“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he demanded.
She swallowed. Something about him was intimidating. She could see that he was a man who was used to giving orders and being obeyed. “I’m your nurse,” she said brightly, nodding toward his arm, which was in a cast nearly to his shoulder. It must have been a bad break for such a cast, and he must have great difficulty doing even the smallest tasks.
Smiling, she walked around the counter, refusing to be intimidated by his face. “Miranda Stowe,” she said, laughing nervously. “But you already know that, don’t you? Sandy said you had the medical reports with you, so maybe if I saw them, I’d know more about your condition.” When he didn’t say a word, she frowned a bit. “Come and sit down, supper’s almost ready and—here, let me help you off with those boots.”
He was still staring at her, speechless, so she
gently tugged on his uninjured arm and got him to sit in a chair by the dining table. Kneeling before him, she started to unlace his boots while thinking that sharing a cabin was going to be a lonely experience if he never spoke.
When he started to laugh, she looked up at him, smiling, wanting to share whatever was amusing him.
“This is the best one yet,” he said.
“What is?” she asked, thinking he was remembering a joke.
“You are.” Still smiling, he cocked one eyebrow at her. “I must say you don’t look the part of—what was it you called yourself? A nurse?”
Miranda lost her smile. “I am a nurse.”
“Sure you are, honey. And I’m a newborn babe.”
Miranda quit unlacing his boots and stood up, looking down at him. “Exactly what do you think I am?” she asked quietly.
“With those”—he nodded toward her ample
bosom—“you could be only one thing.”
Miranda was a softhearted woman. Wounded butterflies made her weep, but this tall, good-looking man, nodding toward her breasts in that way, was more than she could take. She was strong from years of making beds and turning patients, so when he reached out as though to touch her, she put her hand on his shoulder and pushed. It was harder than she meant to. As he went flying backward in the chair, he reached for the table to keep from falling. But his right arm, encased in plaster, unbalanced him so he went sprawling to the floor.
Miranda knew she should see if he was all right, but she didn’t. She turned on her heel and started for the cabin door.
“Why you—” he said, then grabbed her ankle before she could take another step.
“Let go of me!” She kicked out at him, but he pulled harder, until she landed on top of him and hit his injured arm. She knew the impact must have hurt him, but he didn’t so much as show his pain by a flicker of an eye.
With one roll, he pinned her body to the floor. “Who are you and how much do you want?”
Genuinely puzzled, she looked up at him. He was about forty years old, give or take a few years, and his body felt as though it was in perfect condition. “For this job I receive about four hundred dollars a week.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “For nursing.”
“Nursing,” he said in a derogatory way. “Is that what you call it?”
She pushed against him angrily but couldn’t budge him.
“So how did you find me? Simpson? No, he doesn’t know anything. Who sent you? The Japanese?”
Miranda stopped struggling. “The Japanese?” Was the man’s injury only in his arm?
“Yeah, they weren’t too happy when I won on that last deal. But microchips are a dead item. I’m going for—”
“Mr. Taggert!” she interrupted, as he seemed to have forgotten he was lying full length on top of her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Would you please let me up?”
When he looked down at her, the color of his dark eyes seemed to change. “You’re not like the women I usually have, but I guess you’ll do.” He gave her a lascivious, one-sided smirk. “The softness of you might make for a nice change from bony models and starlets.”
At that remark, made as though he were in a butcher’s shop poking chickens for tenderness, she brought her knee up sharply between his legs. He rolled off her in pain. “Now, Mr. Taggert,” she said as she stood up and bent over him, “just what is this all about?”
He was holding himself with one hand, and as he rolled to one side, his injured shoulder hit the table leg. Miranda’s heart almost went out to him.
“I’m a . . .”