Читать книгу Her So-Called Fiancé - Abby Gaines - Страница 7

SABRINA MERRITT COUNTED at least a dozen photographers waiting for her to exit the gate area at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. They all had their lenses trained on her legs, which two days ago had been labeled “chunky” by beauty pageant pundits.

Great. It had been humiliating enough seeing close-ups of her thighs on national television. Now the local media, the papers read by everyone who mattered to her, were about to jump on the bandwagon.

“Sabrina, this way,” one of the photographers called.

She ignored him, certain that if she so much as met anyone’s eyes, the smile she’d rehearsed in her compact mirror as the plane taxied to the gate would fall off her face. Seven months as Miss Georgia had made her thick-skinned about personal criticism. But to be slammed so publicly, just when she needed people to take her seriously, and over something so meaningless to anyone but herself as her legs…

Glassy-eyed, she scanned the crowd, in search of her good friend Tyler, who’d said he would meet her. Darn it, he’d promised.

Then she saw the lone man beyond the media group. Not Tyler.

Jake Warrington.

The way he leaned his tall frame against a pillar might appear nonchalant, but the rigidity of his shoulders and the thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans proclaimed I know what I want and no one’s going to stop me.

That was Jake, all right.

Was he here to gloat? Sabrina lifted her chin. She was strong and capable, even if nobody else had figured that out yet. She tapped a finger against her cheek and announced, “I’m up here, folks.”

A sheepish laugh rippled through the photographers. They tilted their cameras higher—but not before they’d snapped their shots of her thighs.

Concealing her legs beneath a long, filmy sunshine-yellow sundress didn’t seem to have lessened anyone’s interest in them. Sabrina quashed the urge to spread her hands protectively over the delicate fabric.

She’d flown home to Atlanta a day ahead of her official schedule, in the hope of eluding the media. How stupidly naive. If Jake had been the one facing a media meltdown, he’d have anticipated this hoo-ha and prepared a speech.

“Sabrina, you’re the first Miss Georgia in two decades to be eliminated from the Miss U.S.A. Pageant in the first round.” A female TV reporter oozed fake sympathy.

“Good grief, is that right?” That fact, along with every other mortifying detail of her failure, had been endlessly recycled in the media over the past few days.

Presumably for the benefit of the one person in some remote corner of Alaska who hadn’t yet heard about her chunky thighs.

A couple of the men caught the gleam in Sabrina’s eyes and laughed. Their reaction disconcerted their female colleague, who snapped, “How does that make you feel?” Then the woman recovered her TV manners and lowered her voice to radiate puzzled concern. “Do you think your thighs were the real problem, or are the rumors of interpersonal differences between you and another contestant true?”

In other words, was Sabrina’s body or her personality the bigger loser? Her insides quivered, an outright betrayal of her resolution to get tough on herself. Although she’d learned to handle snarky comments since she’d won the Miss Georgia crown, nothing in her existence to date—her pampered existence, as Jake called it—had equipped her to deal with the irrational hostility that insisted her legs had somehow let the state down.

She put a hand to the orchid she’d tucked behind her left ear as she left her dressing room in Vegas. The deep pink flower contrasted nicely with her blond hair and her yellow dress—but so much for the hope it would distract attention from her legs. Dammit, where was Tyler? She wanted to throw her jacket over her head and flee, even though she’d hate for Jake to see her running away.

Behind the reporters, Jake straightened and stepped forward. Sabrina frowned—then, as a camera flashed, hastily raised her eyebrows to smooth her forehead. With her luck, she’d end up in tomorrow’s Journal-Constitution looking like a bad-tempered shrew. With fat thighs.

Mentally, she continued to frown at Jake. No one should look that good under fluorescent lighting. His skin had a healthy tan, and when he smiled, his teeth gleamed white.

She did a double take. Jake, smiling at me?

Sure, it looked as if he was gritting his teeth—definitely smiling, and definitely at her. He was going to rescue her, she realized, which was even more bizarre.

“Sabrina.” Jake’s deep, commanding voice swung the crowd in his direction.

Just like that. A potential governor of Georgia obviously held sway over a dumped beauty queen. Now she understood why he was here—he’d seen the opportunity for some free publicity for his election campaign and was cashing in on her thighs.

She took advantage of the distraction to glare at him. Then he arrived at her side, and his presence sucked up all available oxygen, leaving her in a vacuum of awareness. Darn it, she hated that he could still do that to her.

He tugged her heavy carry-on bag off her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Sabrina blinked at his concern. Before she could reply, he turned to the reporters, who by now were firing questions, and held up a hand.

