Читать книгу Reese's Wild Wager - Barbara McCauley - Страница 9

Sunday was the only morning that Reese allowed himself to sleep in. He cherished that day, was grateful that he had a manager like Corky to come in early, start the coffee brewing, the grills heating, and the cinnamon rolls baking. Squire’s Tavern and Inn was well-known not only for their hamburgers and pizza, but also for their breakfasts—plump sausages, country potatoes, biscuits that melted in your mouth and eggs so fresh they were still warm from the nest. He loved the smells and the sounds of his business: the food grilling, people laughing, having a good time while they ate and talked.

It reminded him of meals in his house when he was a kid. With five kids at the table—four of them boys—you had to yell to be heard over dinner in the Sinclair house. His father had always joined in with his children’s antics, while his mother frowned and made a convincing effort to keep order. But as strict and rigid as she’d tried to be, they’d have her laughing and acting silly right along with the rest of them before the meal was over.

He missed those meals almost as much as he missed his parents. Twelve years had passed since the car accident that had taken them both. Sometimes it seemed like only yesterday, other times it seemed like an eternity.

Yawning, he rolled into the softness of the mattress and his pillow, cracked one eye open to glance at the bedside clock. Eight o’clock. He frowned and slammed his eye closed again, shutting out the early-morning light that poured through the open slats of his wooden blinds. He was up every other morning by six, but he never woke up before nine-thirty on Sunday. He still had an hour and a half to go, and he intended to savor every minute of it. The cottage he lived in was directly behind the tavern, a redbrick carriage house he’d converted into living quarters after he’d bought the abandoned tavern and completely renovated it four years ago. He was close enough to his business to handle whatever problems might arise, but it offered enough privacy for him to have alone time when he needed it. Or to entertain company.

Specifically, female company.

He was a man who fully appreciated women. The female gender, with their exotic smells and delicious curves, fascinated him almost as much as they intrigued him. They were complicated and mysterious; sweet and coy one minute, difficult and confusing the next. An absolute enigma that completely enchanted him.

Fortunately for him, women enjoyed his company as much as he enjoyed theirs. He understood the game well enough to know that, as an unattached male, he was open season for all the single women. But he was honest and up front with every woman he dated: he wasn’t looking for marriage. Still, they had a way of pausing at jewelry-store windows, dragging him to movies that included at least one wedding, and somehow ending up in the department store housewares section, specifically china and silver.

But he was content with his life exactly as it was. He loved his business and his freedom. No one telling him what to do or when to do it. He never had to answer to anyone. No complications, no problems—

He buried his head in his pillow and groaned.

Except for Sydney Taylor.

Damn.

Sydney was one big problem.

He’d really never expected her to take him seriously when he’d made that bet with her, and he’d certainly never expected her to know how to play poker, let alone be so good at the game. But if there was one thing predictable about Sydney, it was the fact that she was unpredictable. He knew he never should have challenged her like that, but once he had, and she’d refused to back down, he couldn’t just walk away. A guy had his pride, after all, and Sydney had tweaked his.

Knowing the woman, she was probably in the kitchen with Corky right now, telling him what to do and how to do it. Corky would have a fit about that, Reese knew. The man had been in the New York restaurant business for twenty-five years before he’d given up the fast pace of the big city and moved to Bloomfield. He’d applied for the position of chief cook and bottle washer one week before Squire’s Tavern and Inn had opened its doors. For the past four years, Corky had been more like a partner to Reese than an employee, and even more, he’d been a good friend.

But Corky was particular about his kitchen. He had his own way of doing things. He wouldn’t like Sydney messing with his pots and pans. Reese could see her now, with that stubborn little chin of hers pointed at Corky while she informed him of the proper method of cracking an egg or peeling a potato. That long, slender neck stretched high as she swished him out of her way. That sassy mouth giving orders.

Reese had known Sydney most of his life, but had never noticed before last night what a perfect mouth she had. Her lips were wide and full, rosy pink. She didn’t know she did it, but every time she’d have a mediocre hand, she’d catch that lush bottom lip of hers between her perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth and nibble. More than once, that little action had distracted him. Then he’d remind himself he was thinking lustful thoughts about Sydney, of all people, and force his mind back to the game.

But he’d never seen her with that blond hair all mussed up like that, or streaks of mud on that smooth, porcelain skin. And he’d certainly never seen her in a bathrobe. As plain as the garment had been, there’d been something appealing about that red-plaid robe. Something strangely…sexy. Something that made him curious about what she wore under that robe.

And further still, what was under that.

