No Strings Attached. Susan Andersen

anything,” she said eventually. “My answer doesn’t matter.”

      “Doesn’t matter? To you or to me?”

      “To anyone. Now let me go.” She tugged at her arm.

      Derek didn’t release her, but he didn’t tighten his grip, either. “I could argue that I have a right to know.”

      Complete and utter silence followed his pronouncement, then Amber jerked her arm back with little care, as though she took serious offense at either his touch or his statement. “What gives you any rights where I’m concerned?” she demanded hotly, and darted into the house.

      He stepped inside behind her. “I own the Double F. That makes me responsible for everyone here—including you. It gives me the right to know something about you.”

      A soft yellow light flared suddenly and the smell of sulfur tickled his nose. Amber stood across the hall, next to a small table. She dropped the spent match, its tip blackened and shriveled, into a small pottery bowl, then replaced the glass chimney on the flickering lamp and turned to face him.

      “I don’t work for you.” She spoke evenly but firmly. “I worked for your uncle and stayed until Richard’s heir arrived. It was part of my obligation to him.”

      “And that’s finished now?” He probed her face, the verdant green eyes that shone like emeralds in the golden lamplight, but her expression revealed nothing.

      “Nearly so, it seems. You haven’t hired me, and without that, you have no rights where I’m concerned.”

      “Do you want to work for me?” The question came from nowhere.

      She watched him for several long, silent moments, then finally blinked. “I don’t know.” She nestled her hands together and held them in front of her, against her stomach.

      It was the faded gray dress that she wore today, with the round white collar and tiny white buttons down the front. Was she trembling? Surely not. She had defended herself and Richard adamantly, fearlessly, at every turn.

      Or was it his stare, intense and relentless? But what other choice did he have? Her crystalline eyes revealed little and saw far too much. And her lips, soft and full, parted just enough to tease him with a hint of white teeth and pink tongue.

      “Your position here is secure,” he snapped. It had never occurred to him that she would not remain. “I can’t afford to fire anyone. There aren’t enough of us to work the ranch now. But I expect the same work for the same wages Richard paid. Until we make some improvements and the Double F starts paying for itself, there isn’t money for anything more.”

      He paused, waiting, but she didn’t respond. Irritation and relief battled for dominance. Hell, he didn’t need a housekeeper; why didn’t he just fire her?

      “Is that what you wanted to hear?” he demanded with some frustration.

      “I suppose so, yes. Something like that.” Something in her expression flickered, disturbing him. Was that…vulnerability he saw?

      “You intend to stay, then?”

      She blinked, averting her eyes. “Yes.”

      “Then you must accept one thing.” He meant to regain control of the situation. “There can be no misunderstanding.”

      “And that is?”

      “Honesty. I expect complete honesty from all who work for me. I will not tolerate a lie, under any circumstances. Is that clear?”

      Amber drew herself up, tall and proud and sure. “Absolutely. Honesty is a virtue I greatly esteem, myself. I have never lied to you, and you have my word that I will not do so in the future.”

      She turned toward the back of the house and her bedroom, tucked behind the stairs at the end of the hall, then stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. “I will always be honest with you, Derek. But that doesn’t mean I will share my every thought with you. Those are mine, burden or comfort, and I will keep them to myself.”

      Amber wielded her broom with swift, sure strokes, cleaning dirt, twigs and leaves from the back stoop. She had long ago accepted the light, gusty breeze as a part of everyday life in south Texas, and the daily routine of sweeping the walkway gave her some comfort now and served as a balm to her fractious nerves and wounded pride.

      Derek’s questions, followed by his other bold, disdainful remarks, had kept Amber awake through much of the night. The multitude had chased themselves around in her mind like a litter of kittens after their tails. Somewhere in the middle of the night, she had realized the significance of her refusal to answer his direct question. For reasons Amber still didn’t understand, he had let her have her way. She had not bested him, and she did not try to delude herself into thinking that she had. It wasn’t that he had accepted her answer—or, more accurately, her lack of an answer. Nor had he given up searching for a response that satisfied him. He would ask again—and likely soon.

      And then what?

      It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as long as she could keep her job.

      The words echoed with importance as she reached the cookhouse. Amber swallowed. Derek could fire her as easily as he’d agreed to let her stay. He had given her nothing more than an opportunity to prove herself…a little space in which to breathe. Only a fool would waste it.

      She swept the pile of debris into her weeding bucket before she propped the broom against the wall, next to the door. If she hurried, she could start her own recipe for son of a gun stew before Six got to it. She wiped her dusty hands on her apron and stepped inside.

      A huge worktable dominated the room, its top nicked and scarred from years of use. Amber used it to assemble the first ingredients for her stew. Banging a large cook pot down on one end, she turned toward the door and spied Derek.

      He watched her as he pulled the brown, wide-brimmed hat from his head and tossed it onto the tabletop. He ran his hands through his blond hair, shoving it back from his face.

      She swallowed and inhaled a deep breath. He moved with an unhurried, lazy grace she’d never noticed in another man. And his hair—did it feel soft as silk, as it looked? One breath stumbled over another and sent her heart pounding.

      Don’t be stupid! She forbade herself the least physical reaction to Derek. He presented enough complications to her life as it was.

      “Were you looking for me?” she snapped. “I was on my way to the smokehouse.”

      “We need to talk.”

      “Talk?” He wanted to talk? Already?

      “Talk. As in engage in a discussion.”

      “Yes, I know what it means. But…now?” She swept a quick, agitated gaze around the room. “I’m in the middle of son of a gun stew.”

      He almost smiled. “That’s good news. I expected to have to fetch the doctor if Six kept feeding us. Are you sure you can do it?”

      “I’m an excellent cook.” She drew herself up and threw her shoulders back, emphasizing every capable inch.

      “I didn’t mean that. I meant do you have time?”

      Amber nodded. “I can manage. For a while. At least until you hire more men.”

      “I’ll see if I can find us a cook then.”

      “Well, if that’s all you wanted…” Surreptitiously she stepped to the side, hoping he wouldn’t notice until she had reached the door. How did he manage to fill a room with little more than his presence, or make her feel as though she needed the open skies and fresh air to breathe?

      “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

      “What?” She stopped moving and peered at him—and couldn’t help noticing differences between them. He stood at least six inches taller and outweighed her by close to eighty pounds. His muscled strength was apparent