Читать книгу Beauty In His Bedroom - Ashley Summers, Ashley Summers - Страница 9

Several miles away, Clint Whitfield sat at a stoplight, wrapped in baffled wonder. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t think straight—he couldn’t even see straight. For an instant the newly risen moon seemed to dance in its nest of fleecy clouds. He hadn’t even noticed that night had fallen. Apparently he’d been driving aimlessly and for quite a while.

He rubbed his eyes and blew out a long breath. He was just tired, that’s all. Bone tired. He’d been traveling for the better part of two days now, in and out of airports, on and off planes. “And still haven’t arrived at a destination,” he muttered, his irritation ballooning as he remembered he still had to find somewhere to sleep tonight.

At least he knew where the bafflement stemmed from. That Flynn woman. His run-in with her certainly hadn’t eased his fatigue. What the hell was he going to do about her?

A silly question. “Kick her out, of course,” he answered. “You know damn good and well she’s in your house illegally. Without your authorization, anyway,” he amended, adverse to using such a strong word. Maybe she really had told him about a house sitter. When you’re out in the bush or hopping from continent to continent, mail has a hard time catching up.

His disinterest in the house—his almost paranoid dislike of the house, he admitted—could have been a factor. Despite his rationalizing, he still felt something was off-kilter. But he didn’t really care. Let the agency handle the matter. Then he wouldn’t have to see her again.

That’s a relief, Clint thought, driving on. Regina Flynn was a peculiarly bothersome woman. Downright unsettling in some respects. Just as well that their paths wouldn’t cross again. He was a rolling stone, with little time for a relationship, however brief.

And it would have to be a relationship, he thought sardonically; one look into those green eyes and any man would know that. Not that he was interested. Nor could he be, even if he had wanted it. When it came to feelings, he was as arid as the desert.

So let the agency earn their money. They’d force her out; the Realtors would move in; end of story. He’d be out of here in no time. With a decided air of relief, he drove under the porte cochere of a fine hotel and reached for his Stetson.

Oh hell! Clint hit the steering wheel with his fist. His hat was still on a desk, in the house he’d slammed out of in a fit of righteous wrath.

Now what? Returning to the house would be absurdly anticlimatic. Yet he needed the hat. It was his lucky hat, a link with home that kept him focused regardless of where he laid his head. But if he did return, he’d have to face his pretty intruder again, and that thought raised hell with his ego, for he was astonishingly conflicted.

Regina. He tasted her name. A soft, dulcet name. A bit regal, like her. Gina. Even sweeter. All that gorgeous hair. Those absurd glasses perched on that aristocratic nose. Incredibly sexy. Which was neither here nor there, he reminded himself, making a U-turn. He had to have his hat.

As he retraced his route, another prickly question presented itself; what was he going to do when he reached the house? Just unlock the door and walk in? After all, it was his house.

“And give her another heart attack?” he muttered, recalling her fright.

Ring the doorbell, then. Request your hat, thank her and leave. Above all, don’t be drawn inside.

With a start, Regina realized she was sitting in the shadowy haze of dusk. Light from a tall, automatic pool lamp streamed through the Palladian windows, glossing even the most ordinary object with silvered radiance. Obstinately blind to its beauty, she snapped on a table lamp and tried to pull herself together. She hated feeling like this; she’d done no harm to Clint Whitfield. But there was no reasoning with herself. Giving up, she searched for absolution in physical activity.

Sweeping the floor, while satisfying in one respect, did not stop the thoughts surging through her mind much like the flames had surged through her house. She shivered, remembering that traumatic day.

The disaster had felt so overwhelming. Afterward, still in shock, she’d lain in her rented sofa bed at night and had little panic attacks trying to formulate a workable plan for the future…

Regina’s skin goose bumped as the image of flinty blue eyes pierced her mind. Would Clint Whitfield sympathize with her fearful anxiety? Or would he scorn it as a weak attempt to justify her decision to move into his home?

Suddenly swamped with misgivings, she dropped the broom and began pacing. When she found herself standing outside the master bedroom, she opened the door and snapped on the light. Ordinarily this was forbidden territory; she would not invade private space, although she’d peeked, of course. But tonight she felt a perverse need to do more than just peek.

