"You've got a blister on your foot," he observed.

"That's what I get for wearing sandals instead of tennis shoes and socks."

He rubbed the raised, red skin with the pad of his thumb. Stevie's initial plan was to pull her foot away from his massaging hand, but she reconsidered.

She was afraid to move it for fear that when she did, her heel would come in contact with the bulge behind the frayed fly of his jeans. Better safe than sorry, although she wouldn't call having her foot anywhere near that very safe.

"We'd better get going before it gets dark," she suggested huskily.

"I meant what I said." He turned his head and speared her with his eyes. "Let's stay."

"We can't."

She wished he'd remove his hand from around her foot. He was drawing patterns in her high arch with his thumb. It was difficult not to squirm and almost impossible to keep from purring with pleasure, especially when the look he was giving her was so disarming.

"How come?"

How come? She couldn't think of a single reason. "Because." ''Good reason." He flashed her a grin, but instantly reverted to seriousness.

"You need time alone to think, Stevie. What better place than here? There's no telephone, no distractions, no snoopy reporters. No one to pressure you. Just me."

Little did he know that he was the main deterrent.

But because the idea held such appeal, she hedged from giving him a definite no. "You're going to sit and watch me think through my dilemma?

Is that what you're proposing?"

"No, I'm going to work on my novel."

"Novel? What novel?"

"The one I'm going to start tomorrow morning.

If we stay, that is. If we don't, the great American novel will never be written and everybody'll be blaming you."

"Oh, thanks. So now your career is my responsibility."

"Well, I did get fired because of you," he reminded her gently.

"You just said-"

"I know what I said," he said grumpily.

"Look, let's stay. You can putter in the flower bed and around the house, cook and clean, and I'll write."

"Free maid service, that's what you want."

She pulled her foot from his warm grasp, hoping for the best. Her heel grazed the button fly on his jeans, but she didn't let her mind dwell on the solid fullness she felt beneath it. "You want a housekeeper at your beck and call while you're playing John Steinbeck. You're a con, Mackie, a big con. The most manipulative-"

"You can lie in bed the livelong day for all I care," he said loudly, overriding her protests. "You are the one who said you wanted to stay busy to keep your mind off…" His eyes skittered down toward her lap. "You know."

Then he lifted his eyes to hers. One look into her hostile gaze and he blew out a disgusted breath. "Okay, forget I mentioned it. Bad idea.

I thought both of us could use some time away from the grind to think, reassess, plan, that kind of thing. This seemed the perfect place for it.

Obviously I was wrong on all accounts."

He left the swing. It rocked crazily. Stevie steadied it with her foot. "Where would we sleep?" she asked his retreating back.

He came to an abrupt halt and for several seconds didn't move. When he did, he came around slowly. " 'Where would we sleep'?"

"Where would I sleep?"

"You get first pick of the bedrooms."

"Where would you sleep?"

"In one of the other bedrooms." He propped his hands on his hips. "Is that what you're thinking, that I have an ulterior motive? A combined housekeeper and mistress." She remained stonily silent and accusatory. "I thought we'd already established that there's no sexual chemistry between us," he said. "Look, I meant this to be a purely platonic setup. Right now both our lives are in upheaval. Why would we want any additional complications?"

"Exactly."

"I don't see any sparks arcing between us, do you?"

"No."

"Would you go around all dirty and sweaty and generally looking like hell if you were trying to tempt me into being your lover?"

"No," Stevie said stiffly, wanting very badly to slap him.

"So fine. Neither would I. If I wanted you in my bed, I'd come right out and say so. Geez," he breathed, raking his fingers through his hair.

"Now that that's understood, do we go or stay?"

1 thought it would be nice to eat out here."

Stevie gestured awkwardly at the card table she had brought from the dining room onto the front porch. She'd gathered a colorful bouquet of wildflowers and placed it in the center of the table. A raid of closets and cupboards had produced a tablecloth, linen napkins, even a candle, which, with the help of melted wax, she'd managed to stand in a saucer. The light flickered onto Judd's shadowed face.

Great idea, but you went to too much trouble.'

I enjoyed it."

As promised, he had given her first pick of the bedrooms. She had chosen the one facing east because she was accustomed to waking up early.

Her choice pleased him because he admitted that the last thing he wanted to see in the morning was sunlight pouring through the shutters.

Moving from the bedroom, he had showed her into the bathroom. It had a pedestal sink and an old-fashioned claw-footed tub.

"At least seven feet long and suitable for reclining if you're in the mood for a long soak," he had said with the nasal accent of a snake-oil vendor.

They had found towels and sheets, along with a few odds and ends of clothing, in the upstairs linen closet. Judd had looked skeptically at the clothes. "Think you can find something to wear until we get into town?"

"I'll manage. Who did these clothes belong to?" she asked, holding a full skirt up against her.

"Assorted cousins I guess." There was a mix of men's and women's apparel. Judd took a shirt and pair of shorts. "Just because I'm such a nice guy, I'll let you go first in the bathroom. If it's okay with you, we'll cook those steaks I bought today for dinner." Her stomach had rumbled as though on cue. He made a scrubbing motion against it with his knuckles. "Guess that means you approve."

Stevie had tightened her stomach muscles in defense against his touch and tried to pretend that she still had sufficient breath. But for all her efforts, her voice still sounded unnaturally soprano when she said, "Steak sounds wonderful."

"Okay, I'll go start the charcoal while you're bathing. I found granddad's grill in the garage and scrubbed it clean today. There was even a sack of charcoal."

A half hour later, she had met him coming up as she was returning downstairs. She was fresh and clean, her hair still damp. He was dirtier than ever. Besides the grime he'd collected during the day, he'd added an overall dusting of charcoal powder.

"The water comes out rusty," she had told him. "But if you let it run a second or two it clears up."

"Thanks for the warning," he had replied as he trudged past her.

Now, they faced each other over the candlelit table. The night sounds coming from the surrounding woods were loud and distinct, the smell of cooking steaks mouth-watering, the breeze balmy.

Stevie, feeling foolishly nervous and self-conscious, groped for something to say. "The coals were just right."

"Good."

"I went ahead and put the steaks on the grill, but you might want to check them."

She was plagued by a sudden shyness and couldn't imagine where it had originated. Maybe the peasant blouse had been a poor choice; it was making her feel foolishly feminine. It was a size too large. The neckline was wide and kept slipping off one shoulder. If her clothes hadn't been so dirty, she would have put them back on after her bath.

As it was, she was standing before a man who could joke about bedding triplet contortionists, feeling ridiculously gauche and vulnerable.