Promise Canyon (Virgin River #13)(43)

She leaned against the sink, her heart hammering from the surprise. He was looking a bit different tonight; he wore navy blue slacks, low leather boots and a white long-sleeved shirt, sleeves rolled up and neck open. He held a sack in the crook of one arm. "What are you doing here?"

He looked around, then looked her up and down. "You don't look like you're going out. You said you had plans and I thought--"

"I'm staying in tonight."

Clay craned his neck. "Where's the boyfriend? What's his name?"

She couldn't help but smile at him. He was at least as much a brat as Streak. "He's sick. Coming down with something so he canceled. Now, why are you here?"

He took a step toward the kitchen. He smiled. "I wanted to meet him. At least get a look at him, see what I'm up against." He shrugged. "Maybe we could be friends, me and the boyfriend."

She laughed at him in spite of herself. "Well, that takes balls," she said. "Why don't we do this--when I feel like introducing the two of you, I'll let you know. And since you aren't going to get a look at him..."

"I brought something. Root beer." He tilted his head at her. "Was I out of line? Dropping in this way?"

"Absolutely!" she said, her blue eyes widening. "How'd you know where I lived?"

"Annie. And by the way, she'd never heard about this boyfriend, which I find curious."

"Maybe I don't tell everyone about him," she said. "But--your apology is accepted."

"I'm not sure if I'm sorry yet--since I ended up saving you from what appears to be a very boring night."

"You should have called ahead, though. You walked right in my house! Now, would I walk right in your house?"

"I believe you have--and I was naked. Besides, I did knock," he said with another shrug.

She couldn't argue that--she'd gone into his quarters at the stable without being invited. He looked huge standing there in her small living room--so big, so bronze, his eyes so penetrating, his teeth so white. He looked more like a monument in her little house than he did at the stable with a great big stallion as a backdrop.

"What's with this music?" he asked. "What are you listening to?"

She sighed and just shook her head. "Don't you like music?"

"Of course. I like Country."

"Well, this is a slightly more sophisticated version of 'my girl left me and my dog died.' It's called opera. And I like it."

"Do you understand it?" he asked.

"The language? No, I don't speak Italian. But I get what it's about." She put down her knife and walked the few steps into the living room. "This is Bocelli singing Puccini. La boheme. I like it loud. Would you like some of my salad and noodles and cheese? Since you've so rudely made yourself available?"

That widened his smile. "Yes. Yes I would. There's probably no meat, is there?"

"No meat, and I'm sure you'll live. Sit here on this couch, listen to the music while I finish cooking and see if you can absorb a little culture." She pulled a bottle out of his bagged six-pack and handed it to him. "I'll be in the kitchen awhile." She took the rest of the six-pack from him to put in the refrigerator.

"Why do you listen to it?"

"This one in particular? Because I love Bocelli's voice and the story is tragic and the music is powerful. I love opera. It moves me. This one ends in the woman's death. Come to think of it, a lot of them end in death, but the power of the music... Just listen. Let it seep into your veins and muscles and... Well, I'll finish up in the kitchen."

She pushed him onto the sofa, turned up the volume on her stereo and went back into the kitchen. He could still see her from where he sat, and the view was exquisite. She was standing at the counter beside the sink, her back to him. He twisted the top off his root beer and took a slug. It was hard to imagine a more intoxicating sight than her astride a big horse, but this was it. He was mesmerized. She wore a sleeveless, snug knit crop top that fit like a soft second skin and pants that hugged her h*ps and fell only to her calf. He'd been right about her arms and shoulders--she was ripped. Even the muscles of her back, visible under the shirt she wore, were defined. And that round, firm, muscled butt? He wiped a hand down the full length of his face. Zow. She said she was into yoga. Could you get muscles like that from yoga? Yes, if you topped it with hauling bales of hay....

She was right about the music. He wasn't sure he liked it, but he could feel it to the marrow of his bones. At times it was melodious and beautiful, then it would rise with the kind of force that suggested going to war or taking a ravishing woman to bed, then become subdued and seductive again.

He smiled. Little Hopi girl was a nerd. She leaned toward the classical. Sitting on her futon, which had a lot of growing to do to become a couch, he felt a long way from home.

Maybe she was a long way from home.

He hoisted his tall frame off the futon. It was only about ten steps to the kitchen. The music was so loud she wouldn't have been able to hear him, so he put his bottle of root beer down on the counter before he touched her. But she neither jumped nor stiffened; she had either felt, heard or sensed his approach. He had an instinct about her, that she had highly developed extrasensory skills.