Holding Off for a Hero Read online

  ****

  “I thought you were supposed to use tomato juice.” Emma watched, ten minutes later, as Frasier, stripped to the waist, sudsed a snuffling, struggling Bruiser in a washtub on his verandah.

  “Doesn’t work as well as this pet shampoo developed specifically for the situation,” he said, trying to speak without letting any of the rising fumes into his mouth. “I discovered it last summer when Scout got sprayed. But that was an accident.” He slanted a narrowed-eyed glance up at her. “He stumbled across a skunk while we were working in the bush. He’s always had enough sense not to chase one.”

  “Oh, so you’re saying my dog isn’t as clever as yours!” Emma’s hands went to her hips, her chin jutting forward. “Just because Bruiser isn’t a one-hundred-pound Einstein doesn’t mean…”

  “I didn’t say that.” Involved in his heated conversation with Emma, Frasier let the Pug slip in his hands. The little dog submerged in the soapy water.

  “Frasier!” Emma’s cry sent him grappling into the tub for the Pug’s slippery body.

  Snuffling and blinking, Bruiser emerged, drew a deep, shuddering breath, and sneezed. Mucus and soap suds fountained across Frasier’s bare chest.

  “Argh!” He held the Pug out at arm’s length and looked down at the mess. “What does this dog have against my chest?”

  “He couldn’t help it.” Emma gathered the subdued little animal into a big bath towel. “Besides, you almost drowned him.”

  “Drowned him! I’m trying to save his annoying little hide from burning with the acid in skunk spray!” Frasier scrambled to his feet and began wiping himself clean with another of the towels Emma had supplied.

  “Okay, okay, we didn’t mean to be ungrateful, did we, Bruise?” She bent to kiss the Pug’s furrowed forehead, then grimaced and drew back. “He needs rinsing.” She handed the towel-wrapped dog back to Frasier. She pulled the tub across the verandah and upset it down Frasier’s steps.

  “Hey!” he protested.

  “It’s only a little soapy water.” Emma righted the tub and put it back in place. She grabbed the hose lying on the planking and started to refill. “And, by the way,” she slanted a teasing glance at his chest. “You clean up real nice.”

  He struggled to look exasperated, but Emma’s teasing had started that uncontrollable ripple effect down his body.

  ****

  “You can’t go back to your place tonight.” Frasier stepped into his living room where he’d left Emma and the dogs while he hosed the rear of her cabin. “I threw some of that scent-neutralizing shampoo over your back wall and washed it down with the hose, but it will be a while before things are tolerable over there.”

  “Okay.” She surveyed her surroundings. “I assume this is a two-bedroom?”

  “Same layout as yours. I’m using the one on the left.” He went into it and brought out a navy terrycloth robe.

  “Give me your shirt and jeans,” he said handing it to her. “I’m going to throw mine into the washer. I may as well do yours at the same time.”

  “This has to be the worst ploy ever used to get a woman out of her clothes.” She accepted the robe and looked up at him, green eyes twinkling. “Implying that she stinks isn’t exactly romantic.”

  “Well, you do,” he snapped. “We both do. Romance isn’t what’s in the air around here. Go into the bedroom and change.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” She turned and headed into the bedroom, Bruiser prancing at her heels.

  Why had Emma Prescott landed squarely in the centre of his life and plans? Was there some malevolent super power out there using her to destroy his hopes of success? Worst of all, now she would be living with him.

  ****

  Sleep didn’t come soon or easy to Frasier MacKenzie. In the next bedroom lay Emma Prescott: gorgeous, frustrating Emma Prescott. As much as he tried to tell himself she was a major detriment to his work, he found his thoughts sliding back to images of teasing green eyes and the feeling of her fingers stroking his hair.

  “Good night, Frasier. Good night, Scout.”

  Her words, sultry with sleep, drifted into his room.

  “Good night, Emma…and Pug.”

  He rolled onto his belly and stifled with his pillow the groan that followed.

  ****

  He awoke the next morning and sniffed. Coffee. Toast. And, unless he was very much mistaken, bacon. He pulled himself up on one elbow and sniffed again. Yeah, that was definitely it.

