The Harder They Fall Read online

  Trisha had to admit, it felt terrific to wear something so flattering. She actually felt pretty. “I think I like it,” she whispered, stepping into the matching black sandals Celia had brought.

  “Good. So maybe I could have some made up?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, smiling into Celia’s hopeful face. “We can sell these.”

  “Thank you.” Celia’s eyes were suspiciously bright. “You know how much this means to me.”

  “Yes. We’ve been dreaming together for years, Celia. This is the year that they all come true.”

  “Yeah.” Celia nodded thoughtfully. “You were locking lips with the scientist guy today.”

  Trisha sighed. “Don’t tell me how stupid it is. I already know.”

  Laughter flickered in Celia’s expression. “It’s only stupid if the kiss went bad. Which, given my view of the thing, didn’t happen.”

  No, it hadn’t been bad, not by a long shot. “It was a bout of temporary insanity. I’m not interested.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’re too different,” she said, echoing Hunter’s sentiments.

  “Okay.”

  “And—”

  “I said okay.” Celia interrupted with a laugh. “But methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

  Celia’s last comment gave Trisha pause on her short drive home. Had she protested too much? Was there any reason why she couldn’t enjoy Hunter and her newfound freedom at the same time? Of course not.

  But she sensed within him a hesitation that matched her own. He didn’t want anything between them any more than she did. Even that fiery kiss they’d shared had made him frown thoughtfully. No, he wouldn’t be chasing her anytime soon, though she didn’t know why not.

  But it was fine with her, just fine.

  Turning onto her street, she sighed. She loved this quiet, oak-lined street beyond reason. She pulled into the driveway of the duplex, thinking she also loved this house beyond reason.

  Oh, the place needed work, but beneath the shabby exterior lay the strong, beautiful, turn-of-the-century house she wanted to live in forever. Each room had character, and she just couldn’t imagine leaving.

  Yet she knew without being told, her days at the duplex were limited.

  Only if she let them be.

  Eloise had made her a promise, and God bless her soul, Trisha was going to do her best to make sure that promise was kept.

  Hunter Adams, if he chose to stay, was stuck with her.

  Hunter’s salvation, which was and always had been work, would have to wait. Much as he craved the pleasure of researching, drawing up data/theory comparisons, developing his projects, and designing them to fit into his missions, he couldn’t very well go off and leave the duplex as it was.

  The floor had sagged under the flow of water from Trisha’s refrigerator. For all he knew, the damn thing could give and he’d have a gaping hole—again. But at least Trisha had just been kidding about another peephole. He sighed, breathed deeply for patience, and once again gingerly touched the soggy floor with his toe.

  The black cat Trisha had called Duff strutted into the kitchen and eyed him. His tail swished, silently suspicious as only a cat can be.

  “You see this?” Hunter asked the cat, nodding to the floor. “Do you see what she’s done?”

  “Mew.” Duff sauntered over to his bowl, sniffed delicately, and turned up his nose at the dry food. Coming close, he bent his head and rubbed it over Hunter’s ankle.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” He scooped up the cat and stroked its sleek back for a long moment before letting it go.

  Then he tested the floor again, concerned. “The woman is a walking disaster,” he muttered. “And I have a feeling she’s only just begun wreaking havoc on my life.”

  Duff meowed his agreement and steered clear of the sinking floor.

  No doubt about it, the entire thing would cave under too much weight. The linoleum, already old, had peeled back at a seam, and the water from the freezer had seeped deeply into the crack. Beneath, the plywood had rotted. God only knew what lay beneath that, but hopefully some pretty sturdy joists.

  He took in the rest of Trisha’s clean but amazingly cluttered kitchen. The floor was covered with the same black-and-white-checkered linoleum that he had downstairs, probably from the early fifties. It made his eyes cross to stare at it, especially when juxtaposed with the high-gloss red paint that had been used to disguise the old cabinetry of the kitchen.

  Standing between the black refrigerator and the equally black stove, he had a clear view of the rather large room. Above the surprisingly attractive wood dining alcove, the walls were filled with pictures. Not personal photos, he noted with his usual attention to detail, but a collection of paintings, postcards, and drawings that made him wonder about Trisha’s private life.

  The window frames had been painted red, contrasting with the bright white walls. Across the floor, she’d scattered throw rugs, none identical, but each somehow complementing the others. The counter that separated the cooking area from the living space didn’t seem to be available for eating at, not with what were obviously samples of the merchandise she sold covering every spare inch.

  On top lay a black leather thong bikini. Irresistibly curious, he picked up the bottom of the thing and stared at the tiny swatch that was expected to cover the essentials. It took him a minute, but he finally figured out that the long black strip of leather was the back. Just looking at it gave him the urge to yank at his own underwear. How did women stand wearing such things?

  Beneath the bikini lay a soft, creamy ivory chemise, delicately lined in fine lace—with snaps at the crotch.

  His every muscle tightened.

  In a rare but fatally stupid move, he’d kissed Trisha Malloy. And she’d kissed him back, with such breath-stopping, sweet-tasting hunger that he got hard just thinking about it. No denying it, a dangerous attraction existed between them, dangerous because he had no intention of acting on it

  A woman was the last thing his life needed, especially a woman so opposite himself as Trisha. He hoped she felt the same way. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he knew women tended to think very differently than he did.

