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meant.
    He felt the beginnings of a smile edge his lips. It vanished as she cleared her throat, sat up tall in her chair—those ridiculously perky breasts of hers jutting forward—and in a bright voice said, “Fine.”
    He snorted. “You’re a piece of work.”
    And that was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back. Her blue eyes glittered with anger. She pressed her lips tightly together and waited, as if counting to ten, then she let him have it.
    â€œWhat is it with you? You’ve been rude to me from the moment we met. You read a bunch of twisted half-truths in some supermarket tabloid and you think you know everything about me. Which you don’t,” she emphasized.
    â€œEven if all of it were true—which it isn’t—what do you care? What business is it of yours? That badge—” she flashed her eyes at the Department of Fish and Game emblem on his shirt “—doesn’t give you license to be a jerk.”
    He enjoyed watching her while she ranted at him. Her cheeks blazed with color, her eyes turned the warmest shade of blue he’d ever seen. Abruptly she stood and came around the table at him. He didn’t know whether he wanted to toss her out the door onto her very shapely ass or back her up against the refrigerator and lay one on her.
    A snappy retort died on his lips as the sound of an approaching vehicle interrupted their conversation.
    â€œWhat’s that?” she said, turning toward the window.
    â€œYour ride outta here.”
    â€œAbout time.”
    She followed him into the front room as the sounds of a car door slamming and footfalls scrunching across gravel drew their attention to the front door.
    It opened, and Barb Maguire, dressed in a neatly pressed department-issue uniform, breezed into the room. “Hi-ya, Joe!” She saw Wendy and did a double take. “Oh.” Her gaze washed over first Wendy, then him. When she recovered from her obvious shock, a smile bloomed on her face. “Hi, I’m Barb, Joe’s delivery girl, so to speak.”
    She handed him a stack of mail and what looked like a month’s worth of department paperwork. “Thanks,” he said.
    The two women shook hands. Wendy introduced herself and made some polite small talk as Barb assessed the situation: Cat’s clothes on the sofa bed next to the pile of neatly folded blankets and bed sheets, two empty tea cups on the coffee table and a heap of dead ashes in the hearth.
    She flashed him a conspiratorial look, grinning like the cat who ate the canary, when Wendy turned to grab her knapsack off a chair. He put on his best it’s-not-what-you-think expression, but it didn’t deter her.
    Barb Maguire, a DF&G technician who was married to the department’s local wildlife biologist, had been trying to play matchmaker for him for the past year. Her goal was to get him into town so she could fix him up with one of her girlfriends. Joe wasn’t interested, but Barb was relentless.
    â€œSo, you’re a wildlife photographer. That’s…well, perfect!” She winked at Joe.
    â€œUh, yeah. I’m here to photograph woodland caribou.”
    â€œWhoa. Tough assignment.” Barb nodded in admiration.
    Joe had had enough. “I told her she’d be a damned fool to go looking for them on her own.”
    â€œDo you think everyone is a helpless idiot, or is it just me?”
    He started to answer, but Barb cut him off. “No, he thinks that about pretty much everybody.” She grinned. “Don’t let it put you off.”
    â€œI don’t intend to.” With a dismissive swing of her hair, Wendy did an about-face and retrieved her socks and boots from where they’d dried overnight by the hearth. She struggled to get them on comfortably over the moleskin.
    Joe resisted an overpowering urge to help her.
    â€œWhy not hire a guide?” Barb said.
    â€œCan’t afford it.”