Free Her Passionate Plan B by Dixie Browning

might have a problem by the time he headed West again. A smart man, he reminded himself, would clear out before he got hooked.
    Laying aside the table fork she’d been using to turn the pieces of chicken, he searched through drawers until he found a long-handled cooking fork. Speaking of smart, any woman smart enough to be a nurse should know enough to use the right tool for the job. While he’d never claimed to be a handyman, even he knew better than to use a short-handled tool to do a long-handled job.
    The chicken was browned to a turn by the time Daisy returned. Shoving him aside, she lifted each piece out and placed it on papers to drain. Leaning against the refrigerator, Kell noticed that she’d taken the time to braid her hair in a single rope that was already coming apart. Unruly hair, he mused. What else about her refused to obey the rules?
    Her face was damp. Evidently she’d splashed it off, but she hadn’t bothered to do any more than that. Not that she needed to. While she might not be the most beautiful woman in the world, something about her definitely made an impression.
    An impression. Right. Like a big white light coming at him in a dark tunnel.
    One more thing a smart man should know—to get the hell out of the way or else prepare to face the consequences.
    They ate in the kitchen. Kell had yet to see a dining room, but there probably was one. Houses like this might even have two, one for family, one for company.
    â€œI suppose you need to check out of wherever it is you’re staying,” Daisy said.
    Kell cut off a bite of white meat. Man, did she ever know how to fry chicken. “Uh, actually, I already did that. I’d planned to find someplace with bigger beds and softer pillows.” And maybe a gray-eyed, streaky-haired blonde to share it with me.
    She glanced up then, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. He felt his face growing warm. “How many rooms did you say there were?” he asked hastily. “We never got around to finishing the tour.”
    Get your mind out of the bedroom, Bubba.
    â€œJust the usual,” she said, drizzling balsamic vinegar on her salad.
    â€œThat many, huh?” Okay, so he’d try again. Somewhat to his surprise he was far more interested in her reactions to his questions than he was in the actual answers. A house was a house was a house.
    But a woman was an eternal mystery. “Do porches count as rooms?” he asked, wondering whether or not to reach for another drumstick.
    â€œIf you want to count them. Five rooms downstairs, not counting the porches, the kitchen or servants’ quarters. Actually, that’s only a small bedroom and a half bath with a shower.”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t you count those?” Was there another conversation going on underneath the words spoken, or was it only his imagination?
    She shrugged. “Count them if you want to, it hardlymatters.” She reached for her second piece of chicken and so did he.
    Kell liked that in a woman—a healthy appetite. Made him wonder about her appetite in other areas.
    The moment they finished, Daisy stood and started collecting the dishes. Kell lifted them from her hands. “Let me,” he said, his voice dropping half an octave. “You don’t want to splash your arm.” Without thinking, he’d lapsed into the honeyed tones he used to use on attractive, available women before he’d become famous enough not to need any special tactics.
    Funny thing, he mused—the good old days no longer seemed all that great.
    â€œYou mentioned bear hunting,” Daisy said as she moved around the kitchen, putting away the condiments and wiping off the table. “I think there might’ve been a stuffed bear’s head in the library until a few years ago.” She was moving fast and talking fast, almost as if she was trying to outrun something…or someone.
    â€œWhat happened to it?” He turned