Good Lord. He flipped onto his back and snorted. His brothers would have a good laugh if they could hear his thoughts about Sydney. Reese decided he needed to start dating more. He hadn’t had much time for female companionship the past several weeks, and even Sydney was starting to look good to him. And that was ridiculous. Sydney Taylor was not even close to the type of woman he was interested in. Sydney was too uptight, too bossy, too—

“Are you going to sleep all day, Sinclair, or do you think we can get started?”

“What the—” On an oath, his eyes popped open. Arms folded, Sydney stood in his open bedroom door, a smile on those lips he’d been so foolishly fantasizing about and a gleam in her baby-blue eyes.

He was going to strangle her.

Eyes narrowed, he sat slowly. This was the Sydney he knew. Dressed in tailored black slacks, a pale blue, high-necked turtleneck that made her eyes shine, her hair pulled up tight in a smooth, golden knot on top of her head.

While, he, on the other hand, was buck naked under his sheets.

“Have you ever heard of knocking?”

“I did knock.” Diamond studs sparkled on her ear-lobes as she tipped her head. “Twice, as a matter of fact. Corky told me to come on in if you didn’t answer.”

He decided he’d strangle Corky right after he finished with Sydney.

“This is my bedroom. You want to be specific about what it is you’d like to get started?”

“My duties, of course. What else would I possibly be talking about?”

He slipped down between the sheets and his white down comforter, plumped his pillow with his fist as he turned his back to her. “I sleep in on Sundays. Corky will show you what to do.”

“Not a chance, Sinclair. Our bet was that I was to work under your supervision.”

“Well, Syd, since I’m in my bed, what work under me would you suggest?”

“Why, Reese Sinclair.” Sydney’s voice dripped Southern debutante. “Sweet words like that do make a girl’s heart flutter.”

“If the girl had a heart,” he muttered.

He heard her soft laughter and couldn’t resist glancing over his shoulder to watch as she strolled around his bedroom, first inspecting a baseball trophy from the year his college team had won the state championship—he’d been pitcher—then squinting as she bent over his dresser and closely examined an oak-framed photograph of his sister Cara and her husband Ian that had been taken at their wedding last year, then another picture of his brother Callan and his wife Abby taken at their wedding six months ago.

She straightened, not even pretending to hide her curiosity as she continued to inspect his bedroom.

The woman was unbelievable.

“Tours don’t begin until ten.” Reese glared at her. “You can purchase tickets at the front desk.”

Sydney smiled. “I’m sorry. It’s just so overwhelming to be in the legendary Sinclair den of carnal delights. I expected to be stepping over the writhing bodies of scantily clad women.”

“The maid cleaned up already this morning,” he said dryly. “But there might still be a couple in the closet if you’d care to look.”

She was actually heading for his closet when she stopped suddenly at the floor-to-ceiling bookcase he’d built beside an existing brick fireplace.

“Books!” she exclaimed. “You actually have books in here. Grisham, King, Follett—oh!” Her eyes lit up. “Dickens and Shakespeare, too. Were they all left here by the previous owner?”

The sarcasm under that sweet smile of hers had Reese bristling. It wasn’t bad enough she’d invaded his bedroom, now she was insulting his intellect. He’d read every one of those books, even had a signed copy of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby and Steinbeck’s Cannery Row. His most recent purchase, though, and his most prized, was a first edition, leather-bound Alexandre Dumas The Three Musketeers. It had cost him a bundle, but it was worth every penny.

Still, he did have an image to maintain.

“Yeah, well, my comic books didn’t take up much room and I needed something on the shelves.” He sat, bent one knee while he stretched his arms wide. The comforter slipped down to his stomach. Sydney looked in his direction, and to his smug satisfaction, her eyes widened and she gasped.

Ha. That ought to send her running.

“Reese,” she whispered, her voice filled with reverence. “How magnificent!”

Good Lord. Reese felt his face warm. He pulled the comforter back up as she hurried across the room toward him. Geez. He’d heard a lot of compliments, but never had a woman been quite so…exuberant.

“It’s Louis XV, isn’t it?” She stopped at the foot of his bed, touched one corner of his four-poster bed and ran her fingers over the dark grain. “Black walnut, right?”

“Ah, yeah.” She was enthralled with his bed, for God’s sake. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or annoyed. He watched as she stroked her fingertips over the round top of the smooth wood and made a small O with those pretty lips of hers.

His throat went dry.

“These rose carvings are amazing.” Her fingers glided over the intricate petals and leaves. “Has it been refinished or is this the original stain?”

He dragged his gaze from those slender hands of hers and swallowed hard. What had she asked him? If the bed had been refinished? He had no idea. He’d just bought it last month at the Witherspoon estate auction after Cara had insisted it would be perfect for the inn. On a whim, he’d kept the bed for himself instead. Sydney was the first woman who had been in his bedroom since he’d set it up, but if it had this effect on all females, he would have to give his sister his undying gratitude.