  Didn’t he have two ex-fiancées to prove that?

  He had no need for a woman, other than for the obvious, quick diversion, and only then with someone equally uninterested in any sort of permanence. He ran across that sort of woman surprisingly often in the sophisticated circle of acquaintances associated with the lab. Understated, elegant, intelligent, and wealthy in their own right, they often provided entertainment as well as funding for his projects.

  Trisha Malloy was not that sort of woman. He’d seen the flash of intelligence in her eyes, but nothing about her was understated or wealthy. And as for elegant ... he glanced down at the scrap of leather still in his fingers.

  The sudden blare of music had him dropping the bikini.

  Then came her soft, musical voice, the only voice in his history that could make his insides tighten in anticipation.

  “Looking for me?” she wanted to know.

  Five

  Hunter whirled to face Trisha. At the sight of her, his mouth went dry and his greeting croaked out, going unheard over the roar of the music.

  Her hair had gone wild in the light wind, the long wavy brown strands flying everywhere. Neatly encased in a body-hugging black dress that showed off her every sensuous curve, she swayed gently to the beat of the music. “How’s it going up here?” she asked with a secret little smile.

  “I—uh...” Oh, great. He’d lost his ability to form a complete sentence. “Fine,” he managed.

  “Doesn’t look like you’ve done much.”

  “I had to buy supplies and discuss the problem with a contractor.”

  “When does he start?”

  “Who?” He just wouldn’t look at her; that should keep his brain functioning.

  “The contractor,” she said patiently. “When will he get here?”


  “I’m going to fix this floor.”

  “You?”

  She looked annoyingly incredulous. “It’s just a matter of following procedures.”

  “Which, I imagine, you’re good at.”

  Another jab, but this one offered with a sweet little smile that addled his brain. “I can do this,” he said more stiffly than he intended.

  “Hmm.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Tell me.”

  “Fine. I just didn’t think you were going to attempt this by yourself. In fact, I think I’m better suited for this than you.”

  “You?” He laughed when she nodded her head. “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a walking disaster area!” He crossed his arms in a gesture he recognized as ridiculously childish. Dropping them purposely, he said with forced calm, “I’m not going to let you handle the construction here.”

  “Why? Because I’m female? Or because I don’t have a Ph.D.?”

  “Neither,” Hunter said, taking note of the sudden coolness in her tone.

  “Why, then?”

  “Because you have a habit of creating chaos in everything you do.”

  She ignored him and danced into the kitchen.

  Her perfectly showcased rear continued to rock to the beat of the music as she surveyed the mess her refrigerator had made of the floor. Hunter slammed his hands into his pockets and studied the ceiling.

  He would not, no matter what, kiss her mouth again.

  It would be the death of him. She represented everything he couldn’t deal with; lack of control, recklessness, frivolous behavior—he wouldn’t be able to take it.

  If only her eyes, and the intelligence he caught behind them, didn’t draw him so. “Trisha.”

  “Can’t hear you,” she sang out, still refusing to look at him.

  He spun her around gently, then backed her to the counter, bracketing her hips. Beneath his hands, he felt nothing but warm, soft woman, which made concentration difficult, but he had to get his point across. “For the record, I never said anything about you not having a Ph.D. That doesn’t matter to me.” Unable to help himself, he pulled her flush against him just to feel more of her, telling himself he had to hold her to keep her still.

  Her sigh just about undid him. “So it’s because I’m a woman?”

  He dipped his head to her neck, dragging his open mouth lightly down her throat and over her shoulder, taking her weight when her knees buckled. “I never said that either.” Lord, she felt good, so right in his arms. Her hands ran over his skin so gently, he nearly moaned at the contact.

  For that interminable moment he forgot to resist her, forgot he didn’t want this. Then she lifted her head and looked at him, really looked at him, as if she could see into the farthest recesses of his mind.

  With a perceptiveness that shocked him, she said quietly, “I want you and I know you want me. What makes this wrong is the fact that you don’t want to want me.”

  Hunter went still, but didn’t break eye contact. He couldn’t because he was inexplicably drawn by the despair he saw reflected in her gaze. Without thinking, he tightened his grip on her, wanting to comfort.

  “You can’t break my lease,” she whispered, pushing out from between him and the counter. “I won’t leave.”

  “Did I say anything about your lease?”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Let’s get the floor fixed first,” he suggested.

  He was patronizing her, putting her off, and nothing could have infuriated her more. She straightened, pride nearly choking her. “I told you, I can fix this floor. And since I ruined it—”

  “Fine. We’ll both fix it,” he said, eyebrows creased as if deep in thought. “I’ll need more than two hands.”

  Trisha crossed her arms and glared at him, trying to forget the feel of his chest beneath her fingers, the warm, resilient skin that covered surprisingly tough muscle. “How condescending of you! First you insinuate that I couldn’t possibly do the job, now you’re saying you’ll allow me to help you?”

  He grimaced and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Ouch. Did I say all that?”

  “Yes!”

