Too Hot to Handle: A Loveswept Classic Romance Read online

  Too Hot to Handle is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  2013 Loveswept eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1988 by Sandra Chastain.

  Excerpt from Mistletoe and Magic by Katie Rose copyright © 2013 by Katie Rose

  Excerpt from Claimed by Stacey Kennedy copyright © 2013 by Stacey Kennedy

  Excerpt from After the Kiss by Lauren Layne copyright © 2013 by Lauren LeDonne

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.

  eBook ISBN 978-0-345-54189-5

  Originally published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House Company, New York, in 1988.

  www.readloveswept.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Katie Rose’s Mistletoe and Magic

  Excerpt from Stacey Kennedy’s Claimed

  Excerpt from Lauren Layne’s After the Kiss

  One

  “You put one foot on that porch and I’ll break your hairy leg.”

  To emphasize her stern words Callie Carmichael drummed a warning with her bare heels on the cabin wall. Her feet were high over her head. Her head was pillowed on a colorful folded quilt. She took a long, soothing breath of mountain air and reminded herself that all the fresh blood rushing down to her head was supposed to make her calmer. It wasn’t working.

  She stared past the ragged edges of the denim at her slender thighs, then over her legs to her dusty toes, where she focused with determination. Relax, she ordered herself. Be calm. You are a child of nature, caught in the eternal flow of the universe.

  Again footsteps sounded on the porch. Callie sighed. So much for the flow of the universe.

  “All right, you asked for it. I’m going to twist your ugly face into a map of the Smoky Mountains,” she said loudly.

  The steps halted, then retreated off the porch. Callie couldn’t suppress a slight victory smile. Her empty threats usually didn’t work this well.

  “And if I catch you in the garden again, I’ll make you eat collard greens the rest of your life,” she continued. “No more ice cream for you, buddy. Ever.”

  “No more ice cream?” a throaty made voice asked in dignified tones. “How will I survive?”

  Callie was so startled that she forgot the grace she’d learned in years of childhood ballet lessons. Her feet tumbled over her head, and she quickly rolled upright on the linoleum floor, bumping the woodpile with her shoulder. She caught a glimpse of her visitor through the screen.

  “Oh, dear! You’d better come inside. Quick!” she called.

  The visitor paused, uncertain, it seemed, about her change of heart. “You have to promise not to twist my face,” he began drolly. Callie heard the distinct thuds of small, galloping hooves coming around the corner of the cabin.

  “Hurry!” she repeated.

  Unaware of impending doom, the visitor climbed the steps in a leisurely fashion and bent over to shove aside a woven basket filled with wildflowers. “I’m Matthew Holland, from Atlanta,” he said pleasantly. “I’m here because the man down at the garage told me—”

  “Too late!”

  At the same moment that he straightened up, peering at her with a frown through the screen door, Callie heard hooves hit the porch’s warped boards. In the next moment a small goat with curving white horns plowed into the visitor’s long legs.

  Those legs flew out from under him in classic athletic style, as if he were a quarterback who’d just been tackled by the meanest player in the NFL. He let out an “oooph” of surprise and landed on his behind with an amazing amount of decorum, Callie thought. Dimly, as his feet made an arch into the air, she noted that he wore expensive-looking loafers. Callie shook the unrelated thought away and jumped up.

  “William, damn your ornery hide!” she yelled. Callie raced out the door, which banged shut behind her, and leaped over the downed man without breaking stride. William paused by a rocking chair at the other side of the porch, looking at her from under bushy white brows as he planned another charge. “Get!” Callie ordered. “You know better than to do that!”

  William, who knew better but rarely gave evidence of it, started baaing and jumped off the porch, with Callie close behind him. Callie ignored the pebbles stinging her feet and the privet hedge clawing at her skin as she chased the bellowing goat down a path to his chicken-wire pen by the barn. When he was safely locked inside the fence she shook a finger at him, then ran back to the porch to check on his latest victim.

  The victim had gotten up, and was brushing casually at the seat of his tailored slacks. Once he straightened to his full height, she noticed, the porch’s low ceiling cleared his head by only a few inches. That meant he was well over six feet tall.

  Callie stopped several yards away from him and wondered why she was leery of getting any closer. It wasn’t just that he was a stranger; it was something else—some impression of his power, his aura of control. He disturbed her.

  “Are you all right?” Callie asked. He nodded, his face red.

  “I love being run over by large animals that smell bad.” He paused. “You are Callie Carmichael, aren’t you? I am at the right cabin?” She nodded. His handsome face relaxed into an expression of exaggerated relief. “Thank heaven. I don’t want to have to go through this again. If all mountain people have guard goats, I’ll never set foot on another cabin porch as long as I live.”

  “Your name is Matthew what? I didn’t catch it before.”

  “Holland,” he supplied. His mouth crooked up in a polite smile. “The infamous goat exterminator. I’ll do your goat for free.” He cleared his throat. “Oh, all right. I’ll overlook his rudeness, this time.” He ran a hand through expertly styled blond hair. “I know I’m probably not the first, but after hearing the details, I couldn’t wait to get to your place. I hope I’m not too late.”