Bottom lip held firmly between her teeth, Regina stepped inside his bedroom. She didn’t much like it. It was too dark, too ornate. An antique mahogany armoire dominated an entire wall. A large roll top desk held a cluster of ancestral pictures in heavy silver frames. Positioned on a somber Oriental rug, two tall, straight-back chairs upholstered in shadow-striped silk flanked a round, claw-footed table. All family heirlooms, she suspected; probably cost the earth. But she’d have nightmares sleeping in that bed. The towering four-poster with its heavy velvet canopy was straight out of a Gothic novel.

Shivering, Regina stepped back into the hall and pulled the door shut. Going into his bedroom was a mistake. What was the matter with her? She had to think about her problem, not the cause of it! But the image of a tall, rugged stranger filled her mind. Sable hair, tousled as if by yearning feminine fingers. Sky-blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled…

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Regina, when did you actually see him smile?” she hissed, exasperated at her silly musings. “Just a stretch of facial muscles, that’s all it was. Because you yelled like a banshee and he was scared to death you’d do it again.”

Still muttering to herself, Regina swept into the kitchen and turned on the stove. She needed to eat, and to heck with Clint Whitfield!

After putting on a pot of salted water, she unpinned her hair and let it swirl around her face in a rambunctious blaze of defiance. Then she slumped down on a bar stool. “Don’t be a goose, Flynn,” she admonished. “You can’t afford pride—there’s Katie’s expenses to think of.” Her school was supported by private donations, plus steep fees from parents. But Regina was well paid, and with careful planning, was managing fine. Until her home and possessions became ashes in that ravenous blaze…

Regina’s sigh reflected her inner conflict. Right or wrong, there was no denying that living in Clint Whitfield’s home had cut her expenses to the bone. But he’d gotten a break, too, she contended; regular house sitters were paid a substantial fee. And come to think of it, why did he dislike this beautiful house so much? She’d sensed his negative feelings several times during their confrontation.

“Dang!” she swore, jumping as the doorbell sent its three-toned peal through the house. Switching on the intercom, she inquired curtly, “Who is it?”

“Clint Whitfield.”

“Oh, Jeez!” Regina whispered, clutching her chest. The husky male voice had sent her heart into a stunning somersault. She cleared her throat. “Just a minute!” After hurriedly smoothing her hair, she sped to the darkened foyer. The porch lights were on and she could see him through the door’s etched-glass insets; tall, bare-headed, forbiddingly stern. Snatching a fortifying breath, she lifted her chin and opened the door to face him.

“Ah, Mr. Whitfield,” she drawled, her puckish sense of humor surfacing like a saving grace. “Returning to the scene of the crime?”

His dark brows shot together. “This is not a laughing matter, Ms. Flynn.”

“Maybe not,” she agreed with a wry smile. “But I learned long ago that if you can’t laugh at your problems, you’re in big trouble.”

He didn’t smile back.

Regina sighed. “So why are you here?”

“To get my hat.”

She blinked. “Your hat?”

“Yes. When I left here, I…left in a hurry.” He frowned as her mouth quirked. “It’s on the desk,” he ended tersely.

“Oh.” She stepped back. “Please, come in. After all, it is your house.” Turning, she proceeded him to the great room.

At the desk, she paused to pick up the battered Stetson. It felt good to her fingers, heavy, masculine. When he took it, his hand brushed hers. The contact created an electrifying sensation.

He jerked his hand back. “Sorry. Static electricity. This dry weather. Thanks,” he said, taking the hat.

“You’re welcome. You know, if you hadn’t slammed out of here so fast, you wouldn’t have had to come back.” Regina met his gaze with a rueful smile. “Then again, if I hadn’t lost my temper, maybe you’d have kept yours and we could have talked this out.”

She glanced at the hat he turned round and round in long, tanned fingers. Something loosened inside her. “You think we could try again? Like calm, rational adults this time?”

