The Lawman Meets His Bride Read Online Free Page A

flight leaves soon.”
    Again the imperious tone was back, as if he were the lord of the manor and she some lowly supplicant.
    Constance fished the key out of her purse. Instead of unlocking the heavy slab door, however, she deliberately aimed for the back corner of the cabin.
    “Oh, but Mr. Henning, you simply must see the creek and the bridge first,” she insisted, her voice saccharine-sweet. “The owner herself insists. It’s positively charming back here.”
    He scowled and lingered in front of the door, his face exasperated. He tapped his watch.
    Tap it till it cracks, Constance thought, willing away her attraction to him. I don’t live in your pocket.
    “Nonsense, Mr. Henning, you can see them from here. I promise, you won’t miss your plane or muss your shoes.”
    If he felt the barb she’d just thrust into him, Constance couldn’t tell it. He gave up and headed towardher. She wasn’t sure if he was simply limping, or limping and trying to cover it.
    “Look at that! Dead of winter, yet the fox grapes and wild mint are flourishing back here,” she pointed out. “The mint makes a delicious mountain tea.”
    “How interesting, ” he replied from a stoic dead-pan, mimicking her. His voice sounded machine-generated.
    Not bothering to get his permission, Constance walked the short distance to the bridge. She wondered how he could not be captivated by the beauty of this spot.
    The creek formed a clear little pool beneath the stone arch of the bridge. The water’s calm, glassine surface wrinkled with each wind gust. Golden fingers of sunlight poked through the leafless canopy of trees surrounding them. From the bridge she could look straight down and glimpse the silvery flash-and-dart of minnows.
    He joined her on the bridge, pointedly ignoring the view. His cool, smoky stare riveted to her.
    Why, his face is sweaty, she noted. But it was quite brisk weather up here, practically no humidity. She felt chilly even with her wool blazer, while he had no topcoat at all.
    She pointed toward some mossy boulders half-submerged at the water’s edge. “Those always put me in mind of green-upholstered stools. Aren’t they fascinating?”
    His stony silence implied he couldn’t care less. Constance noticed how his shadow seemed long and sinister in the waning light. She’d left her sunglasses in the Jeep, and when she looked up at him she wasforced to lift a hand to shade her eyes from the low sun.
    “Miss Adams,” he began, laboring to speak, “I confess I don’t give a tinker’s damn about those rocks. Now…are you going to unlock that cabin or not?”
    Or not? His pointed emphasis on those last two words altered her mood. Suddenly she was fully aware of his intimidating physical advantage over her. She wondered, for just a moment, what might happen if she said not. But she decided she didn’t want to find out.
    “Of course.” She gave in, stepping around him and walking down off the bridge. “But to be frank, Mr. Henning, I can’t imagine you being very…at home up here. As you can see, this is a nature lover’s hideaway. The place isn’t even wired for electricity.”
    “I’ll use a portable generator,” he replied curtly. “It’s just for vacations, anyway.”
    By now her dislike for this rude, intimidating man made Constance desirous of discouraging him. Like Hazel, she wasn’t simply interested in selling the cabin—she wanted to match it up with someone who appreciated its rustic charms. This creep would be bored by the Grand Canyon.
    She unlocked the heavy padlock, slid it from the hasp, and swung the front door wide open, flooding the dark, musty interior with light.
    “Pretty basic,” she told him, which was certainly true. The unfurnished cabin was partitioned into two rooms, with a sleeping loft over the largest.
    Only a few braided rugs covered the floorboards.
    “I need a little more light,” he told her, crossing to one of the shuttered windows. He slid it up, slidback the bolt