Anything for You Read Free

chagrined frown. That a slender woman with a temper as fiery as her auburn hair could cow the manager of the logging camp told him a lot.
    When he closed the door behind them, Gypsy asked, with a compassion he had not expected, “Can you manage?”
    â€œI’m learning. The snow’s tough.” He offered her a smile, but she continued toward the cookhouse. Charm was not going to work on Gypsy Elliott. He needed another way to deal with her.
    â€œIf you want to eat,” she called back, “you’ll have to do a full day’s work. I don’t have time to pamper a crippled jack.”
    He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the view of her black skirt swaying through the snow. This woman did not mince words. He realized her frustration was not focused on him, but on Farley. Adam Lassiter was no more than an irritation to her.
    Softly, he chuckled. He suspected he would irritate her more before he found a way to get out of her kitchen and back to the work he preferred. Somehow, he always irritated his bosses. He doubted it would be any different with Gypsy Elliott.
    His eyes were caught by the sight of a slender ankle as she raised her skirt to edge around a drift. She certainly was better to look at than his last boss. Curiosity taunted him to figure out what a lovely woman with startlingly green eyes and the absurd name of Gypsy was doing in this logging camp so far from anywhere.
    He glanced around the camp. Every tree wore a film of snow on the windward side. When he had decided to come north, he had not considered how barbaric the living conditions would be. He thought fondly of a hearth in Lansing and a glass of something glowing golden in his hand. Silently he reminded himself he had chosen this job.
    He reached the door to the cook shack, which Gypsy was holding open. Smiling at her, he asked, “How long have you been the kingbee cook here?”
    â€œThree years,” Gypsy answered as she stepped up into the cookhouse. Holding out her hand, she asked, “Can you get up here?”
    â€œIt’s steep.” He swore, then smiled an apology. “Pardon me, Gypsy.”
    â€œDon’t worry. You’ll hear far worse from everyone in the cookhouse, including me. Do you want help?” Impatience returned to her voice. “Make up your mind before my fingers freeze off.”
    With a chuckle, he held up the crutch.
    Gypsy frowned as she took it, wondering how he could cope without it. When he leaped up, his arms windmilled. She dropped the crutch and wrapped her arms around his waist. They teetered. He grabbed a table. A yelp burst from her when her hip crashed into it.
    His arm curved around her, and her breath snagged at the very spot where her breasts brushed his firm chest. Raising her eyes, she stared up at the mysteries in his. A slow smile inched beneath his mustache.
    Was she completely witless? She had let every jack know that she was here only to cook for them. Adam Lassiter had better learn that, too, or … she was not sure what she would do if he did not, because his touch was as intriguing as his eyes.
    Gypsy Elliott, are you crazy? How can you forget what can happen if you get too close to anyone?
    A shiver coursed through her. When she started to take a step back, he wobbled. She gripped his arms, and he pulled her back against him. Her breath exploded from her.
    â€œYou don’t want me to fall and break my other ankle, do you?” he asked, grinning.
    She grabbed the crude crutch. Shoving it into his hands, she said, “If you’re done with your clowning, Lassiter, the kitchen is this way.”
    â€œIt’s Adam,” he called as she walked toward the kitchen door.
    Gypsy looked back. “Excuse me?”
    â€œMy name’s Adam.” He lurched toward her as the crutch threatened to trip him. Halting, he cursed vividly, then tried again. “I thought you said informality was the hallmark of your kitchen.”
    â€œ