Free The Rebel by J.R. Ward Page A

which had emerged from the clouds, and then her shirt, which had a dark V of sweat running from her neck to her breasts.
    â€œSo how about I spell you?” He leaned in. “You know, accepting help is not a sin.”
    Before she could answer him, the Littles came out onto the porch. Frankie’s eyes fled to them as if they were a welcome relief so he looked over, too. Mr. Little was wearing a pastel polo shirt and khakis. So was his wife. They looked like dolls, perfectly dressed, perfectly coifed. They reminded him of his super-wealthy Walker relatives, a group of people he avoided at all costs.
    â€œGuard of the entrance to the underworld in Greek mythology,” the man said, tapping a pen at a crossword puzzle. “Eight letters.”
    â€œI’m not good at the Times puzzle,” his wife said, sitting down in a chair out of the sun. She flipped open Architectural Digest. “You know that.”
    The man looked up with annoyance. “Yes, I do. I was talking to myself.”
    Nate refocused on Frankie. “So what do you say?”
    â€œGod!” Mr. Little exclaimed. “This is impossible. Guard of the entrance—”
    Nate rolled his eyes and spoke over his shoulder. “Cerberus.”
    Mr. Little glanced up as if someone had lobbed a rotten tomato at him. He eyed Nate’s ratty T-shirt, his gaze lingering on the oil stains.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œCerberus,” Nate repeated. “You want me to spell it for you?”
    Frankie tugged at his arm. “Excuse us, Mr. Little.”
    But the man wasn’t listening. He’d pursed his lips and was busy counting off the letters. He looked up. “Ah—you’re right.”
    â€œI know,” Nate said, just as Frankie pulled him out of the man’s sight. “What’s the matter?”
    â€œDo us all a favor and don’t upset that guy. Once he gets rolling, he can go on forever. This morning, he was upset when a boat went by on the lake and woke him up. He wanted to know if I could post buoys out in front warning that noise pollution will not be tolerated. I thought he’d never shut up,” she whispered. “He’s impossible.”
    â€œDoesn’t know his classical myths very well, either. Now, about the lawn.”
    She frowned, considered him strangely, and then shook her head as if clearing it. “Listen, I need you in the kitchen, not doing grounds work. I appreciate your offer—”
    â€œBut you’d really rather do it yourself,” he finished. “You know, with the amount of work that needs to get done around this place, you should be looking for volunteers, not turning them away. You have better things to do with your time than mowing the lawn.”
    He cocked an eyebrow, challenging her tocontradict him. Her mouth opened as if she was going to, but then she closed it slowly. She put her hands on her hips and looked down at her grass-covered sneakers.
    â€œDon’t tell me you’re trying to turn over a new leaf or something,” he said, thinking it was very possible he was developing a crush on her. “I’d rather be berated by you than have to watch you trying to be good.”
    She laughed and then cut the sound short. “I really want to argue with you.”
    â€œBecause I’m being insubordinate?” He grinned.
    â€œWorse. Because you’re probably right.” She scanned the lawn, the lilac bushes, the boathouse down at the shore. As she looked around, she seemed so solitary, so self-contained. So tired.
    â€œHow long ago did you buy this place?” he asked.
    â€œBuy?” She squinted up at him. “My sixth great-grandfather built it.”
    â€œThe last stand,” he murmured. No wonder she was hanging in.
    â€œSomething like that.”
    She turned her head to the house, running her eyes over it as if she was a mother inspecting a child for cuts and bruises. He watched as she