just minding my business when this animal ran out of the woods like a maniac. It was bellowing at the top of its lungs, its eyes rolling back in its head, that orange bow flapping like a cape.”
“It’s Pitiful.”
“I know that! It must have tick fever or something. We’ve got to shoot it.”
Emma snorted in an attempt to stifle a laugh. “No, Mr. Jenkins. That’s my pet moose, who’s named Pitiful.”
He looked at her as if she were the deranged one, then suddenly cursed again.
The shed vibrated with another bang and Ben snapped his head toward the door. The latch was failing. He looked around, then suddenly lifted her onto the water tank as if she were a sack of feathers.
“Crawl to the back of the shed,” he said, reaching for a broken oar leaning against the wall. “If he gets in here, he could kill us with that antler.”
Emma doubled over in laughter.
“Goddammit! Don’t get hysterical on me! If that crazy beast gets in here, you crawl out the window. Emma!”
She instantly sobered when she saw he might try to shake some sense into her. She opened her mouth to explain, but the shed door finally caved in, splintering the casing and ripping the door off its hinges. Ben swung around with his weapon raised, putting himself between her and danger.
Emma jerked the oar from his hands and threw it to the back of the shed.
“What the—”
“Pitiful! You bad boy! Stop that!”
The startled moose cocked his head to the side, looking at them from only one eye, then let out a bellow that shook the rafters.
Emma shoved at her rescuer’s back and jumped off the water tank. “Pitiful! You stop that hollering this minute. Now get out of here, you silly bull. Go on. Get!”
If ever a moose could look contrite, with an orange bow around its neck and one heavy antler tilting its head, Pitiful looked sorrier than a kid caught raiding the cookie jar. Startled to have her scolding him, he took a step back, shook his head, then bolted for the forest. Clods of muddy earth spewed up behind him, showering the shed and slapping Ben smack in the middle of his heaving chest.
Emma silently peeled the dirt off his expensive canvas shirt. Darting a curious look at his face, she quickly snapped her eyes back down and industriously began to brush at the mud that was left, fighting to keep her shoulders from shaking and her giggles from bursting free.
She lost the battle. The picture of his wild tangle of dark brown hair, his cheeks crimson, and his eyes widened in shock was indelibly burned into her brain. A giggle erupted before she could catch it.
Then the broken door slammed shut and she found herself pressed between it and a hard, unyielding chest.
It seemed Benjamin Sinclair was not amused.
“I just lost ten years of my life, and you think it’s funny?”
Emma frantically shook her head, not raising her eyes above his chest, which vibrated like a deep-rooted oak weathering a gale. Two large hands came to rest on her shoulders, their thumbs nearly touching across her throat.
“That’s good. Because I don’t see anything funny about nearly getting killed by a deranged moose.” He used his thumbs to raise her chin. “Do you?”
Emma finally found the nerve to lift her gaze and immediately wished she hadn’t. Benjamin Sinclair sure as hell wasn’t in shock now. His eyes were narrowed, and his jaw could probably chisel stone.
The sound of crashing branches and a pitiful wail came from the forest.
A loud, exasperated sigh blew over her head, all but parting her hair.
“Look at me.”
She didn’t want to, but those two thumbs became insistent. Emma looked up again … into the eyes of a man whose agenda had suddenly changed.
“Don’t, Mr. Jenkins.”
His mouth descended as if she hadn’t spoken. His lips, which had looked so hard a minute ago, softly touched hers. His hands shifted to cup her head, holding her just firmly enough to deepen the kiss. Then he tilted her head back and used those so-handy thumbs to open her mouth and invade it with his tongue.
Warmth. Unholy heat. Emma’s knees went weak and she grabbed his shirt, steadying herself against his salacious assault. Her world began spinning, a charge of sensuous energy suddenly filling the shed. Damn, the man could kiss. Every nerve touched by him, from her knees to her hair, crackled to life as Emma fought to contain the passion building inside her.
He came here to steal my nephew.
He is huge and scary and not the least bit nice.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, going on tiptoe, turning her head and touching her tongue to his.
Pitiful bellowed again, the mournful sound pulling Emma back to reality. She tore her mouth free and rested her forehead on Ben’s throat, her eyes closed and her heart pounding so violently her ribs hurt. “Don’t, Ben,” she pleaded.
Every muscle in his body went rigid. His breathing suspended and Emma felt his own heart pounding with enough force to bruise her.
“What did you just call me?”
She looked up, meeting his gunmetal stare. “Ben. Michael’s father. The man who’s come to take my nephew away.”
She was suddenly back up against the shed wall, all signs of passion completely gone.
