Page 63 of Megan's Mate
“What century are we in?”
The fact that Nathaniel could laugh was a hopeful sign. “She thinks I’m moving too fast.”
“I’d tell you to slow down, but I’ve known you too long.”
Calmer, he took up a ratchet, considered it then set it down again. “Suzanna took her lumps from Dumont. How’d you get past it?”
“I yelled at her a lot,” Holt said, reminiscing.
“I’ve tried that.”
“Brought her flowers. She’s got a real weakness for flowers.” Which made him think that perhaps he’d stop on the way home and pick some up.
“I’ve done that, too.”
“Have you tried begging?”
Nathaniel winced. “I’d rather not.” His eyes narrowed curiously. “Did you?”
Holt took a sudden, intense interest in the engine. “We’re talking about you. Hell, Nate, quote her some of that damn poetry you’re so fond of. I don’t know. I’m not good at this romance stuff.”
“You got Suzanna.”
“Yeah.” Holt’s smile spread. “So get your own woman.”
Nathaniel nodded, crushed out his cigar. “I intend to.”
Chapter 10
The sun had set by the time Nathaniel returned home. He’d overhauled an engine and repaired a hull, and he still hadn’t worked off his foul mood.
He remembered a quote—Horace, he thought—about anger being momentary insanity. If you didn’t figure out a way to deal with momentary insanity, you ended up in a padded room. Not a cheerful image.
The only way to deal with it, as far as he could see, was to face it. And Megan. He was going to do both as soon as he’d cleaned up.
“And she’ll have to deal with me, won’t she?” he said to Dog as the pup scrambled out of the car behind him. “Do yourself a favor, Dog, and stay away from smart women who have more brains than sense.”
Dog wagged his tail in agreement or sympathy then toddled away to water the hedges.
Nathaniel slammed the car door and started across the yard.
“Fury?”
He stopped, squinted into the shadows of dusk, toward the side of the cottage. “Yeah?”
“Nathaniel Fury?”
He watched the man approach, a squat, muscled tank in faded denim. Creased face, strutting walk, a grease-smeared cap pulled low over the brow.
Nathaniel recognized the type. He’d seen the man, and the trouble he carried with him like a badge, in dives and on docks the world over. Instinctively he shifted his weight.
“That’s right. Something I can do for you?”
“Nope.” The man smiled. “Something I can do for you.”
Even as the first flash of warning lit in Nathaniel’s brain, he was grabbed from behind, his arms viciously twisted and pinned. He saw the first blow coming, braced, and took a heavy fist low in the gut. The pain was incredible, making his vision double and waver before the second blow smashed into his jaw.
He grunted, went limp.
