He got the feeling that she was irritated, too—with Leslie. Win was polite enough, although she never said more to the young woman than she could get away with, but he saw the same desire reflected in her eyes that he was feeling. Leslie, unconsciously or not, he wasn’t sure, seemed to understand her frustration and played on it, chatting and flirting with him whether or not he ignored her.
When Leslie spotted some dead leaves on a seedling a row over and moved to snip them off, Win moved closer to Angus. “I just need—” She reached across him for another stack of pots, the movement leaving her cleavage uncomfortably close to his face. Her arm brushed his, and all he could think of was getting alone with her, undoing that dress, touching her—
Win caught his eye, winked at him, and he almost groaned, but when he caught Leslie watching them, he quickly schooled his features to betray none of what was going on in his mind. He wasn’t sure it had worked. Leslie was frowning now, attacking the little plant with her scissors more aggressively than was called for.
Win moved away again and got back to work, but Angus thought she was struggling not to smile. He tried to get his libido under control, but his traitor mind kept pulling up image after image of Win from the months they’d spent together last summer. Tantalizing images that left him aching in the most uncomfortable way.
He tried to summon the most boring thoughts he could to counteract them. Offices. Desks. Time clocks. Staplers. He’d always hated the idea of desk work.
There.
He wasn’t turned on at all. He was just potting plants—
Win moved close and reached across him again, this time for a trowel, even though she already had one. There was that cleavage. That elusive floral scent of hers. The brush of her arm against his. No, wait—
That was her breast.
God, the lass had beautiful breasts.
Angus could picture them clear as day in his mind and remembered the feel of them, too.
He glanced at Leslie, who was scowling.
Hell.
Conference rooms. Stale coffee. Computer screens. Whiteboards.
Better.
Concentrate on the damn work.
Leslie moved down her row, trimming more plants. Win kept potting new ones.
Kept leaning toward him.
Kept brushing against him.
Only when silence stretched for more than ten seconds did Angus focus again and find Leslie watching them with something dangerously akin to fury in her eyes. Her mouth had thinned into a line, and she picked up her things and marched back to his side, plunking them down so he was sandwiched between the two women.
“Excuse me,” Leslie said pointedly, reached across Angus to grab one of the pots Win had just grabbed and brushed against Angus so hard he nearly stumbled.
Her movement didn’t have quite the same effect Win’s had; she didn’t quite have the same cleavage, for one thing, nor did she have Win’s floral scent. Leslie smelled like… baby shampoo, he realized.
“I’m using this.” Win hung on to the pot.
“I need it.” Leslie gave it a hard yank just as Win let go, and she wheeled backward, her arm knocking a dozen plants over, spilling dirt everywhere.
Leslie blushed scarlet, let go of the pot, stumbled a few steps, caught her footing and ran from the greenhouse. Byron, still clutching his camera, ran after her.
“Aren’t you going to go after her, too?” Win asked innocently.
“Not until I do this.”
Angus cupped her jaw with both his hands, bent down and covered her mouth with his.
If the greenhouse walls weren’t made of glass, she’d wrap her arms around Angus’s neck, jump up and wrap her legs around his waist. She wanted him—badly. Wanted to feel the hardness evident through all their layers of clothes pressed up against the core of her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt so much need for a man before. Kissing him wasn’t enough.
Angus’s hands slipped down to her shoulders, her waist, then lower still to cup her bottom and pull her against him. Win let out a sigh. His hands felt heavenly. His touch let her know how much he wanted her, too.
When the door burst open, they jumped apart like teenagers caught necking on the front porch.
“What are you two doing?” It was Byron, and he was looking at them like a child who’d just caught his parents putting the Christmas presents under the tree instead of Santa.
“When Leslie knocked the table, I got a splinter,” Win improvised. “Angus was helping me.”
Byron looked unconvinced. “Leslie’s locked herself in the bathroom in the bunkhouse. I don’t know what to do.”
“Maybe that’s her way of saying she wants to be alone,” Angus said.
“I think you should go talk to her,” Byron retorted. “You’re supposed to be her fiancé.”
“Not yet.” But Angus let out a breath, touched Win’s hand surreptitiously and made his way toward the door.
“I’ve got to head up to the manor, anyway,” Win lied. “Planning meeting.” She brushed by Byron. What she really needed was some time alone to cool off. She’d been playing with fire just now and had set off a blaze. The greenhouse was warm, and her dress clung to her. She’d succeeded in discomfiting Leslie, although she wasn’t sure what the point of that was.
She knew what Boone would say: she was putting all their futures in danger with her actions. She should be ashamed of herself, but she wasn’t.
Angus was hers, no matter what Leslie thought.
For once, Byron didn’t follow. Apparently he thought he’d catch more action if he stuck with Angus, and Win found herself blessedly alone.
She quickly headed down the rutted path toward Pittance Creek, hoping to reach the woods before any crew members spotted her. As the thrill of teasing Angus wore off, she realized how stupid she’d been and vowed to herself she wouldn’t do that again. She
