Too Hard To Handle. Rita Rainville

ran a hand through his hair, leaving it rumpled and standing in spikes. This wasn’t the conversation he’d planned to have once he got Christy alone. Their two days had been stretched to three weeks, but it wouldn’t mean a damn thing if she tossed verbal bombs at him every time they got together.

      “Look, I’ve already got a bunch of E.T. hunters on my hands, you don’t have to add a fortune-teller.” He took a deep breath and added in a flat voice, “Besides, I don’t believe in psychics.”

      “How nice for you.” Maybe it was the fact that Tillie was surrounded by a legion of protectors and didn’t need her added support, Christy thought, but for the first time she could enjoy the absurdity of the situation.

      “I didn’t either until a year ago, when I settled in San Diego and my relatives stuck me with Aunt Tillie for a weekend. During that time I learned that she doesn’t need a security system at her place because she always knows who’s approaching her house. I learned that she never uses a telephone book—she just picks up the phone and dials the right numbers.”

      Shane groaned.

      “I learned that she always knows when family and friends are either hurt or in trouble.”

      Sighing, Shane said, “Let me ask again, who exactly is this Walter?”

      Her soft laughter filling the air, Christy said, “Her husband.”

      “And why isn’t he here taking care of her?”

      “Because he’s dead.”

      His scowl grew darker. “Dead?”

      “Yep.” She grinned. “Of course, Aunt Tillie says he made his transition, but any way you look at it, he’s gone. But not forgotten, no sirree. And believe me, he didn’t go quietly. It seems like the man never stops talking. Fourteen years ago,” she added before he could ask.

      “I don’t believe it.”

      “You already said that.”

      “Do you have any idea how crazy this sounds?”

      “Yeah, I do. Which is why I hate to tell anyone about it, but I thought since we’re going to be here a while, you should be warned.”

      “And he talked to her about my cattle?”

      “I wouldn’t be surprised.” Christy sighed. “He talks to her about almost everything. My mother said his financial advice had tripled her portfolio. Aunt Tillie’s, not my mother’s,” she added with scrupulous honesty.

      “So why is this dead man fixated on my cattle?”

      “I haven’t the foggiest idea. But, believe me, my family jumps when he issues a warning.”

      “It wasn’t a warning,” he snapped. “It was just…a comment.”

      “As far as Uncle Walter is concerned, it’s the same thing. I’d pay attention if I were you.” Christy turned back toward the RVs. “So now you’ve had two warnings—one from Walter and one from me.”

      Shane caught her arm and gently swung her toward him. “Wait a minute. This isn’t what I wanted to talk about when we came out here.”

      Panic swept through her when his voice deepened. “Well of course it isn’t,” she said brightly. “How could you? You didn’t know about it.” The fear that he would say something she absolutely, positively did not want to hear kept her talking. “Uncle Walter isn’t a topic that many would think of. After all, how many dead men—”

      He stopped her by lifting her chin and brushing his lips against hers in a slow, tender kiss. Finally, when the tension left her body and she sagged against him, he raised his head. “I want to talk about us.” His dark gaze swept her face before he turned and led her farther away from the lights of the motor homes.

      Digging her heels in the soft grass, she pulled away and held up a hand to keep him back. Damned if she hadn’t been right about the brand on his forehead; the man was nothing but trouble. Oddly enough, she had forgotten that the letter could also stand for testosterone. As in way too much of it. And she had a nasty hunch that he was as stubborn and relentless as all three exes combined.

      “Whoa, cowboy,” she said breathlessly. “We’ve known each other about six hours. Don’t you think you’re rushing things a bit?”

      He gave a slow shake of his head. “From my point of view, we’ve already wasted most of the day.”

      Blinking, she took a deep breath to release the tension building inside her. Then, since it hadn’t helped much, she took another one and quickly stepped past him, hurrying distractedly back to the RVs. His blunt approach was all too familiar. And, unfortunately for her, there was something morbidly fascinating about the direct, Me-Tarzan, you-Jane method. Even worse, in the past, it had worked. But that was then, she reminded herself. This was now. And things were different.

      She was different. She had changed.

      She had a batch of new priorities—an interesting job, potential career advancement and, best of all, no forceful men in her life.

      Granted, there were a few dangling threads from her old life that needed attention. They were minor. A quick conversation with Aunt Tillie would clear up the wanderer issue. Ignoring the worrisome thought that conversations with her aunt were neither quick nor reasonable, Christy pressed on.

      Another more pointed talk with Shane would probably be necessary, but she could handle that.

      After all, she had changed.

      Chapter Three

      “Come on, Aunt Tillie, give.”

      Seated at the motor home’s simulated oak table, nibbling at a chicken salad, Christy pondered the difficulties of getting a few minutes alone with her aunt. She hadn’t been able to corner Tillie the night before after Shane had left, and today it hadn’t been easy to wean her away from the tangle of seniors vociferously debating the methods of breaking through the military guards into Area 51. In fact, it had been impossible. So she had found a shady spot and waited until hunger drove them to their motor homes for lunch. Now, with luck, she’d have an uninterrupted hour devoted to questions and answers.

      Tillie tilted her head, reminding Christy of a perky, blue-eyed bird. “Shane is a nice man, isn’t he? And subtle. Just look at the shirts he wears.”

      Nice? Subtle? Shirts? The look Christy aimed at her was one of sheer disbelief. “Aunt Tillie, I use words for a living, remember? That means I select them with care, and nice is hardly one I’d choose to describe Shane McBride. Relentless, maybe. Obstinate, definitely. But, nice, subtle? No way. I can think of a lot of words, but none of them have anything to do with nice. And what do his shirts—” She stopped, a crease forming between her brows as she studied her aunt’s artless expression.

      “Oh, no you don’t, we’re not going there,” she said firmly. “Your little diversion isn’t going to work this time. We’re not talking about Shane. What we’re discussing here is your affection for all beings extraterrestrial and why you think I’m one of them.”

      If Christy had learned anything in the past year, it was that being tactful with her aunt was a lost cause. Tillie could be perfectly coherent and logical…unless she was disturbed or simply chose not to discuss a certain topic. When that happened, she was as hard to pin down as a campaigning politician. So tact was not an option here; gritty perseverance was the only thing that seemed to work.

      “This wanderer thing,” Christy prompted. “I want you to explain it, using plain and simple words. What makes you say that—”

      “Your aura.”

      “My what?”

      “It was glorious, vibrant.” Tillie clasped her hands to her chest, dazzled by the memory. “Indigo, of course.”

      “Indigo,”