LITMIR.BIZ

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of him as if he’d been KO’d by the love child of Ali and Tyson. That skillet must have been made of cast iron, and she’d flung it like a discus wielded by an Olympic champion.

      He held his hands up in surrender, trying to form words, though his body had forgotten how to breathe and his ribs were screaming for her head on a platter. Meanwhile, the rake, which he’d been clutching as he fell, toppled forward. Just to add a little insult to the injury, it landed on his shoulder, then clanged to the floor beside him.

       Pain, meet agony, pull up a chair why don’t you?

      “Get out, I’m calling the police!” she ordered as she scrambled to grab another pot out of the sink.

      “Whoa, lady, cool it,” he finally gasped. “I’m not…going to…hurt you.”

      “That’s what any sick, raping, ax-murdering psycho would say.”

      If his chest didn’t hurt so damned much, and if he wasn’t afraid she would reach for the knife block next, he would have mulled that one over, wondering which she thought him to be: sick, raping, ax-murderer or psycho. All of the above?

      Active imagination on that one.

      “I’m the…groundskeeper,” he said with a groan as the ache in his chest receded, only to remind him of the ache in his elbow. Funny bone, my ass. “I work here.”

      She froze, another pot in one hand, a cell phone in the other, and stared at him from a few feet away. “You work here?”

      “Yeah, for Buddy. My name’s Oliver McKean. I saw the lights and was afraid somebody had broken in.”

      She eyed him, her stare zoning in on the blood he could feel trickling down the side of his arm. Obviously she’d broken skin, if not bone, with her mad pot-slinging skills.

      Nibbling on the corner of a succulent lip, she whispered, “Oh, dear.”

      “Yeah. Oh, dear. That’s some swing you’ve got there.”

      “I’m so sorry. I’m Candace Reid.”

      “Oliver McKean.”

      “You said that.”

      “I know,” he mumbled, realizing he wasn’t making any sense. The one place she hadn’t hit him was his head, but his thoughts were still a whirl as he tried to figure out why on earth he was reacting so strongly to a woman who’d just tried to kill him.

      “Are you Irish?” she asked with a deep frown, sounding more concerned than when she’d thought him a maniacal ax-killing rapist.

      “My father is. We lived in Cork for a few years when I was a kid,” he admitted, wondering if his voice still held a hint of an accent. Also wondering why it mattered.

      Not seeing the need to discuss his ethnicity, he staggered to his feet. He was none too steady on them, and his lungs still burned. She’d practically knocked him senseless. Dizzy or not, he was incredibly lucky neither of those flying missiles had hit him in the head. They really could have done some damage. But worries about what might have happened dissipated as he stared at her from across the room. Now that he wasn’t afraid for his life, he found himself struck into silence by the beauty of her gently curved face. Dark brows arched over expressive jewelgreen eyes that were still widened with fear and surprise. Beneath a pair of high cheekbones were soft hollows that invited tender exploration. Her amazing lips were made for lots of deep kisses. Her chin was up, determined and strong, as if she wasn’t about to let down her guard completely. He liked that…he especially liked that she remained firm even though her long slender throat quivered and worked as she swallowed down her instinctive anxiety and mistrust.

      She wore a delicate, filmy blouse, all cloud and color. It clung to the edge of her slim shoulders, revealing a soft expanse of chest and collarbone. Her skin was creamy, smooth, and his fingers curled together as he imagined touching that softness. The scooped neck of the blouse fell to the tops of her full breasts, revealing a hint of cleavage that left him more breathless than he’d felt after taking a frying pan to the chest.

      He continued his perusal, seeing those curvy hips from the front—just as delightful—and the thighs clad in tight denim, on down to the high-heeled boots. Hell, she should have used those things for a weapon; the spiked heels could have carved out a hole in his heart.

      Hmm. He suspected this woman could carve her name on any man’s heart. If, of course, he had one still capable of opening up and being carved.

      “You’re Buddy’s granddaughter, I presume?” he finally asked, once his brain started working again.

      His words snapped her out of her long moment of decompression. Apparently realizing she wasn’t about to be raped, ravaged by a maniac or ax-murdered, she nodded quickly. “Yes. I’m such an idiot. My mother told me that Grandpa’s groundskeeper had been the one to call with the news that he was in the hospital. I can’t believe I took you for a home invader.” She spun around and grabbed a handful of paper towels, striding toward him, her eyes glued on his bleeding arm. “I really am sorry. Let me help you.”

      When he saw that she was still armed, he took a step back. “Drop the lethal weapon first, would you?”

      Looking down at the pot, she nibbled her lip sheepishly and did as he asked, opening her fingers and dropping the pot to the floor.

      Well, not quite to the floor. It had his bare foot to land on first.

      The pot fell to the floor with a bang, crushing his toes, then rolling onto the linoleum. “Ow, Jesus,” he yelled, grabbing his flattened foot and hopping on the other.

      Her beautiful green eyes saucered as she realized what she’d done. With a strangled sound, she reached for him, but he leaped out of striking range and leaned back against the wall.

      “Stay back. Please. Just stay away from me.” His entire body throbbing, he added, “Jeez, lady, you ought to come with a warning label.”

      She threw her hand over her mouth in dismay, and bent over at the waist. Sounds like tiny sobs were bursting from her lips and her body trembled.

      Great. Just great. Tears.

      He quickly shoved away his instinctive reaction, realizing she’d had a hell of a night. Obviously she’d raced up here from Southern California to be with her injured grandfather. She’d been high on fear and adrenaline even before she’d thought she was about to be attacked by a shirtless stranger wielding a rake. Anyone would be a little overwrought.

      Realizing she was really mortified, Oliver dropped his foot, praying there were no broken bones, and tried not to wince as he tested his weight on it. “It’s okay…I’m all right. Accidents happen.”

      She straightened and peered at him, those green eyes assessing. But she didn’t lower her hand, and her shoulders were now shaking as she made muffled sounds. Funny, her eyes weren’t glossy, as if filled with tears. In fact, if he had to guess, he’d say they were almost twinkling instead.

      A sneaking suspicion entered his mind. He reached out, yanked her hand away from her mouth and realized the truth.

      She wasn’t crying. She was giggling almost uncontrollably.

2

      “WAIT, YOU’RE LAUGHING?”

      Oliver couldn’t contain his indignation, not sure whether to retaliate by dropping a pan on her foot or shaking the laughter off her oh-so-kissable lips. She was damned lucky he was not the violent sort, because the shaking thing was definitely winning the internal battle in his mind.

      She was also lucky he wasn’t the ax-murdering-maniac sort because wringing her neck was a close second.

      Then his gaze landed on those kissable lips, and he thought of something else he’d like to do

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