  He scrambled to his feet and headed for the shower in the bathroom connected by doors to each of the two bedrooms. Stepping into the flow, he stifled an inane desire to burst into a rendition of “Figaro.” He settled for the old Dwight Yokum tune, “I Ain’t That Lonely Yet,” being careful to keep the volume below that of the gushing water. He didn’t want to experience another humiliation like the one his failed Boss/Bad Boy imitation had produced.

  ****

  “Good morning.” Ah, damn! The sight of her frying eggs barefoot and clad only (he guessed) in one of his plaid flannel shirts, which hung to just above her knees, had made his voice crack like it hadn’t since he was fourteen. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning yourself.” She turned to smile at him, a spatula in one hand. Seated on the floor beside her, both dogs watched her activities with rapt attention. “I thought I’d make us a little breakfast. It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for my boy. I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed this.” She pirouetted to display her attire. “I took it out of your closet while you were sleeping.”

  “Too late to say no.” Man, he must have been sleeping way too sound if he hadn’t heard her. “I appreciate your making breakfast,” he continued, advancing toward the well-filled coffee machine. “But won’t it make you late for work?”

  “It’s only 6:00 a.m. After we eat, I’ll run over to my place, dress in something that hopefully doesn’t reek of skunk, and be on my way. I’ll leave the dishes for you.”

  “Okay.” He poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the table as she placed a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of him. “You must miss your music.” He slanted a glance up at her.

  “Oh, Frasier, I’m sorry.” She paused and looked down at him. “That must be really annoying. I didn’t realize you can hear it all the way over here. I crank it up so I can listen while I shower. I’ll keep it down from now on, I promise. I should have guessed you’re not an early riser. Your job doesn’t require regulated hours.”

  He raised a hand to protest the slur on his project, but she’d turned away.

  “There’s orange juice in the pitcher.” She got her own breakfast from the stove and sat down opposite him. “Can you keep Bruiser today? He’s still a bit too odorific to attend doggy daycare.”

  “Sorry, I have plans. Scout and I are cruising a big area…” He was still smarting from her remark about his project.

  “Bruiser can keep up. He and I often go for long hikes. Just tie his leash to your belt so he won’t get lost. Please?”

  Gorgeous green eyes begged.

  “Okay, okay, but just this once. Whether you agree with it or not, I have a research project to complete. Babysitting small white balls of trouble isn’t part of the plan.”

  “Thanks.” She flashed him a radiant smile as she buttered her toast. “It’ll be just this once.”

  He told himself he didn’t hear her add the qualifier, “Probably,” under her breath.

  ****

  “Frasier, are you up? It’s Emma…and the Bruise.”

  As if she needed to identify herself. He leaned forward and turned off the burner on his stove, where he’d been about to make French toast.

  She’d come back from school the previous evening, picked up her clothes from his dryer, been friendly in a neighborly way, and gone home with her dog to spend an apparently quiet Friday night alone. This morning he’d gotten up early, made coffee, and carried a cup out onto the sunny verandah to enjoy it while h
e mulled over a couple of maps. Emma’s little cabin had remained blissfully quiet. Sleeping in on her day off, he hoped as he went back inside to prepare his breakfast. Maybe he’d be able to get out on patrol before she awoke.

  But now here she was, up and hollering at him. What was equally annoying was that, at the sound of her voice, Scout had begun to dance eagerly around him.

  “Yeah, yeah, she has that annoying Pug with her,” he addressed his dog. “You don’t have to act so pleased.” With a resigned sigh, he headed for the door, Scout prancing happily beside him.

  “What is…?” He stopped in mid-sentence as he pulled it open and was confronted by an astonishing Emma. Dressed in a floor-length gown of brilliant yellow that billowed out into an amazing circumference about her feet and a matching picture hat of astounding proportions, she looked like a giant sunflower. Or, he thought, eyeing the flounces, ribbons, and bows, an escapee from the set of a Civil War movie.

  “What…?” He stared.