“If you folks bought into the garbage dished out about Sabrina at the Miss U.S.A. Pageant,” Jake said, “then shame on you.”

Huh? Sabrina’s mouth dropped open. Shouldn’t he be speechifying about the Georgia school system or some other political hot potato?

“Some of you—” he pointed to the reporter from the Journal-Constitution and an interviewer from Good Morning Atlanta “—went on record six months ago as saying Sabrina Merritt is the most beautiful Miss Georgia ever. Now you’re letting a bunch of Yankees tell you otherwise?”

A murmur rose among the shuffling reporters.

The Yankee quip was well judged—Sabrina wished she’d thought of it herself. Because this wasn’t Jake’s fight. Ironic that the very time she was determined to stand her ground, the man least likely to defend her had an attack of chivalry. “Jake, you don’t have to—”

“Take it from me,” Jake told the crowd, now swelled by curious travelers and airport personnel, “Sabrina Merritt is a beautiful person inside and out.”

Sabrina’s famous thighs almost gave way; she steadied herself by clutching at the nearest immovable object. Jake. Through the soft, worn cotton of his casual shirt, she felt the strength of muscle in his forearm.

Jake’s gaze flickered, but he kept his focus on the spectators, where a smattering of clapping had broken out. “And,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument, “she has amazing legs.”

He would know. An unwelcome tide of memory swamped Sabrina. But Jake didn’t appear to be in the thrall of their shared history. He bestowed his most charming smile on the photographers. “That’s all, folks.” To Sabrina, he said in a low voice, “Let’s get out of here.”

“But Tyler—”

“He’s not here, I’m your chauffeur.”

“I need to—” A glance at the reporters told her no one wanted to hear her stand up for herself. All the interest was in Jake, who was already shepherding her through the crowd. “I haven’t picked up my suitcase,” she protested.

“I’ll have one of my staff get it.”

His black Alfa Romeo was parked right outside the terminal, where only taxis and rental-car shuttles were allowed. Jake paid off the guy minding the Alfa, then held the door open for Sabrina. He jerked his head at her to get in.

“A prospective governor shouldn’t park illegally,” she said.

“You think that’s what’ll lose me the primary?” he asked with an irony she didn’t understand.

She slid into the car, and a minute later Jake was maneuvering through the stop-start terminal traffic with his usual controlled flair. Sabrina didn’t realize she was holding her breath until they passed the Welcome to Atlanta sign on the airport periphery and she let it out.

Jake glanced over at her. “Your skirt’s too long.”

“Are you kidding? Those guys wanted to make mincemeat out of my thighs.” Ugh, the words conjured an unpleasant image; Sabrina squirmed in her seat. “You can’t blame me for covering up.”

“Avoidance doesn’t work. Confronting challenges head-on is the only way to win the respect of the media.”

It wasn’t the media’s respect she needed at this stage, though it might help with her new job. “I was about to confront those reporters when you butted in.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A simple thank-you will suffice.”

“I can fight my own battles,” she said, striving for a dignity that would put Jake in his place. His place being out of her life.

He snorted. “If you’re trying to tell me you’re no longer Daddy’s helpless little princess…”

Her fingers curled in her lap. “Did you see my father at the airport?” she demanded. “You know, given half a chance, he would have been there, browbeating those guys. I can get past this on my own.”

“Why break the habit of a lifetime now?” Visibly, Jake bit down on further criticism. Which wasn’t like him. He was the one person who didn’t pull his punches with her.

“Why were you at the airport instead of Tyler?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

Typical Jake, keeping information to himself, treating her as if she was an infant. And not a very smart one at that. Sabrina feigned a gasp of horror. “You’ve gone over to the dark side!”

At his impatient look, she elaborated. “You came to save me from those reporters—you’ve joined the Coddle Sabrina Merritt League.”

He rolled his eyes. “Never going to happen, sweetheart.”

The sweetheart hovered between them. Sabrina tried to think of a smart comment. Then the hard line of Jake’s mouth curved in something that might have been a grimace, but just might have been…

“What’s with the weird smile?” she asked. “That’s the second one today.”

Immediately, his lips resumed their granite set. “Tyler said I had to be nice,” he admitted.

Tyler was Jake’s cousin. He’d managed to stay close friends with both of them, despite the rift between Jake and Sabrina. She pffed. “I don’t need Tyler championing my cause, and I don’t need you grinning at me.”

“My smile is my best feature,” Jake said. “Seventy percent of voters think so.” Again, that ironic tone.

“A hundred percent of this voter doesn’t agree.” She laced her fingers in her lap. “I count on you being nasty.”

They lapsed into a moment’s silence as he passed a moving truck. “I’m not nasty.”