  Callie looked at him in surprise for a moment. Then her puzzlement faded as she understood what he meant. She put her hands on her hips and stared shrewdly at him. After having a parade of single men knocking on her door for over six months, she could recognize her surrogate grandfather’s newest selection for her.

  John Henry Webster was a seventy-two-year-old cupid, a grizzled mountain man who had been her real grandfather’s best friend. She loved him dearly, but he could be as stubborn as the goat she’d just chased. Worse, he was manipulative as the devil. Here stood evidence of that: a new man, sent here to court her. It was outrageous and embarrassing.

  “Anything broken?” she inquired coolly. She didn’t want to be sued because of her pet’s eccentricities, so she’d at least be polite to this suitor.

  “No, but I’ll never tap dance again,” he quipped. Callie felt a twinge of surprise at his good humor in light of the circumstances. She felt other twinges, too, strange, uncomfortable little needles of sensation that she couldn’t quite analyze.

  John Henry’s other victims ne
ver created these feelings. She frowned as she realized why.

  Matthew Holland was big, blond, and absolutely breathtaking, with the most expressive brown eyes she’d ever encountered. Those eyes were now examining her minutely. He smoothed his hands down the front of a white linen jacket, and the action seemed incredibly sensual to Callie. Oh, Lordy, John Henry Webster, she mouthed silently, how could you do this to me?

  Callie glanced into the sloping front yard that led to her gravel driveway. A white Corvette sat regally under the huge oak trees. Silhouetted against the smoky blue mountains in the distance, it seemed weirdly out of place. People drove Jeeps and trucks here in north Georgia, not Corvettes. Matt Holland was definitely an outsider. The dear Lord only knew what he had been doing in these mountains when John Henry had latched onto him.

  She glanced down at the faded cut-off overalls covering her oldest tube top, and nearly groaned. What she wore had never been of much concern before, but today she wished she were wearing something a little less revealing. When she looked up, Matthew Holland was studying her so intently that she almost shivered.

  “Well,” Callie told him dryly, “I’m getting used to entertaining the local men up here, but having a stranger drop by is new. I apologize for looking so grubby.”

  His eyes widened. Callie could feel him taking her apart inch by inch, examining her and passing judgment. It rankled. Yuppie city slicker, she felt like saying in her own defense, what are you and your Gucci loafers doing in my lovely backcountry?

  “I apologize for William’s bad manners,” she said.

  “William?”

  “The least John Henry could have done was warn you about William. Everybody in Sweet Valley knows to watch out for William.”

  “Who—no, what is William?”

  “William is that long-horned angora goat that ruffled your dignity.”

  “If he’s such a menace, why isn’t he in a pen?”

  “A pen?” She shook her head. “I couldn’t do that. William just lets me share the place with him. He belonged to Gramps. He was here first.”

  “At the rate he’s going, he’s going to be here last, too.”

  “Oh, no. He knows how far to go. I’d already run him off the porch once this morning. He knows he’s not allowed up here, but he can’t resist the wildflowers.” She pointed to an overflowing basket. “He thinks if he’s very quiet, he can sneak up here and I won’t hear him. When you came up the steps I thought you were William.”

  “Women rarely mistake me for a goat.”

  And I bet you have plenty of them, Callie thought disparagingly. Women, that was, not goats. She gave him a taut smile. “You and William do smell different from each other,” Callie admitted. Suddenly she realized that she was leaning toward Matthew Holland, inhaling the light, crisp scent of a cologne she recognized.

  Once, centuries ago, she’d been an expert on expensive colognes and designer clothes and upscale life-styles, so now she had no trouble identifying all three of those things in regard to him. The cologne was very alluring. She stepped back from him.

  “So how old are you, Mr. Holland? Thirty-fourish, I’d guess.” Callie tilted her head to one side, ran her fingers through the mass of fuzzy brunette curls that caressed her bare shoulders, and kept her sky-blue eyes fastened on him with what she hoped was disconcerting intensity.

  After a long pause during which he simply stared at her as if she’d started speaking in tongues, he shrugged. “Thirty-five.”

  “That’s just perfect,” she said solemnly. Callie thought to herself, Well, John Henry, at least this one’s full grown. Last month he’d sent a college-age boy up here.

  “Oh, I see,” Holland said suddenly. He nodded, and looked reassured. “You’re sentimental about it. I understand that. Everything has to be just right. You want to save it for someone mature enough to appreciate such a rare find. Someone like me, who knows how to treasure it.”

  Callie fumbled for a minute. Good heavens, what had John Henry wrought?

  “Y-yes.” She coughed to hide her surprise at his forthright words. “If that were what I had in mind, I’d have to admit that you’d … do.”

  All right, Callie thought angrily. Enough was enough. This had to stop. She wondered if she could unnerve John Henry so badly that he would never send her another prospective suitor. She didn’t need matchmaking, she didn’t need a man, and she certainly didn’t need the kind of man who wore real linen and fine cologne and talked with blunt coolness about sexual liaisons. Callie mulled over a plan for a few seconds. Then she smiled.

