Best of Desire. Оливия Гейтс

One

      “Now that looks like trouble.” If there was one thing Jericho King could recognize, it was trouble. Fifteen years in the Marine Corps had given him almost a sixth sense—a sort of internal radar. He could spot potential problems coming at him from a mile off.

      This particular problem was a hell of a lot closer.

      Jericho squinted into the late afternoon sunlight and watched as a short, curvy woman with long brown hair bent over and reached into a neon-green compact car parked on the gravel drive.

      “Still, not a bad view,” the older man beside him muttered.

      Jericho chuckled. Sam had a point. Whoever the brunette was, she had a great butt. His gaze moved over that behind and then down and along a pair of truly sensational legs. She was wearing a pair of bright-red, three-inch heels that, even as she stood there, were sinking into the gravel and dirt drive.

      “Why do women wear those idiotic shoes, anyway?” Jericho asked, not really expecting an answer.

      “Generally,” Sam Taylor mused, “I think it’s to get men to look at their legs.”

      “They ought to know they don’t have to work that hard,” Jericho told him with a slow shake of his head. “Well, we don’t have time to deal with her today. So whoever she is, I’ll take care of it fast. Bet she’s looking for that day spa on the other side of the mountain. I’ll get her straightened out and on her way.”

      He took a single step forward before Sam’s voice stopped him.

      “Y’know,” he said, “I don’t think she’s lost. I think she’s the one I talked to about the cook job. You remember, you put me in charge of hiring Kevin’s replacement?”

      “Yeah but, a cook?” Jericho narrowed his gaze on the woman, still bent over, rummaging around in her car as if looking to find a stray gold nugget. “Her?”

      “If that’s Daisy Saxon,” Sam told him, “then yeah.”

      “Saxon. Saxon…” Knowledge slammed into Jericho hard and fast. Shifting a glance at his foreman, he asked, “Did you say Saxon?”

      “Yeah, your hearing’s still okay,” his friend said, then added, “Why? What’s the problem?”

       What’s the problem?

      “Where would I start?” Jericho muttered as the woman straightened up, turned and spotted him and Sam standing on the wide, front lawn.

      She clutched an oversize purse to her chest as she stepped onto the lawn and headed toward them. Her long brown hair lifted in the wind, her dark brown eyes were locked on him and her full mouth was set in a firm line of determination.

      Jericho watched her as something inside him stirred. He squelched the feeling fast. This woman wouldn’t be staying, he told himself. If she was really Daisy Saxon, then there was no place for her here. Hell, he thought, just look at her. Was there ever a more female woman? When women arrived at his camp, they were dressed for it. Jeans. Hiking boots. This one looked as though she’d just left an upscale mall. She was soft and pretty and delicate. And delicate wouldn’t last here on the mountain.

      Not in Jericho’s world anyway.

      He’d hear her out, apologize about the job confusion, then send her on her way. It would be best for everyone—especially her. She didn’t belong here. He could tell that much just by looking at her. It only took seconds for these thoughts and more to rush through his quickly overheating mind.

      “Pretty thing,” Sam mused.

      Jericho didn’t want to notice, but damned if he could seem to help it.

      The woman took maybe four uneven strides in those stupid heels before she tripped on a sprinkler head and went sprawling, sending her purse flying.

      “Damn it.” Jericho started for her.

      But in the next instant, a tiny, furry creature jolted out of her purse and charged him with all the enthusiasm of a rabid pit bull. The grass was high enough that all Jericho could see of the miniature dog was its reddish-brown ears flapping in the wind.

      Yips and barks in a pitch high enough to peel paint shot through Jericho’s head as the improbably small dog, teeth bared, did its best to intimidate.

      It wasn’t much.

      Sam’s laughter erupted from beside him and Jericho muttered, “Oh, for God’s sake.”

      Then he gently eased the mutt out of his way with one foot. The dog stayed on him though, even as Jericho neared the fallen brunette, who was already pushing herself up off the lawn.

      Her hair fell in a tangle around her face. There were grass stains on the front of her shirt and disgust written on her face.

      “Are you okay?” he asked, bending down to help her up.

      “Fine,” she murmured, taking his hand and staggering to her feet. “Nothing like a little humiliation to bring color to a woman’s cheeks.” Bending down again, she scooped up the little yapper. “Oh, Nikki, honey, you’re such a brave little peanut. What a good girl, protecting Mommy.”

      “Yeah, she’s a real killer.”

      “Mommy” now flashed him a look no friendlier than the one her tiny dog was shooting him. “She’s very loyal. I appreciate loyalty.”

      “Me, too,” he said, staring down into brown eyes that shone like fine whisky held up to a light. “But if you’re looking for protection, you might want to upgrade to a real dog.”

      “Nikki is a real dog,” she told him and cuddled the little creature close. “Now, I realize I haven’t made the best impression in the world, but I’m here to see you.”

      “Do I know you?”

      “Not yet,” she told him. “But I know you’re Jericho King, right?”

      “I am,” he said flatly and watched as her gaze slid back to his.

      “Nothing like making a fabulous first impression,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. A moment later, she lifted her chin and said, “I’m Daisy Saxon. We haven’t spoken, but you wrote to me a year ago after…”

      “After your brother died,” he finished for her, remembering that moment when Brant Saxon had died following a dangerous mission into hostile territory.

      Jericho had seen men die before. Too many over the years he’d served in the Corps. But Brant had been different. Young. Idealistic. And dead way before his time. The kid’s death had hit Jericho hard, precipitating his retirement and leading him here, to this mountain.

      The fact that he blamed himself for Brant’s death only added to the misery he felt now, facing the man’s sister.

      Pain whipped through her eyes like a lightning flash. There and gone again in a moment. “Yes.”

      In an instant, Jericho saw Brant Saxon, remembered the fear on his face that had faded into resignation, acceptance, as he lay dying. And Jericho remembered the kid wresting a promise from him. A promise to look after Brant’s sister if she ever asked for help.

      Well, he’d done his best to keep the promise, hadn’t he? He’d written the more “official” sorry-for-your-loss letter, then he’d called her later, offered to do whatever he could. But she’d turned him down. Politely. Completely. She had thanked him for his call, told him she would be fine, then she’d hung up—ending, as far as Jericho was concerned, any responsibility he’d had to her. Until now.

      So why in the hell was she on his mountain a year after telling him thanks but no thanks?

      “I know a good bit of time has passed since we spoke,” she was saying and Jericho tuned back