Читать книгу Taming The Beast - Amy Fetzer J. - Страница 9

She should have just called in the grocery order, Laura thought, and kept filling the shopping cart, ignoring the people staring at her, the young men, much younger than she would ever consider dating, leering at her. Yes, she decided, that one was definitely a leer. She smiled sweetly, the parade smile, she thought with a sadistic little chuckle. A couple of the men were fishermen, covered in fish guts and wearing rubber boots. Stunning.

She checked her list, then headed to checkout. Here it comes, she thought, noticing how everyone in the immediate area approached slowly, like stalking cats. A teenage boy swept his broom a little nearer. The cashier looked eager despite the crowd of people waiting. Customers stared openly. No wonder Blackthorne never came out of his home. Whatever happened to southern hospitality?

“You’re new here,” said the cashier, a blonde wearing too-big earrings and sporting a mouthful of gum that was well beyond ladylike.

“Yes. This is a lovely island.” Make them prod, she thought.

“You stayin’ at the castle on the point?”

Like there was another house designed like a castle on the island? “I’m Mr. Blackthorne’s nanny.”

“Nanny!” several people exclaimed at once.

Laura glanced around, making eye contact with each person. “Mr. Blackthorne is expecting his daughter to arrive, and I am here to care for her.”

“Oh, the poor child,” an elderly woman said, her accent heavy and drawn.

“Why?” Laura asked, yet knew the answer.

“To have such a horrible man for a father.”

“You’ve met Mr. Blackthorne, then?”

“Not exactly.”

She hoped her expression was slathered in innocence. “Then how could you possibly know what he’s like?”

“He doesn’t leave that place,” the cashier said. “He hasn’t shown his face in four years, even Dewey hasn’t seen him up close and he lives there.”

Dewey, she assumed, was the groundskeeper she’d yet to meet.

“He’s—he’s mangled,” the young man bagging her groceries stammered.

“And if you’ve never seen him, then how do you know that?”

The kid shrugged as if it was common knowledge. Yet no one had seen Blackthorne.

“I fail to see where looks matter.” She tried controlling her temper, hating that appearances were such a priority. She understood, for she’d experienced reactions to her own appearance, albeit the complete opposite. Women refusing to befriend her, believing she was a snob and thought she was better than them. Or men tripping all over themselves to impress her, each trying to get her into their bed or something as superficial as having her on their arm for some social function. An impression to be made. A trophy. Not one person, not even her former fiancé, had seen beyond the face God gave her. And apparently no one wanted to see beyond Blackthorne’s scars, either.

It all made her stomach twist in knots that were achingly familiar. Her defensiveness, for a man she did not know, and for herself, reared along with her temper.

“Charge his account and have them delivered by three,” she said, and left, aware of the stares boring into her back.

She skipped the cab ride back, and let her temper cool with a walk through the quaint little town, but the memories came, of her mother pushing her into TV commercials even as a child, the pageants that only invited viciousness. She had hated all of it. And when she was old enough, she chose the ones she wanted to enter. A bit hypocritical, granted, but then, she’d wanted to go to college and she’d needed the prize money and scholarships.

She glanced around at the shop fronts, gleaming glass windows, darling porches, white wood benches placed here and there, and tourists and islanders strolling and shopping. Two elderly men sat near the pier swapping sea stories and whittling. From the pile of shavings at their feet, it looked like a daily ritual. And it made her smile and remember her grandpappy rocking on the back porch, carving wooden animals for her and her brothers to play with since they could afford little else. Simple pleasures for a simple life, grandpappy always told her, and memories of his love lifted her mood.

She drew in a deep breath of the cooling sea air. October was still warm when the sun was up, but during hurricane season the rain came often, the cloud cover making the air overly humid and the island breezes adding to the chill. She wrapped her arms around her waist and quickened her steps down street after street, where the houses thinned to the long stretch of road leading to Blackthorne’s house. Even more isolation, she thought, and rushed inside the warmth of the house.

After putting on a pot of coffee, she was rubbing the chill from her arms when she heard the distinct sound of someone chopping wood. Frowning, she went to the back door, brushing back the curtain covering the small window. Everything inside her that claimed her a woman jumped to life as her gaze moved over the bare-backed man swinging an ax, muscles rippling as he split a log with one swipe.

Blackthorne.