  “I’m twenty-eight,” she told him sweetly, and winked. “I hope that’s all right.”

  He nodded, looking even more puzzled, and seemed to search for an appropriate answer. “That’s … nice.”

  “I suppose you were told that I’d be receptive to your visit,” she added. “You’ve certainly caught my interest. Now, tell me exactly what you had in mind, Mr. Holland.”

  “Ms. Carmichael,” he said sternly. “I’d like to be honest with you. Let’s dispense with all this silliness. You know why I’m here, you know what you have, so I’ll make you a direct, straightforward deal.”

  She gulped. “You will?” He’d thrown her a real curve. She’d been debating whether to tell him that John Henry was an old busybody, and not to be taken seriously.

  “Yes, I hope you’ll agree when you’ve heard what I propose. I’m willing to pay well, more than what you’ve been offered in the past, I’m sure.”

  Shock washed across her face. “Pay?” she asked, surprised. Suddenly she realized that something was wrong. Callie’s shock turned to anger. John Henry hadn’t judged this man’s character very well. This time he’d sent a real con man. “Well, Matt, I may or may not agree to your deal, but being paid is a new approach. Sit down and tell me what you think is a fair price.”

  Callie swept past him, dropped into one of the rockers, hung her knee over the rocker arm, and, with a quizzical expression on her face, waited for him to go on. She could see a bead of perspiration roll down his tanned cheek and she wondered if he was warm, or if maybe he wasn’t as experienced as he wanted her to think.

  “I’m sure you know the value,” he went on crisply. “This can’t have been your first offer, so I’m prepared to go to twenty-five hundred dollars straight up, no matter the body condition.”

  What had this man said? Twenty-five hundred dollars? No matter the condition of the body? She crossed her arms over her chest and smiled coldly.

  “You can save yourself the trouble of upping your price. I’ve never been one to haggle.” She leaned against the porch rail and enjoyed the amazed look he gave her. “Matt, either a thing is worth a price or it isn’t. I always make up my mind instantly, and if I’m wrong, then c’est la vie! The past is past, and tomorrow is always another day. Don’t you agree?”

  He cleared his throat and began to look angry. “Well, I—” He choked. “I can’t say that I’ve ever had a discussion quite like this before. Are you sure you’re Callie Carmichael?”

  “Of course I’m Callie Carmichael. Why would you doubt it?”

  “You just aren’t what I expected. Not,” he added quickly, “that I … I mean, I was expecting to deal with someone much older.”

  “If you thought you were going to deal with some desperate old maid, you were wrong,” she said calmly.

  “Please, just listen to my deal, Callie. I’ll top any other offer you have, no matter how long you’ve let the essentials go uncared for.”

  This was getting a little kinky. “I care for the essentials regularly,” she said in a distracted voice. The man wasn’t only arrogant, he was crude.

  “Great! But it doesn’t matter. I’ve handled this kind of problem before. Enough time, money, and loving care and it will come alive. I’m an expert at bringing beauty back to life.”

  “Oh, you are, are you? Money and a little loving care? Well, for your information, there’s nothing wrong with these essentials, e
ven if they haven’t been used for the past few years. This was a poor joke, and it isn’t funny anymore. I’m not some backwoods hoyden who’s willing to sell her favors to you, no matter what John Henry may have promised! Now, get out of here before I turn William loose again!”

  Callie couldn’t remember ever being so furious, not only with John Henry for sending this man up here, but with the man for his sublime arrogance. She shook both fists at him.

  “I should tell you,” he said in a voice taut with strain, “that I don’t know any John Henry. I simply came here to make you a proposition. If this is the response you’ve given the other buyers, I’m not surprised you haven’t sold.”

  “You … you … arrogant creep!” she retorted. “I’m not selling!” Callie put her hands on her hips. “I’m going to count to ten. If you’re not in your car by then, you’re going to be goat bait.”

  Frowning fiercely, his hand shaking, he pointed at her.

  “Lady, you’re a lunatic.”

  “And you’ve got more money than you’ve got soul! You’re staining the good atmosphere up here! Get back to Atlanta!”

  “Let me tell you, Ms. Carmichael—”

  “One. Two. Three …”

  “You are sadly mistaken if you think—”

  “Four. Five. Six. William will love bashing you again.”

  “I didn’t come here to solicit—”

  “Seven. Eight. Nine.”

  “Ms. Carmichael, I only came here to buy your grandfather’s car!”

  “Ten.” Callie paused. Then she swayed as if the mountain breeze had just turned into a hurricane, and pressed both hands to her throat. She felt the blood drain out of her face.

  “Car? Oh, my,” she whispered. “Oh, my.”

  Two

  Callie sat down weakly on the edge of the porch.

  “The car?”

  “Yes. You did inherit a 1953 Oldsmobile Fiesta convertible, didn’t you?”

  Callie simply stared at him, his words thundering through her mind. She couldn’t breathe. The air seemed to solidify in her lungs. She couldn’t focus on anything except the angry expression on his face. “The car?” she repeated incredulously.