  “I’m maid of honor at Mandy’s wedding.” She put down the Pug she’d been carrying under her arm, and he dashed off to play in the yard with Scout. “And I don’t need any smart remarks. Mandy’s mother, who isn’t well, has always dreamed of an antebellum wedding. Mandy and Jeff have decided to oblige her.”

  “I thought for a minute you were an advertisement for sunflower seeds.”

  “What did I say about smart remarks?”

  “Sorry, ma’am. What can I do for you? Grease you so you can stuff yourself into your carriage yonder?”

  “Fine! I’ll manage without you.” She whirled and started back down the steps, but one of her ruffles snagged on a nail on the porch rail.

  “Hang on there, ma’am.” He stepped out onto the verandah. “Don’t go frettin’ yourself, missy. I’ll have you all free in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  Carefully he freed the chiffon ruffle, then stood back as she rounded on him, eyes narrowed, forehead puckered.

  “Your servant, ma’am.” He swept her a deep bow, quirked a crooked, rakish grin, smoothed an invisible moustache, and suddenly she laughed.

  “It is a ridiculous get-up,” she chuckled. “But Mandy has been my best friend for years. I owe her for a whole bunch of favors.”

  “What boon were you about to request of me?” He peeked at her under the huge brim of her hat.

  “Will you keep Bruiser today? I know, I know,” she added quickly as he winced. “I said it would only be that once…probably. But this is an emergency. Doggie Day Care just telephoned to say they’re closed today because one of the clients has been diagnosed with fleas. They have to fumigate.”

  “Mandy’s the one marrying the Mountie you played fast and loose with last year?”

  “Well, I’d hardly call it fast and loose, but yes, that’s the one. Now will you help out?”

  “I suppose.” The acceptance was a sigh of resignation. “But just once more.”

  “Thank you, Frasier MacKenzie. You’re my hero.” She leaned forward over the voluminous skirt to give him a peck on the cheek, lost her balance, and tilted. He caught her before she capsized, and righted her on her feet.

  “I do declare, that went very wrong,” she murmured, straightening her hat. “But never fear.” She brightened. “Lean over.”

  He obliged and she planted a chaste kiss on his cheek.

  “That’s it?”

  “Of course.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “It’s the most a lady can do within the bounds of propriety. Now, I’d be ever so grateful if you’d help me to my carriage and stuff me inside.” She offered her arm.

  “Surely.” He took her arm. Together they went down the steps and across the lawn to her car. He opened the driver’s door.

  “Maybe you should put Bruise in your cabin,” she said. “He’s never happy being left behind. He’s sure to try to stow away while we’re getting me inside.”

  “Okay.”

  He was back in a moment, the Pug secured inside with Scout.

  “Let me take off this hat and put it on the passenger seat,” she said removing it from her carefully arranged coiffure of curls.

  When she bent into the car, the hoops whirled up. Frasier found himself confronted with Emma’s bottom encased in a pair of yellow drawers that stretched to her knees, where they flowered out into a froth of ruffles.

  “Where did you get the Little Bo Peep panties?”

  “They’re part of the outfit.” She straightened and turned on him. “They’re designed for just such eventualities as this. If my skirts don’t behave, at least all that a gentleman will see is a pair of calf-length undies.”

  “Not exactly the most fetching things I’ve ever seen.” Frasier was all-out grinning now.

  “And have you seen a lot of fetchin’ things, sir?” She frowned up at him and fluttered her hand in front of her face in feigned distress. “I declare, sir, you are a rogue!”

  “Come on,” he chuckled. “Let’s get you settled inside…somehow. The only way I can see is for you to remove your dress and put it in the backseat until you get to the church. If we bend those hoops, you’ll never be able to straighten them properly in time for the wedding.”

  “You do have some novel ideas for undressing me.” Emma stood looking at him, hands on her hips.

  “Well, then you tell me how you’re going to get into that car without crushing that ridiculous get-up.”

  She looked down at her skirts, then at the driver’s door still hanging open.