Clint shoved back a lock of hair from his brow. “Look, I’m bushed, beat, wiped out from travel fatigue, certainly in no position to bandy clever words with you. The best I can do is apologize for my hot-headed exit. I don’t really think you’re a squatter and I doubt you’re a thief. But truth to tell, I don’t give a damn if you are or not. All I want is my hat, and in due time, your absence from my house.”

“No explanation?”

His eyes narrowed. “I said I didn’t—”

“Give a damn,” she finished for him. “Yes, I heard. Something of a character flaw there,” she murmured just loud enough for him to overhear.

He frowned.

Regretting her barb, Regina tipped her head and gave his rugged face a keen, probing look. A highly sensitive woman, she saw beyond his flinty blue eyes to the profound weariness of heart and mind. His spirit was deeply troubled. And you have an incorrigibly soft heart, Flynn, she acknowledged with droll self-amusement.

He turned his head, bringing into focus the scar slanting along one angular cheekbone. She’d noticed it as soon as he stepped into the brightly lit foyer, and wondered at the where, when, and how of it. Intriguing, she admitted, mentally tracing it with a fingertip.

Responsive to the sudden warmth blossoming in her chest, Regina reached out to rescue the Stetson from his nervous fingers. “Here, let that rest a minute. You sit down, make yourself comfortable. If you’ve been subsisting on airline food all day, you’re bound to be ravenous, and it’s an indisputable fact that I make the best spaghetti sauce in the world—in the universe, actually. The freshest ingredients, herbs I grow myself, gourmet garlic, my Italian plum tomatoes…” She kissed her fingertips. “You’ll love it.”

Without waiting for agreement, she replaced his hat on the desk and headed for the kitchen.

Clint stood awkwardly in place. Dammit, he should get out of here! He didn’t want her spaghetti, didn’t want her chatter or warm smiles. Well, part of him did. And that part acted for him, drawing him along behind her as if on a leash.

Surprisingly he really was hungry. In fact, the aromatic smells wafting from her kitchen were driving him crazy. My kitchen, he amended. He ran a rough hand over his face. “This isn’t necessary, you know.”

“I know.” She pushed a button and a low, slumberous beat of music flowed through the room. “If you’d like to freshen up, the powder room is just down the hall….” She laughed, a chiming sound that brought a sliver of peace to his troubled mind. “I guess you know where it is,” she finished, eyes twinkling.

In the bathroom, he found towels and washcloths neatly laid out, hand soap in a pump bottle, a tiny perfume sample, Lili, a toothbrush and toothpaste—and red, sling-back pumps, one lying on its side as if kicked off enroute. Feminine things. To his chagrin, he found the bathroom’s contents fascinating. Common, ordinary things, fascinating! Confounded, he shook his head at this atypical interest.

When he returned to the kitchen, Regina handed him a corkscrew. “Would you mind opening that wine? On the sideboard. It’s a bold Texas red…or so the salesman told me!”

Her chiming laugh broke out again. To his muddled astonishment, Clint soon found himself sitting on a bar stool, opening wine, watching her pleasingly competent movements. She added pasta and a bit of olive oil to the pot of boiling water. A knife swished through head lettuce, juicy wedges that she dressed with more oil, tarragon vinegar, garlic salt and ground pink peppercorns. She sliced a crusty round loaf, poured a little saucer of virgin olive oil, sprinkled in cracked black pepper. Her long, slender fingers and oval nails captured his gaze and held it prisoner.

At her request, he poured the wine. She laid place mats and napkins on the bar and they ate sitting side by side.

Rain suddenly spattered the windows, creating a disturbingly cozy atmosphere. Through the sauce’s heady fragrance he caught a whiff of some faint, flowery scent. Lilies? It tightened every muscle in his body. He concentrated on his meal.

Regina was aware of his need for silence. He was caught in a situation that perplexed and confused him. Maybe because he was actually enjoying it, she mused. As if enjoyment was forbidden, or at least foreign to him. What had caused him to close himself up to such a degree? Touching the wineglass to her lips, she gave him a sidelong glance as she wracked her brain for details about this fascinating man. There weren’t many. Mid-thirties, childless, obviously well traveled. Divorced, she decided; a man this attractive didn’t run around free for long.

