Free A Place to Call Home (Harlequin Heartwarming) by Cynthia Reese Page A

six-pack. No, this was the real thing, the result of hours of physical labor, form beautifully following function.
    An urge to sculpt such a body overtook Penelope. The urge to recreate those planes and angles with her hands.
    The splashing halted abruptly as Brandon caught her staring at him. He quickly tugged his T-shirt back over his head. She pulled herself together and said, “You, um, could have come in the house. I have hot water inside, you know.”
    “Well, soap and hot water would be nice.”
    “C’mon.” She indicated the house with a jerk of her head and turned to hide her scarlet face. What was the matter with her? She, who’d painted and sculpted using male models, was acting like a schoolgirl. How could this man’s bare chest undo her?
    Inside, Theo wound around her ankles only to jerk back from the strange feet that clomped in behind her. “It’s okay, Theo. Everybody’s gone now except Brandon,” she reassured the Siamese, adding a scratch under his chin.
    “That cat doesn’t like me one whit.”
    “He just doesn’t know you. And men make him nervous. The last man he had any dealings with was the vet who, um, did the snip-snip deal on him.” Penelope straightened. “I have some of that ham Mee-Maw brought. Can I interest you in a sandwich?”
    “Oh, man, could you ever.” Brandon grinned. “I’m so hungry I could eat the hole out of a doughnut. But—” he looked down at himself, his T-shirt dusty and damp “—I’m not fit for the dinner table, I’m afraid.”
    “Neither am I. I’ve got some extra large
T-shirts that I keep for...” She trailed off, not wanting to share how she used men’s T-shirts for pajamas. “Why don’t you grab a shower, and I’ll get us something to eat?”
    “Nope. Ladies first. You shower, and then I’ll take you up on the hot water and the sandwich. I’ll wait.”
    * * *
    H EARING THE SHOWER water drum relentlessly down the hall unsettled Brandon. All he could think about was Penelope.
    He prowled around the small living room for anything to distract him.
    And there was plenty. Penelope had settled in and unpacked some of those boxes. Black-and-white photos of a rocky coast—maybe the Pacific—dominated one wall. Big sea lions sunning on rocks, and huge fir trees in the distance. Others captured a beach swathed in fog and mist, some with a definite but unidentifiable silhouette of a human figure in them.
    The prints all bore “Langston” and a number on them. Brandon was impressed by their quality.
    Other photos, these more candid and more like what he would take, graced the mantelpiece. In these, a woman with Penelope’s dark hair and smile, a man who had Penelope’s eyes. A younger man, slightly older than Penelope in the photos, had the cocky, self-confident look of an older brother.
    In every photo, Penelope’s smile looked forced, as though she was pretending to be at ease.
    The one thing he didn’t see was very much resemblance to Richard Murphy.
    The water stopped running in the bathroom. Penelope would be out any second.
    Brandon steeled himself. He could not afford to be distracted by a woman who possessed, at least temporarily, his uncle’s land.
    Maybe you’re afraid she’ll get too close and you’ll lose the will to fight her for this land if it comes down to that.
    Brandon shook off the thought. He could—and would—do anything it took to get this land back and see Murphy get handed the justice he deserved. But he had to keep his focus; who knew how much he could really trust Penelope? He’d seen her loyalty to Murphy.
    So focus. She might be using you, the same way you’re using her.
    Behind him, he heard Penelope clear her throat. He turned around and completely lost all his good intentions. Her curly hair was still damp from the shower, and some sort of flowery shampoo wafted in his direction. He wanted to sweep her in his arms and kiss her senseless.
    “All yours,” she said, and Brandon wished it were that