Читать книгу Beauty In His Bedroom - Ashley Summers, Ashley Summers - Страница 10

Clint Whitfield brushed at his face as if clearing away the sunlight teasing him to wakefulness. In his years of roaming the globe, rarely did he awake confused as to his whereabouts. But this wasn’t the veld, the jungle or the dun-colored plains with animals flowing across its soft folds like streams of dark water. He was in his own house—and for a fraction of a second, he expected his wife to come in….

No, no. She was gone and he was alone.

Still confused, he gazed around the sunlit room, noting plants and flowers, a snowy knit shawl flung over a chair, framed snapshots on the mantel, none of them his. The center picture, a small girl riding a hand-guided pony, pricked his memory, rousing him to his new reality despite an intense desire to avoid it.

Even worse, once confusion vanished, he was left with a sense of stupidity that made him groan aloud.

Regina Flynn. Clint groaned again as her sweet face formed in his mind. He had meant to sit down, exchange a few sensible words with the woman and leave none the worse for the encounter. Instead, he’d fallen asleep. How could he have let that happen?

I’ve got to get out of here! Reacting to an urgency he didn’t fully understand, he threw off the afghan, bounded to his feet and grabbed his hat off the desk—

“Good morning.”

The low, musical greeting affected Clint like a shout. He froze, then whirled, eyes narrowing as he noted the tiny smile sweetening her lips. Yeah, just as he thought—amusement, so faint he’d have missed it had he not been immediately suspicious!

She sat at the bar, coffee cup in hand, head still tilted in humorous regard. “Sleep okay?” she asked.

Clint grunted. She wore something long and pink and looked absurdly delicious with all those messy curls streaming around her face and down her neck.

“I slept fine,” he said. “I didn’t intend to,” he added tersely when she gifted him with another smile. “Falling asleep here was definitely not in my plans.”

“You were exhausted,” she said easily. “There’s hot coffee—pour yourself a cup. Then go shower if you’d like. Meantime I’ll get dressed. We can talk over breakfast. Nothing fancy, just bagels. Frozen, unfortunately.” She dimpled. “But there’s homemade strawberry jam to even things out.”

She stood up. “Coffee’s there, cups over here, sugar and cream by the sink,” she said, and left him standing there still forming a polite but tellingly curt refusal.

Clint couldn’t resist the appeal of a hot shower. After downing a cup of black coffee, he fetched his bag from the rental car and headed for his bedroom.

Opening the door was good for one of those gut-kicking pangs that life gifted him with whenever he dared think he was finally immune. Once inside, he paused for a quick look around. He’d never cared for the plush decor. But Barbara had liked it. So he’d put up with all this red velvet and carved mahogany.

But that bed… He’d never sleep in it again. Well, there were plenty of other bedrooms in the-house-that-Clint-built. Grimacing, he made a mental note to return this heirloom furniture to her family. “Should have done that a long time ago,” he berated himself. Tight-lipped, he walked on to his personal bathroom, an uncluttered expanse of white tile, forest-green porcelain and sparkling glass.

The shower felt as wonderful as anticipated. After a satisfying interval, he turned it off and grabbed a towel. Wrapping it around his hips, he wiped the fogged mirror and studied himself with a crooked smile. He looked dark, dangerous, tough as nails, a well-fitting mask that had gradually formed around his features as the darkness squeezed all joy and humor out of him.

He’d lived behind the mask so long and it had served him so well, that he doubted he’d ever be free of its cynical benefits.

“Just as well,” he muttered, lathering on shaving cream. He had no use for romantic illusions. Any dreams he might have had were dead, crushed by the weight of gritty reality.

Such massive destruction left a man achingly vulnerable, and cynicism, with its razor-sharp edges, made a good shield. Avoiding his own gaze, Clint finished shaving and hurriedly dressed in khaki slacks and a white knit pullover.

When he returned to the den, breakfast was laid out on the bar. Regina, clad in a smart navy suit and low-heeled pumps, motioned him to sit. Impassively he obeyed. He accepted a cup of coffee, but ignored breakfast. He’d rather look at her than eat, an unsettling discovery. He swallowed a big gulp of coffee, burning his tongue grievously. He swore, but kept it under his breath.

“Help yourself, I’ve already eaten,” she said with another wave of her slim, elegant hand. Absently she smoothed her hair. “Mr. Whitfield, I’m sorry if I’ve caused you distress. I did notify you about a house sitter,” she went on in a rush of words, “but I admit I might have jumped the gun a little—”

“Jumped the gun a little?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“All right, I did notify you, but I didn’t wait for your response. So you do have cause to be irate. In fact, you have cause to lodge a complaint with Lamar himself,” she added.

