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Lucy had practically enslaved herself to her ex-husband during the six years they’d been married. She’d done everything within her power to please Hank Dolan, only to have him toss her out on her keester, anyway. You couldn’t trust men. She knew that. You could do everything exactly the way they wanted it—whether you wanted it that way or not—and they still weren’t satisfied. She’d be an idiot to put herself through something like that again.
“I, um,” she began. But for some reason the words she needed to say wouldn’t come. “That is... mean...” She sighed unevenly and tried again. “I don’t think you’re...”
She shifted clumsily in her seat and tried to look him in the eye as steadily as she could, then dropped her gaze to the fingers she twisted restlessly together on the table. But when that just made her more nervous, she forced herself to look at his face again.
“You, uh...you don’t seem to be taking this offer in the spirit it’s intended,” she finally told him.
“Oh?” he asked mildly. “And just what kind of spirit is it intended in?”
Lucy knew the only way she was going to get through this was to stop staring at him. As long as Boone Cagney and his chest were in her line of vision, all she could do was wonder if his lower half was as intriguing as his upper half. So she darted her gaze around his kitchen, letting it ricochet off everything but him.
“When I say I’ll be your slave for one month,” she began again, “what I mean is that I’ll do chores for you. Things around the house that need doing that you haven’t had the time or inclination to do yourself.”
“Chores,” he repeated, his voice belying nothing of what might be going on in his brain.
She continued to stare over his shoulder at the calendar on the opposite wall as she spoke, noting that it was running two months late. “Uh-huh. Chores. You know. I’ll wash your car. rake your leaves, do your grocery shopping. Bring you breakfast in the morning on my way to work,” she added lamely, “or fix your dinner on my way home. Things like that.”
When she looked at Boone again, he seemed to have his mind on something other than breakfast. His chin was still settled firmly in one hand, and the curious fire in his eyes continued to blaze wickedly.
“Will you make my bed?” he asked.
She chewed her lip anxiously, unable to tear her gaze away from that odd heat that seemed to grow brighter with every passing moment. “Uh, yeah. Sure. I can do that.”
“Every morning?”
She hesitated for a moment, then told him, “If that’s what you want.”
He opened his mouth to say something else, seemed to reconsider and snapped it shut again. Then he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest, his posture displaying better than words ever could, “Game over.”
“It’s not necessary,” he said simply.
For some reason, though, Lucy had the feeling he wanted to say a lot more. “Of course it’s necessary,” she insisted.
He shoved the chair back from the table with a loud scrape and stood, then crossed the small kitchen in a few quick strides. He turned to face her again, leaning back against the counter, gripping its edge with his palms, his long legs extended before him. His posture was casual, but his expression was carefully controlled.
“I appreciate your wanting to do this,” he said, “but I don’t want you to.”
“But I owe you, don’t you understand?”
He started to protest again, but Lucy cut him off by standing abruptly enough to send her own chair toppling over. Ignoring it, she covered the same distance he had just crossed, stopping directly in front of him. She had to tilt her head back significantly to study him face-to-face, but it was imperative that she make him understand.
“I have a debt to pay,” she said simply. “And I always pay my debts.”
Well, all but one, she reminded herself, that old specter of insufficiency jabbing a cold finger at the back of her brain again. She’d never paid her parents back for adopting her. Even after she’d turned out to be in no way what they’d expected or wanted, they’d kept her, anyway.
What they’d wanted was a daughter—a soft, cuddly little creature in pink ruffles and curls, who would take ballet lessons and play the piano and sing in the Sunday school choir. Someone who wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, and who would concede daintily when opposed. That’s what her parents had wanted when they set out to adopt a little girl.
What they’d wound up with in Lucy was a fighting little hellion who’d given the neighborhood boys a run for their money. No one at school—male or female—had ever been able to beat her. Not at games, not at sports, not in fights. In spite of her parents’ endless efforts to restrain her, Lucy had refused the mantel of “traditional female.” She’d liked and excelled at athletics, machine arts and all things boyish. And she’d never looked pretty in pink.
And seemingly not a day had gone by when Lucy hadn’t heard about what a disappointment she was. Nor could she recall too many times when her parents missed an opportunity to remind her of how grateful she should be that they’d taken her in—and kept her—in spite of her many shortcomings.
Lucy owed them more than she would ever be able to repay them, they often told her. And they’d been right. She never had managed to become the kind of daughter they really wanted. And now that they were dead, that debt would remain unpaid in full.
But not this one. Lucy wasn’t going to carry around another unsatisfied obligation for the rest of her life. Especially when the debt she owed Boone was one that she had the ability to repay with fairly little effort.
“It’s not a debt,” he insisted, snapping her out of her troubling reminiscence.
“It is a debt,” she countered.
Boone stared down at Lucy, knowing there was a lot more going on here than she was letting on. He didn’t know why she should find it so necessary to free herself from an obligation to a total stranger—an obligation that didn’t even exist, as far as he was concerned—but for some reason, she just couldn’t let it go.
Nevertheless, the last thing he needed or wanted was someone like Lucy Dolan invading his space, invading his house, invading his life. He was a loner, pure and simple, someone who thrived on solitude and cherished his self-induced isolation. He liked his house quiet, and he liked his life undisturbed.
And even in the scant time he’d spent with her, he could see that Lucy was the kind of woman who would never be quiet and who would always disturb, in one way or another. He didn’t need or want such a disruption in his life.
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