Free Delilah's Weakness by Kathleen Creighton Page B

to hold her when she cried with exhaustion and frustration.
    She licked her lips.
This is insane.
She knew what kind of man he was. It was crazy. And, of course, out of the question.
    "I—I’ll think about it," she finally said.
    "Good." Luke was smiling at her, maddeningly confident, sure of himself, sure of her. "Well, while you’re thinking it over, why don’t we go find that phone, and I’ll buy some clothes more suitable for delivering lambs. Just in case."
    He really is sure I’m going to give in, she thought.
And why shouldn’t he be? He probably doesn’t hear an unequivocal "no" very often.
And why in the world hadn’t she been able to give him that firm answer herself? Indecision wasn’t usually part of her makeup.
    She glanced out the window, biting at her lower lip. "It’s late," she mumbled distractedly. "I don’t know where the time goes. It’s too near chore time. I can’t go now. You’ll have to wait."
    "Listen, tell you what." Luke was positively overflowing with expansive good humor. "Why don’t you let me go into town in your pickup? I can get some clothes, make my calls, and you can stay here and do your chores and make up your mind. I can even run any errands you might have, pick up some groceries. See how nice it can be, having an extra hand?"
    Delilah hesitated a moment longer and then capitulated. Maybe without his disturbing presence she could think of a way to say "no" and make it stick. "Okay," she agreed at last. "Keys are in the pickup. Watch the brakes on the downhill grade."
    "Gotcha." Halfway out the door he stopped and turned. "Do you have a grocery list?"
    "I don’t really have time—"
    "Never mind. I’ll do without. See you later."
    "I’ll get you some money—I’ll pay you later," she said to the closing door.
    A moment later she heard her pickup cough grumpily and go snarling away down the road.
    All through her chores she kept imagining what it might be like to have the president of Thermodyne sleeping in her barn, hauling water and hay to her sheep. All she had to do was remember what had happened this morning when he’d tried to handle old number 907 to know it could be highly entertaining. He was so confident. So arrogant. The thought of a man who looked as if he could model for Gentlemen’s Quarterly, up to his immaculate elbows in wet, slippery newborn lambs was incredibly appealing.
    And interrupting her more coherent thoughts were other, more nebulous and far more disturbing images and impressions: just–washed hair with a life of its own; a strange good–morning kiss; a husky voice with erotic overtones, murmuring, "Come help me, love."
    Like her temper, her fantasies had a tendency to get away from her now and then.
    But Delilah was a practical person and, as she’d told Luke, a realist. Her house was small, but it suited her perfectly. It was a cozy house. Intimate. She might be able to get away with making Luke sleep in the barn, but he’d still be eating with her, sharing the bathroom, long spring evenings…
    By the time she’d settled down to milk the goat it was dark, and she’d finally come to terms with the real reason she didn’t want Luke staying on. It had come to her inescapably at dusk, when she’d heard her pickup grumbling up the road and had reacted with pounding heart and weak knees.
    She was intensely attracted to Luke MacGregor.
    The very fact that deep down inside she really wanted him to stay was the best reason she could think of for telling him to go. She couldn’t have that kind of complication and distraction right now. As she’d told Roy Underwood, men just didn’t fit in with her life’s goals and ambitions, and that went double for a man like Luke MacGregor.
    She’d tell him no. She would. Just as soon as she got to the house.
    About ten yards from her door she stopped dead, the milk bucket in her hand. There was warmth and light pouring from the windows, and with it the most incredible, mouth–watering,