With just enough irony in her smile to make that much too harsh a punishment, he thought. “But you hope I won’t.”

“Yes, of course. I value my job.”

“But not enough to keep from risking it. Why? What prodded you into doing this?”

Her gaze dropped. “That’s not important. I don’t want to play on your sympathy. Not to that extent, anyway. But I can promise that I’ll be out of here by tonight, with no harm done that I can see. I really have taken good care of your home during this time—”

“During what time? How long have you been here?”

Regina stuck a bagel in the toaster. “A little over a month. I moved in the last week of August.”

“And you didn’t tell anyone at the office?”

“No. Oh, I told Lamar I was appointing myself your house sitter, but he assumed—and I let him assume—that you’d agreed to the arrangement. I hoped, of course, that you would do so before he discovered that I’d acted prematurely,” she said stiffly. Refilling their coffee cups, she picked up hers and cautiously sipped. “Again, I’m sorry.”

“Why? Because you got caught?”

“No,” she replied indignantly. “Well, yes. But also because you were upset by it. I apologize, and I will get out at once. It won’t take any time, I only have my clothes and my garden—”

“Your garden?” His eyebrows shot up again. “You can move a garden?”

“Well, if it’s in big pots, you can. Just some herbs I use often, and a few pepper and tomato plants I’ve coaxed through the summer heat. Not an easy job, believe me!” she said with a sudden smile. It faded, and the room inexplicably darkened.

“I suppose not.” The bagel popped up. He took half, then reached for the cream cheese. “What caused you to sneak in here in the first place? There must have been some good reason to risk your job.”

“There was. And I didn’t sneak,” Regina added with another snap of indignance. Passing him the strawberry preserves, she continued quietly, “Obviously I needed a place to stay. And here was yours, just wasting away.”

“And?” he prompted. “What happened to your home? Assuming you had one.”

“Of course I had one!” Regina modified her tone again. “My home burnt to the ground, Mr. Whitfield. I lost everything I owned.” She shrugged. “End of story.”

“I see.” Clint spread preserves on his bagel. “Is that why you lit into me about ‘abandoning’ my house?”

“I suppose that played a part in it.” She sighed. “A big part. I’m sorry about that, too. It was uncalled for,” she admitted. “But your house did seem unloved. How long did you live here before you flew off to answer the call of the wild?”

Amused by her droll tone, Clint replied, “I moved in right after it was finished, stayed two months, then left for Kenya.”

“Why?” she asked, driven by an unruly need to know. “A love affair gone bad—or something like that?” she ended lamely. Meeting his opaque blue gaze, she flushed. Oh, Gina! Shut up, for godsakes!

“No, nothing like that. I’m a widower, Miss Flynn.”

“Oh!” Regina’s hand flew to her mouth. “Mr. Whitfield, I’m sorry—”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Clint said brusquely. “Since we’re getting into personal stuff, didn’t you have insurance on your house?”

“Yes, enough to pay off the second mortgage. The contents weren’t insured, however. Living here gave me a month’s breathing space and I thank you for that. Anyway, I’ll be gone by this evening.”

“No. You don’t have to leave.”

Startled green eyes stared at him. “I don’t? But you—last night you were so angry at finding me here, I thought…” A smile suddenly wreathed her puzzled features. “Well, never mind what I thought. Do you really mean it? You’re not mad about…well, you know.”

Clint shook his head, bemused by the effect she was having on him. Something on the order of a deer mesmerized by headlights, he thought, daring another glance into her dark-lashed eyes. Maybe that’s why I’m being such a sweetheart, he mocked his undisciplined responses. But she had a point. The service was free and no damage had been done that he could see. He didn’t give a damn about the house anyway. Why should he care if she stayed in it? Besides, he had a hunch the agency would take a different view if they learned she’d supplanted a client’s wishes. He had no desire to get anyone fired. Especially not someone who’d lost everything in a fire.

“Yeah, I mean it,” he said gruffly. “I’m putting the house on the market and I figure your being here will help sell it faster than if it’s vacant,” he added, resorting to hard-nosed practicality. “So you can stay on…provided you cooperate with the Realtor in showing it, of course.”

“Yes, of course.” She nibbled her lip. “I’ll have to think about it some.”

“My presence won’t be a bother, if that’s what’s bugging you,” he said dryly. “I’m leaving town today to visit friends, then I’ll be in and out on business.”

“I see,” Regina said, cool and crisp, even though curiosity was eating her alive. What kind of business? Where was he going? More important, when was he coming back? And would he be coming back here?