Oh, Lord, he was magnificent-looking, wearing nothing but jeans and boots, and from this angle she could barely see his profile. Obviously the unscarred portion, but what she could see of his face was sharp and aristocratic. Dark hair blew in the wind, fluttering at his nape, overly long and shaggy. His arms were ropy with muscles as he positioned another log, lifted the ax and brought it down again, neatly splitting the log and sending the two pieces of wood flying out. He cut two more, then paused in his work, the ax head on the stump and his arm braced on the handle. When he looked off and spoke, she realized he was not alone, and she moved to the window. Another man, older, sat on a bench, playing mumblety-peg with a pocket-knife. Dewey Halette, she realized, and apparently he was more than just the groundskeeper. He was Blackthorne’s friend, perhaps his only one.

Dewey spoke to Blackthorne, his animated features beneath the ball cap weathered as a wrinkled apple and tanned as rawhide. His dark T-shirt hugged his taut stomach, the knees of his jeans were worn to white. Her gaze shifted between the men, and as if Blackthorne knew she was there, he kept his back to her. Yet she glimpsed shiny scars marking his rib cage, like long daggerlike slashes. It must have been horribly painful, she thought, then wondered again over the specifics of his accident. Suddenly he threw his head back and laughed, the rough sound carried on the wind and startling her with a burst of warmth. At least he was not totally lost to the simple pleasures, she thought, and quelled the urge to join them. If he wanted her to see him, he would have shown himself first off.

He said something that made Dewey blush and the older man stood, shooting Blackthorne a grin, then smugly dumped another stack of unsplit logs at his feet. Blackthorne worked, splitting log after log as Dewey gathered and stacked. Then Dewey stilled, looking past Blackthorne and directly at her.

She stared right back.

But it was Blackthorne who threw down the ax and reached for a hooded jacket.

She stepped out. “I apologize,” she called out. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You did,” Blackthorne said, his back to her as he slipped on the jacket.

“Forgive me, I’ll go elsewhere.”

Richard sighed, wanting to turn around and look her in the eye. “No, I can’t have you feeling as if you need to be anywhere I’m not.”

“But that’s what you want, don’t you? You’d rather I not be here at all.” She saw his shoulders tighten. “The least we can do is be honest with each other, Mr. Blackthorne.”

Richard pressed his lips into a tight line and sighed. “Yes, we can. I will tell you that I don’t care that I no longer have the run of my own home.”

“You don’t have to hide.”

“I do not hide. I chose this lifestyle, Miss Cambridge, and in the last four years, I’ve learned this is the best way.”

“Easiest, you mean.”

“Nothing about this is easy, lady.”

“What about your daughter? She’s expecting her daddy. She needs comforting. She’s lost her mother, for pity’s sake.”

Richard’s chest tightened, and he tried to imagine Kelly’s grief and how much he ached to comfort her. “That’s why I hired you, Miss Cambridge.”

“Don’t you even care?”

His spine stiffened. Care? How could he tell Laura that when he’d first learned of his child just a couple of weeks ago, all he’d felt was regret and anger at Kelly’s mother for leaving him with his baby growing inside her, for not giving him the chance to even know his child before she stole everything from him. His love for his wife dissolved when she’d taken hers away like a punishment and sentenced him to this prison. And now he was to forget the past? “Yes, I care, but forgive me if fatherhood does not spring to life in me. I’ve barely grown used to the idea.” He strode off toward the garage.

“Well, get used to it,” she snapped at his retreating back. “The day after tomorrow she will be here, wanting to see you, and just how am I to explain that her father doesn’t want to meet her?”

He kept walking, leaving boot tracks in the sod. “Tell her the truth, Miss Cambridge,” he called out. “Her father does not want to be another source of nightmares for her.”

That left her stunned, and before she could respond, he was out of sight. She turned her head to look at Dewey. “That didn’t go very well, did it?”

Dewey studied her slowly, assessing and judging in one sweep, and Laura didn’t know how she came out in that contest. His expression revealed nothing.

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“I’m Laura Cambridge.”

“Mr. Blackthorne said as much.”

“What else did he tell you?”

Dewey’s expression shuttered, and he turned away to gather logs and stack them between two trees. The pile had to be thirty feet wide and five feet tall already. They probably needed the wood for heat when the power went out during storms. The stone house, she imagined, would get damp and cold.