  “You’re right. Here, start unbuttoning.” She turned her back to him to display a long line of fabric-covered buttons. “It took me a half hour to do them up, and I haven’t got time to unfasten them.”

  “You’re not naked under this thing are you?” he asked apprehensively. “If you are, you’ll be putting my ability to behave as a gentleman to an acid test.”

  “I’m wearing a chemise, of course.” She gave her curls a southern-belle toss. “No southern lady would go about neck-ed under her finest gown.”

  “Good,” he breathed. He began to unfasten the dress, the softness that was Emma beneath his fingers.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, nothing. You’ll have to put on a shirt or something to drive to town. That chemise may be all well and good up here at the lake, but if you get caught for speeding again, an officer of the law might misconstrue what you’re up to.”

  “Oh, I hardly think that would a problem.” As he finished releasing the last button, she turned back to him and let the dress fall in a soft puddle of yellow about her. “I think he might be quite smitten with what he sees.”

  Standing in front of him in yellow pantaloons and some kind of corset thing that nipped in her slender waist and all but forced her breasts over its lacy top, she cocked her head to one side and smiled up at him.

  “You can’t drive to the church dressed like that.” His fingers raced to undo the buttons on his chambray shirt. “Wear this.” He thrust it at her.

  “Why, Frasier MacKenzie, you are the most charming, old-fashioned man I’ve ever met.” She paused, looking up at him. “Given half a chance, a young lady might just become smitten with you.” She took the shirt, pulled it on, and buttoned it.

  “Better?” She pirouetted, eyes twinkling.

  “Much. What time is the wedding?”

  “Eleven a.m.”

  “Then you’d better be on your way.”

  He gathered up her gown, opened the rear door, and deposited the voluminous folds and springy hoops carefully inside.

  She slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key. As the motor coughed to life, she squinted out at him in the sunlight.

  “You’re a gentleman, Frasier MacKenzie. And definitely Bruiser’s hero.”

  He watched as she drove down the trail and into the trees.

  “And you’re quite a lady, Emma Prescott,” he muttered as he headed up the steps and into his cabin.

  ****

  “So how does it feel to be a
married woman?” The wedding was winding down as Emma attempted to take a chair beside the bride. Her dress blossomed up on its hoops with a display of yellow knee-length bloomers.

  “Damn!” She abandoned the idea, remained standing, and pushed it back into place. “Mandy Cooper, I swear, no one but you could persuade me into a get-up like this! This marriage of yours had better be forever, because I won’t do this again!”

  “Mandy Cooper.” The bride looked up at her best friend. Emma could swear she saw stars in her eyes. “Doesn’t that have a lovely ring? Mrs. Cooper. I love it! Emma, you should give serious thought to getting married.”

  “You think so, do you? Well, first I have to find the perfect man.”

  “You mean that hero type? The one on the white horse who fights for the right and never, ever fails?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Look, I caught a glimpse of Frasier MacKenzie in Carleton the other day.” Mandy’s eyes were twinkling. “He may not have a white pony, but he does have a white SUV, and he is one total hunk. So unless he’s an absolute dud in the personality department…”

  “No, definitely not. It’s just that he’s already married—to his job—and sees me as nothing more than an imposition. Furthermore, he’s a long way from being a storybook hero. He’s a dull associate professor of biology.” She gave Mandy a playfully disparaging toss of her head. “I bet he wears reading glasses and sleeps in flannelette pajama bottoms!” She fluttered her eyelashes, gave her skirts a flounce, and sashayed away, hips swaying, but not far enough to avoid hearing Mandy’s take on the situation.

  “What’s up with Emma?” Mandy’s new husband, resplendent in his Royal Canadian Mounted Police uniform jacket of red serge with black jodhpurs and shining brown riding boots, joined her.

  “She’s in denial,” Mandy chuckled. “She’s protesting her lack of interest in the gorgeous hermit of Loon Lake way too much. All I can say is Frasier MacKenzie had better be careful. It’s not only the Royal Canadian Police that always get their man, Constable Cooper. Emma Prescott has quite a distinguished record, as well.”