“Mean, then,” she amended. “I rely on you not to handle me with kid gloves. So don’t go screwing up my world any more than it already is.” She folded her arms and looked out her window at the light industrial area they were passing through.

“So you don’t need your dad, you don’t need Tyler. Do they know you’re flying solo?” He sounded curious rather than sarcastic.

“They’ll figure it out when they see the changes I’m making.” She twisted to face Jake. “Being Miss Georgia has been an empowering experience.”

Another snort—she should have known better than to trust his interest.

“That’s what you said on TV,” he said, “in Las Vegas.”

She pounced. “So you were watching.”

The color that rose above the collar of his striped shirt was some compensation.

“I figured it was a line to impress the judges,” he said.

Sabrina contemplated how, if that had been her strategy, it had been a dismal failure. “Your defense of me at the airport was very touching,” she said, the memory of her humiliation stinging afresh.

“Don’t take it personally, I just told the truth. You do have great legs.” He turned on the radio, tuned in to a current-affairs show. He’d had enough of this conversation, so apparently it was over.

Sabrina hit the off button; Jake’s head jerked in her direction. “I meant,” she said, “the bit where you said I’m beautiful inside and out.”

His lips clamped together, then parted just enough for him to mutter, “I got carried away with my own rhetoric.”

“A common pitfall for politicians.”

No reply. Just the jump of a muscle in his cheek as he returned his focus to the road.

The buzz of her cell phone had Sabrina rummaging through her purse. One glance at the display and she stuffed the phone back into the jumble of makeup and tissues.

“Reporter?” Jake asked.

“My father.”

“Don’t you want to remind him how you don’t need him anymore?”

“He’ll soon see that.” Her dad’s impeccable sources would have reached him in Dallas where he was playing golf this weekend. He would know she was back and would be intent on shielding her, comforting her. Yet he would deny with his last breath that he had no respect for his youngest daughter—plenty of love, but no faith in her capabilities. Why had she let him, and everyone else, get away with that attitude for so long?

Sabrina realized Jake had taken a turn away from the direction of Buckhead, the exclusive area of Atlanta where they’d both grown up. “Hey, where are you going?”

“My place.”

Her heart jolted, the way it had the first time he’d said those words to her, years ago. “Excuse me?” That came out high, panicky. Because no way could he be planning on doing what they’d done back then. Could he?

“I want to talk to you.”

Talk. Sabrina’s pulse slowed. Thank goodness he couldn’t read her mind.

“Without the risk of one of your sisters barging in,” Jake added.

Sabrina swallowed, licked her lips. “You and I don’t talk.”

Technically, they talked often. Their families were close friends, they met at so many social occasions, it would be impossible to maintain the level of hostility that had consumed them five years ago.

To ease those social connections, they’d fallen into a kind of barbed banter that let them express their dislike in a way that didn’t discomfit other people. Everyone knew their history, no one expected them to be pals. Except Tyler, who, for an intelligent man, had a naive view of their potential for reconciliation.

But they didn’t have private, personal conversations—Sabrina couldn’t remember when she’d last been alone with Jake. Correction, she wished she couldn’t remember.

“Don’t you think it’s time to forgive and forget?” Jake said. “Time we started talking again?”

Jake Warrington, the man who never did anything that didn’t serve his ambition, wanted to be friends? She didn’t even have to think about it. “Nope, I’m good for a few more years.”

His mouth twitched. She looked away. “I want to go home now.” Home. Sabrina had moved back in with her dad when she won the Miss Georgia title. For her security, her father had insisted. He would argue when she told him she was moving out, but this time she would stand firm.

Jake kept driving in the wrong direction.

“This is kidnapping,” she pointed out.

“Only if I ask for a ransom and threaten to cut off your fingers.” He accelerated to get through a light before it turned red. “I’ll deliver you back to Daddy after we talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“I need your help.” He made a face, as if the words tasted of arsenic.

What help could Jake possibly need from her? Fashion advice? She slid a glance at him. She couldn’t fault his style. He looked fantastic whatever he wore.

He wasn’t about to divulge more. Short of wrenching the steering wheel out of his hands—and she would never, ever knowingly do something that might cause another accident—Sabrina had no choice but to go with him. She tipped her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes.

When it became obvious Sabrina wasn’t about to argue, Jake relaxed his grip on the wheel. He caught himself watching her out of the corner of his eye. That flower in her hair, the orchid, made him think about his father and that in turn made him think about all his problems. He dropped his gaze to the graceful curve of Sabrina’s neck, then lower. Don’t go there. He forced his attention back to the road. Any guy would find her a distraction. From a beautiful, slightly skinny twenty-one-year-old, she’d grown into a stunning woman with curves that made his hands itch. An itch he planned to ignore.