“Are you a native Texan?” she asked.

He nodded, his gaze slipping back to the coral-tipped fingers holding an equally elegant wineglass. “Born and raised on a ranch in the Panhandle.”

A cowboy. Regina smiled at her instant conclusion. Quiet-spoken, tall and lean, with crinkly blue eyes and a battered Stetson, he epitomized the world’s image of a Texan. She was even certain he sat easy on a horse. Well, so did she.

“A cowboy?” she murmured, flashing him a smile.

“A veterinarian.” His plate empty, Clint wiped his mouth and expelled a long sigh. “That was delicious. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. There’s more if you’d like….”

“Thanks, but I’ve had plenty. Whose picture is that?” he asked abruptly.

Regina’s gaze followed his to an alcove furnished with built-in shelves and a small writing desk. “That’s my darling Katie,” she answered with a soft smile.

Clint looked startled. “Your daughter?”

“No, my sister,” Regina answered, chuckling. “She’s fifteen. I know she looks much younger, but she’s a tiny thing, very petite, barely five feet tall. She’s away at school right now.”

His eyebrows rose. “Private school?”

“Yes.” Regina began clearing the counter. “I’ll be through here in just a minute. You finish your wine in the den—we need to talk.”

Hard blue eyes collided with hers but made no headway against her imperious regard. A smile flickered around his mouth. Inclining his dark head, Clint picked up his glass and removed himself to the den.

Music still whispered, more imagination than reality. Rain played on the windowpanes as if in counterpoint. He felt angry, perplexed. Being here should be harder than this, shouldn’t it? But his wife hadn’t lived long enough to occupy their new home.

He sat down on the couch, then impulsively stretched out his legs full length on the soft, cushiony surface. It’s my couch, he thought irritably. If I want to put my feet up, I’ll damn well do it. He set aside his wine. A moment later his head fell back against the stack of jewel-colored cushions. Slowly his thick lashes fanned down….

“Oh, dear,” Regina murmured as she entered the room and stopped beside him. He was asleep. The tremor that started in her heart coursed through her legs as she looked down at him.

Decision time. A simple decision, really, she thought; wake him, and be through with it, or just let him sleep and ride whatever horse the morning brings.

Regina sighed, knowing her flippancy was just a cover for an awareness she’d rather not probe too deeply. Her friends all considered her to be a warm, giving, loving person, often to a fault. She didn’t agree with this last assessment; the world was in such desperate need of love, how could one possibly give too much? This part of her character she attributed to, and honored for, her Italian mother. Still, while it might be admirable to have a big heart, she thought with gentle self-mockery, it wasn’t all that smart.

Because it left her terribly vulnerable.

And because Clint Whitfield was the most dangerous man she’d ever met, the kind of man who touched every instinct known to womankind.

Regina pressed a hand against her breasts. She was nearly thirty and never married. She’d come close once. But when her fiancé learned that she’d assumed responsibility for Katie after their mother’s death, he’d bailed out.

“He dumped you,” she corrected with brutal self-honesty.

Although she still enjoyed the sensual art of flirtation, she’d become wary of deeper involvement. She doubted any man would willingly take on such a burden. A burden she could never lay down. So she’d decided she didn’t need romance in her life. Friendship would do.

But this man had stirred something deep inside her, something innocent of prior experience. And he’d done it without the usual social exchanges, with little verbal or physical communication, and without using an ounce of masculine charm.

Baffled by his effect on her, Regina studied the sculpted features now softened by slumber, the challenging, provocative scar. “Yep, dangerous,” she murmured, a smile touching her mouth. “Wonderfully dangerous.”

Her decision having made itself, she unfolded a cashmere afghan and spread it over his long body. Vulnerable she might be, and sensibly cautious, but she was also Irish as well as Italian, which made her courageous as well as warmhearted. She wasn’t afraid to take chances—as long as it didn’t hurt Katie.

Regina turned off the lamp. Only the moonlight illumined his dark face, glossing it with mystery and sadness. “Good night, Mr. Whitfield, sleep well,” she whispered, and tiptoed from the room.