Clint watched her closely, intrigued by the expressions flitting across her vivid face. Catching his regard, she blushed. “Okay, I’ll try it, but I don’t know,” she ended dubiously. “But I do thank you. You’ve been very kind.” She stood up and extended her hand. “Well, today is Friday, a workday for some of us. Goodbye, Mr. Whitfield. Nice meeting you.”

“Yeah.” Clint gave a quick, hard laugh. “Same here, Miss Flynn. See you around.”

Regina nodded, picked up her briefcase and hurried out to her car. Questions about Clint divided her attention as she drove to the office. How long had he been widowed? Although the subject had aroused no overt emotion, she’d sensed something beneath that hard mask, a sadness that went beyond grief.

Was he still mired in the bitterness of his loss? If so, his wife must have been the love of his life, Regina thought wistfully. “None of which is your business, Gina,” she chided. But her heart still yearned for answers.

Five days passed without any sign of a Realtor. Puzzled, Regina questioned that, too. Clint had seemed impatient to get it over with, close this part of his life. At least that’s how she’d read him.

He really doesn’t care about this house, she concluded, hurrying in from work Wednesday evening. He hadn’t even walked through it before he left. “Sad, really sad,” she murmured.

Hearing the phone ring, she ran down the hall to the den and grabbed the receiver. It was Katie, wanting to talk. Regina relaxed and enjoyed the half-hour chat with her sister. Katie found astonishment and delight in everything. This time it was a whole flock of baby toad-frogs no bigger than her little fingernail hopping in the grass.

Regina hung up with a soft laugh. “Toad-frogs!” she chuckled. She’d started to walk away when the phone rang again. “Yes, Katie, what did you forget?” she asked indulgently.

Silence.

“Hello?” Her voice sharpened. “Who is this?”

“Clint Whitfield.”

Regina’s heart fluttered. “Mr. Whitfield! I’m sorry, I… How are you?” Idiotic, Gina! “Did you want something?” she asked, making it worse.

“Yes, I want to know why you told Lamar about this…situation between us. I wasn’t going to mention it,” he said roughly. “I called the agency a few minutes ago about something else, and much to my surprise, your boss got on the line and apologized all over the place.”

“Yes, well, I—I confessed what I’d done.”

“Why would you do a dumb thing like that?”

“Because it was the right thing to do.” She sighed. “Also because I wanted to tell him myself before he found out from someone else. Being found out by you was bad enough. He wasn’t too happy about it, either, raked me over the coals pretty good. But I figure I deserved it. And, too, I have a job review next week with potential for a promotion, so I’m glad to get this behind me.” Silence. “Are you back in town?”

“Back in town.”

“Oh. Are you still selling the house? I mean, I haven’t heard from any Realtors yet.”

“That’s because I haven’t gotten around to any yet. I’ve been busy, Ms. Flynn,” he replied irritably. “I’m just passing through town, so it’ll be a few days before it gets done. This Lamar seemed more a personal friend than a boss.”

The abrupt change of subject threw Regina. “Yes, he’s a friend. But also very much a boss,” she responded coolly. “Look, if you want to spend the night here—I mean, this is your house, so if you’d rather not go to a hotel…” She let it hang.

“Thank you, but a hotel’s fine. Well, they’re calling my flight,” Clint said.

He was relieved to find an excuse to end this disturbing contact. Pocketing his cell phone, he grabbed his bag and strode to the gate. Why had he made that remark about this Lamar person? Who cared if he was boss or friend?

Sinking into the roomy, first-class seat, Clint closed his eyes. He was on his way to Los Angeles for a fund-raiser. Big White Hunter pulls ’em in, he thought sardonically; he’d never harmed anything in his life. The scar didn’t hurt his image, either. Well, he was using his looks and imaginary reputation for a good cause, garnering money for the preservation of animals, which he liked a damn sight more than people.

Regina Flynn. Green eyes, a lush, full mouth, saucy little nose. He accepted a magazine, determined to put her image from his mind. Odd how persistent it was. Giving up, he stared out the window, wondering if he should just call a Realtor, save a trip back there again. That would probably be a smart move, given his annoying interest in his new tenant.

Clint relaxed, relieved by his decision. He’d call first thing in the morning, ask the agency to recommend a reliable Realtor. Maybe even ask good ole Lamar himself, he thought with biting humor.

Sunday afternoon Clint Whitfield came home again. He’d had a grueling weekend and was looking forward to some rest and relaxation. “So why am I back here?” he muttered, ringing the doorbell. Irritably he stopped his questing mind. It was his house.