SABRINA SPENT THE remainder of the journey to Virginia Highlands shoring up her resolution. Whatever Jake needed, she wasn’t the one to help him. The distance between them might be all about hostility on his side, but on hers it was self-preservation. Jake had broken her heart five years ago. Just looking at him reminded her of a pain she didn’t want to revisit, a vulnerability she never wanted to succumb to again.

Jake flicked his turn signal and pulled into the driveway of a house that blended modern design and rustic materials—stone base, natural cedar siding, cedar-shingle roof—to stunning effect. Sabrina had never been here before, but she’d heard all about it. The reality was even more impressive. She buzzed her window down, stuck her head out. “This place is fantastic.”

“Built by Warrington Construction.”

She knew from Tyler, whose brother Max ran Warrington Construction, that the basic design was Jake’s, handed over to an architect for refining.

Jake walked around the car to open Sabrina’s door. He hadn’t opened a door for her in years. “What’s going on, Jake? I don’t trust you when you’re nice.”

“Welcome to my world,” he muttered.

She climbed out, pushed a strand of hair back behind her ear as she looked up at the house.

Jake’s scanned her, head to toe. “Inside,” he ordered.

The sooner she heard him out, the sooner she could go home and get on with her life. Sabrina stuck her chin in the air and marched up the front walk.

Jake keyed in an entry code and the extra-high, double-wide front door swung silently, easily, on industrial-size hinges.

Sabrina stepped into a slate-floored atrium, glanced at the elaborately framed mirror on the far wall, then up to the ceiling. “This is beautiful.”

“Thanks.” He led the way to the open-plan living and dining area, dominated by a stone-and-timber fireplace. Recesses in the fire surround stored logs and pinecones. Rustic.

“The kitchen’s through here.” Jake pointed to the doorway beyond.

She followed him into the large, south-facing kitchen. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through the French doors, making patterns on the white marble floor and the warm wooden cabinets.

“Have a seat.” Jake waved to the stools at the marble-topped island. He filled the kettle and put it on the stove.

“You must love living here, in a place you’ve created for yourself,” Sabrina said as he retrieved mugs, coffee, sugar.

He shrugged. “I wanted to build something distinctive, but with an architectural integrity that would stand the test of time.”

Typical of Jake to reduce this incredible home to something as calculated as architectural integrity. They lapsed into a silence while they waited for the kettle.

At last, Jake concentrated on adding boiling water to the French press. He added half-and-half and one sugar to Sabrina’s cup, nothing to his, then poured the dark, rich brew. He slid hers across the island.

Sabrina blew on the hot coffee then took a sip. She gave him the thumbs-up and a mischievous smile. “Perfect.”

Jake’s scowl told her he wished he hadn’t remembered how she took hers. He reached for the folder on the end of the island and handed her a sheet of paper. “Read this.”

Curious enough to obey, she put her mug down on the island. She scanned the page, a summary of the latest opinion poll about the forthcoming gubernatorial primary. “Ouch.”

“Exactly,” he said. “The public trust me about as much as they’d trust an arsonist with a match.”

She gripped the paper more tightly. “You must have known that would be a problem.”

“Know why they don’t trust me?” His tone was conversational, but she picked up the old resentment beneath the surface.

Sabrina swallowed, though she hadn’t drunk any more coffee. “Because your father broke the law.”

His mouth tightened. “If you could do it over again,” he said, “would you?”

They both knew what “it” was. The back of her neck prickled; she dropped the damning opinion-poll results. “Jake, your father was a hero to me, the best governor a man could be. I thought he was so caring, so principled.” Needlessly, she stirred her coffee. “No one could have been more upset to discover he’d taken a bribe—apart from his family,” she added quickly. “But no matter how much I admired him, I couldn’t let him get away with it.”

“I mean,” Jake said deliberately, “would you do it the same way?”

He had her there. Because with the benefit of hindsight—and a whole lot more maturity—she wouldn’t have been so rash in her denunciation of Governor Ted Warrington. Wouldn’t have made those distraught calls summoning the media to a midnight press conference, thus guaranteeing the story would trounce every other headline off the front pages. She wouldn’t have forced Jake and his family to wake up to a posse of reporters on their doorstep, so that his dad appeared before the nation aging and vulnerable in his pajamas.

She didn’t want to think about that night, or about what happened afterward—the public frenzy that had condemned Ted before he gave his side of the story. And the flaming, bitter end of her relationship with Jake.

“The outcome would have been the same,” she said uneasily, not meeting his eyes. She caught her reflection in the oven door, saw how she’d hunched down in self-defense. She straightened on her stool. “Your father would still have had to quit.”