“Everyone in town believes a totally different story about him, but then, you knew that, didn’t you?” She admired the fact that the older man kept Blackthorne’s secrets, even at his own expense.

Dewey positioned the logs on the pile, then turned back to the stump.

“Will you at least tell me his routine so I don’t start another fight?”

Dewey met her gaze and tipped his ball cap back, staring at her for a second. “Nope.”

Her eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Blackthorne does as he pleases, ma’am, and if you run into him again, then I ’spect you’ll just have to handle him.”

“Oh, you’re a big help.” She threw her arms out and let them fall. “Would you rather see him hide like a mole in this palace—” she flung a hand at the castle “—or actually get to know his daughter?”

He didn’t respond, taking up Blackthorne’s chore, and Laura realized she wasn’t going to get anything out of Dewey. It was clear where his loyalties lay. Yet when he went to raise the ax, her hand on his arm stopped him. She met his dark gaze head-on, and said, “I am not leaving here until I feel Kelly will get good care and absolutely tons of love,” she drawled, letting her Carolina accent slide over him and do the job for her. “You hear, Mr. Halette?”

There was a little twinkle in his eyes just then, and though his expression didn’t change, he said, “Yes’m. And call me Dewey, ma’am.”

“Laura,” she conceded, then turned toward the house and added, “I’m having groceries delivered, which means company’s coming. So if you’ve a mind to keep up this pretense, I suspect you’d better wipe that smile off your face.”

Behind her, Dewey blinked, fighting an even bigger smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

The sweet aroma of something baking drifted up through the house, and with it came a chorus of laughter. It drew him, though he kept to the old servants’ staircase that had been walled up for years. Hidden passageways created a maze through the house inside the walls; the corridors were steep, narrow, and barely able to accommodate his size. He hadn’t been inside these walls since he’d discovered them, and part of him loathed that he was in here now. But there were people in his home, when for years only he and Dewey roamed the halls. But now she was here, making herself at home, baking in his kitchen. The temptation to see was as overwhelming as the scent of baking chocolate. Yet it was the laughter that pulled at him. And he could pick her laugh out of the din of voices. Bright, clean, unscarred. It did not stun him as much as he thought, for there was something about Laura Cambridge that grabbed him in places he didn’t want touched. She defied and rebelled, and the urge to tempt her to the brink surged in him, yet he suppressed it, for he knew he had everything to lose if she saw his face. His daughter depended on Laura being here for her when he could not.

He stopped at the end of the dank corridor and depressed the spring panel, catching it so it did not swing open completely. She was at the oven, removing a cookie sheet, then sliding cookies onto a plate. It was such a domestic scene, something Andrea had never bothered to do, but what caught him off guard were the three people perched on stools around the butcher table. She brought the cookies to the counter, offering them to the guests. Guests. In his house. For the first time. He wanted to be angry. He wanted them gone for the simple reason that he could not join in. And seeing her talking so animatedly made his isolation all the more agonizing and bitter.

Damn, but she was beautiful, and the three men surrounding the counter hung on her words. Then when she went to put a batch in the oven, he noticed them leaning out to get a good look at her behind. Granted, it was a sweet creation, he thought, but why were they really here? To gape at his house, him or at her?

“This is quite a large house,” the teenager said. The regular delivery boy, Richard recalled.

“Yes, it goes on forever.” She dropped spoonfuls of dough onto a fresh sheet.

“Scary-looking, too,” one man said with a glance around.

“I love it. It’s big and glamorous. And just the stone and design alone reeks with history from all over the world.”

That’s exactly what he’d felt when he’d seen it, Richard thought, leaning back against the inner wall to listen.

“Have you seen him?” the grocer said.

“Of course.”

“Is it…bad?”

Richard peered, almost breathless as he waited for her answer.

“Not that I could tell.”

No lies, no information, and he wondered why she’d done that.

“Then why does he hide?”

“He’s obviously a private man, and perhaps it’s because he hasn’t been well received and…” She paused in fussing with her cookies to glance over her shoulder and Richard saw the heat ignite in her gaze. “I will tell you now that if even one person utters a single derogatory remark to his daughter, well…let’s just say my grandpappy taught me how to fire a shotgun and skin my kills.”