“Yes? Who is it?” came a sweet voice through the intercom.

“Clint Whitfield.” Hearing her surprised little “Oh!” touched something in him. “May I come in?” he asked testily.

“Yes, of course. I’m out by the pool. Come on in,” she answered so breathlessly, he smiled.

Unlocking the door, he strode through the house and out to the raised deck, where he stopped to grab a breath. She was all legs. Bare, shapely legs. She wore some sort of garment that fell to midpoint on her thighs. He wondered if she wore anything beneath. His chest tightened. He made his way down the steps more slowly than intended.

“Hello!” she called, waving one slender arm.

“Hello,” he replied, pausing on the last step. He didn’t think she wore a bra, either, and that played hell with his libido. His throat felt inordinately dry. Clearing it, he continued, “Isn’t the water cold this late in the year?”

She laughed. “A little. But it’s ninety degrees today, so that helps keep me warm. Come on down, I’m having a little picnic, and there’s enough for two.” Turning, she walked to a small, wrought-iron dining set.

He followed behind her, looking for some line or strap against her back that might indicate a bra. Damn, Whitfield! You’d think you’d never seen a seminude woman before! Annoyed at himself, he sat down opposite her and accepted a beer. She’d placed a tray of fruit, cheese and crackers on the glass-topped table. Wondering why he was so ravenous when he was with her, he filled a paper plate.

“I just got in a few minutes ago,” she was saying. “Katie was here for the weekend, but I had to take her back early, because her very best friend in all the world is having a birthday party. You can’t miss an important occasion like that!” she declared, laughing.

Her face glowed, a breeze played in her loose hair, and those eyes were luminous emeralds. Clint felt something entirely unwelcome stir in his chest. It was a shifting sort of feeling, like a tiny earthquake opening up to expose something soft and vulnerable to the glare of sunlight.

“No, I guess you can’t.” He swigged the icy beer. “What kind of school does she attend? A boarding school?”

“No. Well, yes, I guess you could call it that. She lives there full-time. Katie’s mentally handicapped, Mr. Whitfield—”

“Clint.”

Regina swallowed. “Clint. We were lucky to be accepted by this school,” she continued.

“Why is that?”

Delighted by his seemingly real interest, Regina described the school, a huge, sprawling complex boasting living quarters, fully staffed greenhouses, ceramic studios and a shop that showcased student handicrafts. “Leaving Katie was a wrench—I’ve always been so protective of her, and I miss her, her impish laughter and ever-ready hugs….”

Clint, watching her closely, noted the sparkle of tears on her lashes. “How does Katie feel about it?”

“Happy. She loves the staff and considers them simply an extension of family. Since we don’t have much family left…” Regina shook her head. “Our parents died when she was quite young, so there’s just Katie and me.”

Clint frowned. “And you were how old when you assumed full responsibility for a handicapped child?”

“Twenty-two. Thank goodness I already had my BA in business. Her school is supported by private donations, plus steep tuition fees paid by parents. But I have a good job, so we’re managing just fine.”

Rising, Clint walked to the edge of the outsize pool, where a waterfall rushed down artfully placed stones. Magnificent boulders created nooks for lacy ferns and scarlet impatiens. “Why don’t you have someone sharing the load? Like a husband.”

“I haven’t found men all that eager to share the load,” she answered wryly. “Almost got one to the altar once, but he developed cold feet at the last minute.”

Suddenly aware of how personal they were getting, Regina sat down and opened a cola, sipped it, glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes. His thick, dark hair curled at his nape, ruining his stony image, she thought with secret amusement.

“That’s a rotten deal you’ve been handed, caring for a handicapped child alone,” he mused. “Must have been tough.”

“Oh, no, you misunderstood me. My darling Katie is the sweetest, most lovable person I’ve ever met. Caring for her has made me what I am today. And I happen to like who and what I am,” Regina asserted. “I really don’t need a man to help me do what I enjoy most in life.”

Clint’s mouth twisted. “Bully for you, Ms. Flynn.”

“Regina,” she corrected softly. “And I wasn’t boasting, I was merely stating a fact.” Ignoring his skeptical glance, she walked up beside him, her shoulder almost touching his. “So pretty,” she murmured, gazing at the waterfall. “You’d think you were in the tropics. You did a fine job, Clint. I’ve never seen a lovelier pool.”

“Thanks.” It was almost a grunt. Clint couldn’t help it—the irony of her remark had sliced like a knife. This elaborate pool had been one of several negative issues in his marriage. His wife had kept making costly changes to the original plans. With her income and trust fund, she could afford it. But he couldn’t, and he’d wanted to build her the house himself.