  He sighed. “All right. We’ll work as equals. Does that work for you?”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  “Fine,” he repeated. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

  “Because you say so?”

  “Because,” he said, his patience clearly gone, “it’s too late to start tonight. Do you think you can manage to keep all the other floors in the place intact until then?”

  Trisha opened her mouth to retort, then realized that they’d been practically shouting to hear each other over the music.

  She moved into the living room and flicked at the volume control just as Hunter followed her, yelling, “And when we do fix it, we’ll do it my way or—”

  As his voice echoed loudly into the now-silent living room, he blinked in surprise. Trisha laughed at the discomfort on his face. “We’ll do it your way or what?”

  “Or ... Oh, hell.” His glance was wry, self-deprecating. “You drive me crazy.”

  “I’m beginning to see that,” she noted dryly, hiding the sting his words caused. This was what she’d fought to win her freedom for? To be stuck with a neighbor who reminded her daily of her failings? No, thank you. Right then and there she’d have called him prim and proper, just for the pleasure of riling him again, except for one little thing.

  No one prim and proper could possibly kiss with as much talent as Dr. Hunter Adams possessed. “Does everything have to be your way, Dr. Adams?”

  Frowning, he crossed his arms. “You like to be contrary.”

  “Yeah, I do.” It was a wonderful defense, as was sarcasm. It usually held most people sufficiently at bay, but not this man. “Just like you like to be in control.”

  He raked his fingers through his blond military-cut hair, looking frustrated. The way it stuck up only made him more attractive. “Control is a good thing,” he told her grimly, as if he were trying to convince himself. He moved to the door. “A very good thing.”

  As he started to shut it behind him she smiled wickedly and called out, “If you’re going to cook breakfast in the nude tomorrow, will you knock on the walls so I don’t miss it?”

  His shoulders went tense, and his face, just before the door covered it, was entertainingly dark.

  She waited for the slam of the wood.

  But he cheated her, shutting it very quietly.

  Trisha saved Sundays to rejuvenate herself. After six fast-paced days, she needed peace. Oh, she loved the shop, wouldn’t consider giving it up. But the worries and stress that came with running her own business never faded.

  To please herself, she never rose before ten o’clock. This was mostly a reaction to the way her aunt Hilda had made her rise at the crack of dawn to go to mass and pray for her “wild” soul.

  So when a knock came at her door at six A.M., Trisha merely groaned, flopped over, and covered her head with a pillow.

  No way would she get up. That delivery—or whatever it was—would simply have to wait. Or better yet, go away.

  “Come on, sleepyhead, you’ve got a floor to repair with me this morning.”

  No. It couldn’t be. Her brain was just playing some sick sort of joke on her.

  “I even brought you coffee as a peace offering.”

  Good Lord, it was. She would recognize that voice anywhere, even before sunrise on a Sunday morning. She swore—quite unladylike.

  He made a sound that passed for a laugh, assuring her it wasn’t a nightmare. Not him, not this morning, she thought. Not when she felt too groggy to deal with him properly. “Go away,” she said succinctly.

  “Can’t do that.” The bed sank at her hip. The heat from his body warmed hers. “You promised to help me.”

  Trisha burrowed deeper and wished she’d bolted the top
lock of her front door. “It’s not even daylight yet!”

  “This is the best time of the day. I’ve already run three miles and showered,” he claimed with sickening cheer.

  He jogged? God save her from frisky scientists. “Bully for you. Go run another three.”

  “I guess you’re not much of a morning person.”

  “Good guess.”

  His big hand settled into the middle of her back, jolting her from lazy contentment into sharp awareness. She knew he must have felt her sudden rigidity by the tone of his next words. “What’s the matter?” he asked innocently. “Didn’t you sleep well?”

  No, damn him. His deep green eyes and all the mysteries behind them had haunted her well into the night. She pressed the pillow tighter on her head. “I can’t believe you used the key I gave you to come in here like this. I’m changing my locks.”

  “I like to be in control, remember?”

  She offered him a not very polite suggestion about what he could do with that control and where he could take it.

  Hunter made a noise that again sounded suspiciously like a laugh. But that couldn’t be, she thought from beneath her pillow, because he never laughed.

  He tugged on the pillow. “Come on, get up. It’s not good for the body to lounge around in bed.”

  In one fluid move, she jerked the pillow off her head and tried to smack him with it, but he easily warded off the blow, grabbed the pillow, and tossed it harmlessly to the floor. Then he grinned at her.

  “My body is fine,” she grated.

  His eyes darkened, and his mouth opened, but whatever he was going to say got smothered with her second pillow to his face.

  He grunted at the impact.

  “What if I hadn’t been alone in this bed?” she demanded.

  With great care, he removed the pillow from his face and set it gently on her bed. She had no idea where the question had come from, but given the displeased look on his face, it was far too late to take it back.

  What if she hadn’t been alone? The very idea was a joke—she was always alone. That’s how she wanted it, with only herself to answer to. No rules.

  “If you hadn’t been alone,” Hunter said quietly, his face completely void of expression as he leaned over her, “then I guess I’d have two helpers—I mean co-workers—in fixing that floor.”