Richard smothered a laugh, and when he looked back, the guests chuckled halfheartedly, not sure if she meant what she’d said. As if on cue, they thanked her for the coffee, the grocer telling her to call him if she needed anything, as they headed out the door.

Laura closed the door and turned back to the counter, popping the sheet into the oven and starting on the last batch of chocolate chip cookie dough. She didn’t know a child that didn’t love them and hoped Kelly would. She wanted the child to feel welcome in this dark house.

Suddenly she sensed she wasn’t alone and lifted her gaze. She saw him, wedged between the corner wall and the open pantry door, a broad shadow where she could see no more than angled light across the worn jeans shaping his body up to his hips. How the heck did he get in here without her seeing him?

“I’d like to think my granny’s cookie recipe lured you, but I know better.”

“Smart and beautiful.”

Laura felt her feathers rise. Did everyone have to mention her face in the first ten seconds of conversation? “Want a cookie?”

“No, thank you.”

“Don’t tell me you are the one person who doesn’t like chocolate chip?”

“No.”

“Aah, you won’t come into the light to get one.”

Silence.

“What else do you deny yourself because you choose to stay in the dark, Mr. Blackthorne?” With her last word, she tossed a cookie in his direction. His hand shot into the light, snatching it from the air. For a second the signet ring glinted before his arm receded into the dark.

“And what will you deny Kelly?”

“Nightmares, Miss Cambridge.”

“Call me Laura. And I think you are simply cheating yourself.”

He scoffed, sarcastic. “You know nothing of me, beauty queen.”

She slammed the spatula down on the counter. “You’re right, I don’t. Just as you know nothing of me…beast.” She turned toward the stove, removed the sheet, replaced it with another, then set the timer. Laura squeezed her eyes shut, pushing back the memory of haunting betrayal. Beauty queen. Fat lot of good it did her. She couldn’t even keep her fiancé with this face, she thought, clenching her fists.

Richard straightened, wondering why she was suddenly so upset. “Laura.”

Her name came out in a growl, husky, like whiskey in the moonlight, spreading softly over her, crushing the memories and offering sympathy she didn’t want. Men, people, noticed her face, it was only natural. And Richard was definitely a man. What did she expect? “I apologize,” she said. “That was terribly cruel.”

Richard had heard worse and the barb glanced off him. “I’ve angered you. Tell me why.”

“It’s nothing.” She busied herself with arranging cookies and covering them with plastic wrap.

“Liar.”

“Back to name-calling, are we?” She tsked softly as she turned to the refrigerator, pulled out a cut of meat and vegetables, then tossed them on the butcher table. They didn’t know each other well enough to discuss her past, nor was she about to whine over it. She had better things to do with her energy, she thought, placing the meat in a marinade, then popping it back in the fridge. She diced and sliced vegetables, aware of his presence. As if she were standing close to a fire, she could sense the man’s heat. “You’re staring.”

“How can you tell?” Could she see him and just not acknowledge it?

“I can feel it.”

Did she know he could sense her, too? “And what does it feel like?” he said.

Laura stilled. His simple words, murmured low, felt as if they were laced with intimacy and asked in the sultry throes of desire. Her heart quickened unreasonably. “Almost like an invasion.” She scooped the vegetables into a bowl. “And I don’t like it.” She covered the vegetables with cold water, then refrigerated them.

“You’re a drop-dead gorgeous woman, Laura. What man wouldn’t look his fill? Surely you know that.”

“Yes, I’m well acquainted with how much people value looks,” she muttered as the timer went off.

“So am I,” he said bitterly.

“Well then, we have a common ground.” She removed the last batch of cookies, putting the tray on top of the stove before she turned back.

He was gone. As if a cold wind blew across her face, she knew he was gone.

“I don’t like that, either, Mr. Blackthorne,” she shouted into the house.

There was no answer, not that she expected one. Richard Blackthorne did as he pleased. The rest of the world be damned.

Richard moved down the back servants’ stairs, returning his supper dishes to the kitchen. He rinsed and loaded them in the dishwasher, snatching a cookie from the plate left in the center of the butcher table. Munching, he walked through the dining room, intent on the library, yet frowning when he felt the balmy air whispering through the house. He strode into the living room and suddenly stopped short. Every muscle in his body jerked tight when he saw her. She stood on the back deck outside the living room, the French doors thrown open to the breeze. Her hands rested on the rail, and a soft green robe billowed out behind her like a knight’s banner as she tilted her face to a moonless sky. Beyond the deck, the sea crashed against the shore. The flood lamps at the corner of the house offered the only light.