“People might at least have given him credit for having selfless motives. If he’d been allowed to retain some dignity…” He let out a hiss. “My parents’ marriage might have survived.”

She drew in a pained breath. If he dared suggest that had his parents not divorced, his mom would never have dated the man who’d taken her sailing on a day when no right-thinking person would have gone out, and drowned them both…

Sabrina shuddered—and saw from Jake’s narrowed eyes that she was taking exactly the path he wanted her to. Fortunately, he brought out her fighting instincts like nobody else. “Whatever help you want from me,” she said coolly, “you obviously think you need to guilt-trip me first. Let’s consider that done, and you can tell me why I’m here.”

He blinked. He must have expected her to cave at the first hint of conflict. She could practically see him rearranging his tactics.

“I need your help to establish public confidence in me,” he said finally, matching her bluntness.

“How could I—” That’s when realization dawned. “Ah. You mean, like—” she waggled her fingers, quote marks for an imaginary headline “—Fat-Thighed Beauty Queen Says, Vote Warrington?”

“I mean—” he made quote marks of his own “—Whistle-blower Says Son Is Not Like Father.”

She had to admit, it had a certain poetic beauty. If the woman who’d blown the whistle on crooked Governor Ted Warrington endorsed Ted’s son for office, voters would have to believe Jake was on the level. But the thought of getting involved with him again, even politically…

“I don’t understand why you’re even running for office,” she hedged. “You knew this would be a problem.”

“Susan did some polling before I decided to run. The results suggested that my grandfather’s and great-uncle’s years of public service to the state were enough to outweigh Dad’s mistakes.” Susan Warrington, Jake’s aunt and Tyler’s mom, was Jake’s campaign manager, as she’d been his father’s before him. Jake came from a long line of Georgia governors. “None of the numbers we’ve polled since then support that conclusion,” he finished.

Sabrina tapped the page in front of her. “That tells me why you thought you could win. You still haven’t said why you want to be governor.” Jake had always thought bigger than Georgia; he’d had his heart set on national politics, starting with Congress, back when he and Sabrina were dating.

The bribe scandal had ended that ambition. Jake had quit politics to work with Max at Warrington Construction.

“My father cheated this state, and I want to put that right,” he said. “I want to move on. I’m sick of being ‘crooked Ted Warrington’s son.’”

Sabrina swallowed and ducked her head. The poll data caught her eye. “This isn’t all bad news. People think you’re intelligent, likable and—and you have a nice smile.” According to the demographics data at the bottom of the page, seventy percent of the respondents were women. Sabrina knew they meant his smile—the one that adorned campaign posters around town, the one she never saw—was sexy. “Maybe Susan’s original numbers were right, and people will look past what your dad did.”

“They won’t,” he said flatly.

“My support would be more of a handicap than a help,” she assured him. “You saw those photographers at the airport. I’m a bad joke.”

He barked a laugh. “I guess you haven’t seen the local papers. The media might be poking fun at you, but there’s been a swell of public sympathy like you wouldn’t believe. The newspapers are full of letters saying what a wonderful Miss Georgia you are. And you’re Saint Sabrina of Talkback Radio.” The sweep of his hand encompassed the Georgia airwaves.

“You’re exaggerating,” she said, a part of her hoping he wasn’t. That the entire state didn’t hold her in contempt.

“Sabrina.” Jake gripped the edge of the island. “Would you trust me as governor?”

She would never trust him with her heart again, and would recommend no other woman should, either, but she did trust him as a politician. Unlike his father’s, Jake’s integrity was unshakable.

“Yes,” she said.

“Then we don’t have a problem.” His fingers relaxed. “Do we?”

She almost agreed. Then she realized what Jake was doing. In short order, he’d had her feeling grateful for his intervention at the airport, sorry for him over his poll results, guilty about the role she’d played in his family’s breakup…He was manipulating her emotions, just as he had five years ago. Back then, he’d left her shattered. Thankfully, he’d been too mad to see how he’d hurt her.

“Your getting involved in the governor race will take everyone’s minds off your legs,” he coaxed, as if offering her an irresistible enticement.

“Politics being even weightier?” she said sharply.

He grinned, almost amicably, and she guessed he thought her agreement was in the bag.

“I need you to tell the world you have complete trust in me,” he said. “And to attend some of my campaign events between now and the primary vote in June. We could start Monday—I’m opening an art exhibition at Wellesley High School. Your dad will probably be there, his firm is one of the sponsors. You could come along. What do you say?”

Sabrina studied her fingernails to avoid the compelling pressure of his gaze. “I say no.”