Page 3 of Whispers on the Mountain

God help me. His voice matches his looks. It's a rich, velvety tone with a hint of accent that I assume goes with his Italian heritage. Now that I have a voice to go with the image, I retroactively fill in all the dirty things I've imagined him saying to me.

It's possible that I swoon a little.

"You're trespassing. This is all private land. You need to leave or I'll have to call the sheriff."

Wait. None of those things are what I imagined him saying to me.

"I'm not trespassing." I snap out of my stupor, getting yanked back into hard, cold reality. So much for my instalove fantasy.

Then he flashes me a grin that tightens my nipples and dampens my panties.

"You didn't notice the row of no trespassing signs posted every thirty feet apart?"

"But they're posted five hundred yards from the perimeter of the actual lease," I point out, "the power plant was granted the easement with the understanding that trespassing wouldn't be prosecutable until the fence-line was breached. The signs are warnings, not law."

"What makes you think that?"

He slides a hand into the front pocket of his pants, rocking back on the heels of his leather work boots, and giving me a grin that's annoyingly sexy considering how condescending it looks.

"It's my land."

Dark eyebrows shoot up his forehead.

"Your land? So that would make you Hart's Gulch Heritage and Holdings, I presume?"

"A major shareholder, yeah."

See? I can be cocky too.

Slipping the trowel into the basket with the plants, I cross my arms and stare back at him, careful to make sure that Hayle's old flannel is pushed off my boobs so that the motion puts them on better display.

Because I like the way he's looking at me. I want to give him reasons to keep looking, at least, until I can figure out how to give him reasons to start touching.

"So that makes you who, exactly, then?"

"Zephyr," I smile, hoping we're friends now, and hold out my hand to shake his. "Zephyr Hart."

* * *

Augustus

Hart. The surname bounces inside my brain like a bullet ricocheting through a China cabinet.

It's not bad enough that I'm head over heels for a girl who's obviously too young and too perfect for me, she has to be a Hart?

Rumor has it, they're the richest family on the mountain. The family behind the trust that leases the land to the power plant.

This ray of sunshine with her basket of wildflowers was worth more money the day she was born than I'll ever see in my life time.

Taking in her ensemble, I let my eyes move over those dangerous curves one more time. The boots are well worn, quality material, but nothing fancy. The sunflower yellow sundress makes her look like a million dollars, but the dress itself probably came from one of the usual box stores in the valley or maybe an online catalogue.

It's the flannel shirt that has my attention as I take her hand and hold it a beat too long; fighting an urge to pull her to me, wrap her in my arms, and press my mouth to hers. But, if common sense isn't enough to keep my actions in check, that damn flannel sure is.

It's ridiculously big on her, the frayed hem hanging to her knees, skimming just above where her skirt ends, the sleeves must hang off her hands by at least six inches-- she has them rolled up several times and they still cover her arms to below her elbows.

That shirt belongs to a man, and the way she fondles it between her fingers when I remember to give her back her hand says it belongs to a man she loves.

Jealousy rears up and burns through my veins.

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