Richard swore he was looking at an angel. The wind caught her auburn hair, lifting it with the swirl of drapes hung inside the French doors.

“Isn’t this fantastic?” she said.

He stilled, feeling trapped in his own house.

“Isn’t it?” she prodded, twisting ever so slightly to look at him.

Richard knew she couldn’t see him clearly, with the light behind her. “You like this weather?”

Laura looked back at the sea. In the distance lightning flashed. “This is my favorite time. Storms, bone-shaking thunder, rain.”

Richard realized she’d intentionally turned her back, giving him the chance to come near or leave, doing either without her seeing him. The gesture touched him, and at the same time, made him wary. Would she suddenly flip on the switch and go screaming? Yet as he already knew where Laura was concerned, he couldn’t resist coming closer.

Slipping onto the balcony, he leaned back into the blowing drapes at the French doors. “Thank you for dinner.” She’d left the tray outside his door on a small table she’d dragged up the stairs.

“You’re welcome. You don’t have to eat up there all alone, Mr. Blackthorne.”

“What do you propose? That we dine like civilized folk?”

“Why not?”

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“And what am I to say to Kelly? Sorry you lost your mother, and well, you really don’t have a dad, just a benefactor.”

He winced. “Tell her whatever you think is best.”

“I know you care, Mr. Blackthorne. I saw her bedroom.”

“Just because I don’t want her to see me, doesn’t mean I don’t want her to be comfortable here. Don’t you get it? She’s a child. One look at what’s left of my face and she’ll have nightmares for a week.” He shook his head. “I’d rather spare us both that.”

Laura stepped closer and saw him stiffen and fold his arms over his chest. The posture was so defensive, she knew he couldn’t be reached. Not now. “Do you really think a child will be satisfied with scraps, Mr. Blackthorne?”

“She’ll have you.”

“I’m a stranger,” she whispered.

“And so am I.”

Laura snarled with frustration, her fists clenched at her sides. “You are an impossible man.”

There was a stretch of silence, and then he said, “I want to protect her.”

“Shielding her from knowing you is not how to go about it.”

“You’re the authority on children?” Disbelief colored his voice.

“I’m not unfamiliar.”

“Really.”

Damn his judging tone, she thought, and wanted to kick him. “You don’t like that other people see only your disfigurement, so you hide it. But you’re no better. You see what you want, Mr. Blackthorne. No, I don’t have any children, but I wish I did. Yet, I taught embassy school for years and I did minor in child psychology. That should come in handy. That and being the oldest of five. Suit you well enough?”

Angrily, she pushed away from the rail, heading inside, but he caught her arm, pulling her into the dark folds of fabric with him.

“Yes. It suits.”

Laura could bearly catch her breath, her heart was pounding so hard. Lord, he was a big man, his fingers wrapping around her upper arms completely, and as the curtains whipped around them, she felt enveloped by his nearness. His scent and the sudden danger of being in the shadows swirled around her like a silken rope, trapping her with him. The strength of his legs pressed against hers, the heat of his body driving away the night’s chill.

He was entirely too mysterious, entirely too intoxicating.

Yet it was not his loneliness, nor his bitter remarks that drew her. It was the man, the one who’d suffered and survived. The one who dared not let a single soul close to him again. Protecting them as he protected himself.

She saw the shadow of his head ducking toward her and knew he wanted to kiss her. She almost wished he would.

“You smell like…freedom,” he whispered, every cell in his body screaming he was a man and she was a soft, beautiful woman. And how long it had been since he’d felt like this, wanted like this.

Even as alarms went off in her head, even as Laura considered she was here, available, and this was likely the first physical contact Richard Blackthorne had had in ages, she was helpless against her need to touch him, and she lifted her hand, laying it on the center of his chest.

His sharp indrawn breath was loud in the stretching silence.

Richard reared back, suddenly aware of what he was doing. “I don’t want your pity and this is wrong.”

He set her back, almost thrusting her from him, and she stumbled as he rolled around the door frame and disappeared into the house, back to his cave.

She wanted to tell him that just then, in his arms, pity was the last thing she was feeling. The very last.