Somehow, though, he couldn’t imagine any of the women he’d invited here—and there weren’t nearly as many as the gossipmongers proclaimed—noticing the grain of wood on his bed. He did know, however, that not one woman had ever commented on his book collection before.

He frowned as he remembered that Sydney’s comment had been less than complimentary. And he certainly hadn’t invited her here, either.

She bent on her knees and leaned closer still to inspect the carving, her hands moving over the post. Stroking. Up, down. Reese felt an arrow of liquid heat shoot straight to his groin.

Good God, as ridiculous as it was, the woman was turning him on!

“Gee, Syd—” Reese feigned a lightness to his voice, even though his entire body was wound up tighter than a steel spring “—now that you’re such good friends, maybe you’d like me to leave so you can be alone here with Louis.”

Sydney’s head shot up as she obviously realized how…intimate her inspection of his bedpost had been. Her blue eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then she quickly dropped her hands and turned her lips up in what Reese could only call a smirk.

“Why, Reese Sinclair, you’re upset because I got more excited over an old bed than you.” She tilted her head to the side and touched her chin with her finger. “Don’t take it personal, but you’re just not my type, that’s all.”

Oh, was that right? Not her type, huh? She was just so damn pompous, Reese couldn’t resist messing with her. Resting an arm on his bent knee, he lifted one dark brow and grinned at her. “You sure about that, Syd?” he said huskily. “If you’d let yourself loosen up just a little bit, I bet I could tip your tiara.”

“Not a chance, Sinclair. But thanks for the offer, anyway. I’m sure you considered it quite generous on your part.” With that, she turned on her heels and headed for the door. “By the way, I have some great ideas on improving the efficiency of your kitchen. Shouldn’t take me more than a couple of days, then we can talk about developing a new menu. You really could use a little more variety.”

She waltzed through the bedroom door in that regal manner of hers and Reese almost felt as if he’d been dismissed. The woman was enough to make a man chew nails and spit rust.

He frowned. What the hell did she mean, develop a new menu? He had a terrific menu, with plenty of variety, if he did say so himself. Why fix it if it ain’t broke? And besides, she was supposed to be doing what he said, not messing with his menu or improving the efficiency of his kitchen.

Oh, no. The kitchen. If Sydney started rearranging things in the kitchen, Corky would kill him. He had to get down there before the woman caused too much trouble or any blood was shed, though that blood was probably going to be his own, Reese knew.

Whatever Corky did to him—and it was probably going to be painful—Reese figured he’d earned it. It was his own stupidity that had started this ridiculous bet. He’d made his own bed, so the saying went, and he’d have to sleep in it.

But the thought of beds brought his mind back around to the look in Sydney’s eyes as she’d admired his. Those lips of hers that had gone soft, those long, slender fingers moving on the bedpost….

Dammit! He bet she’d done that on purpose, just to get to him. Well, he refused to let Sydney Taylor get the better of him. He wasn’t interested in her like that, anymore than she was interested in him.

But now that he thought about it, when she’d told him that he wasn’t her type, she’d tilted her head and touched her chin. Exactly what she’d done last night every time she’d bluffed.

Nah. Reese laughed at the possibility of anything more than an adversarial relationship with Sydney. Besides, as annoying as it was, it was also great fun sparring with her. Why spoil a good thing?

Boomer chose that moment to come bounding through the open bedroom door. With a shrill bark, he jumped on the bed and slipped his head under Reese’s hand.

“Thanks a lot, pal.” Reese rubbed the dog’s ear. “This is all your fault I’ve got Sydney the Hun driving me insane.”

Boomer slapped his tail on the blanket.

Shaking his head, Reese chuckled as he slipped out of bed. If there was one thing he could be certain of, the next two weeks were certainly going to be interesting.

War had been declared, and there was no question in Reese’s mind who the victor would be.

Outside Reese’s small carriage house, Sydney leaned back against the closed front door. Beside a black wrought-iron porch column, one large pot of rose-pink bouvardia sweetly scented the cool morning air, and a family of sparrows chattered excitedly in a nearby maple. Weathered clay pots of flowering cabbage dotted the moss-lined brick walkway that led back to the tavern, and a rusted metal tub nestled beside a concrete bench spilled the fading blooms of purple crocus.

Any other time, Sydney would have stopped to admire the beauty of the English-style garden with its double-tiered fountain and rose arbor. She’d had no idea such a lovely spot existed behind the tavern. But then, she’d never been in Reese Sinclair’s bedroom before, either.

Her senses still reeled from the experience.

Closing her eyes, she drew in a slow, calming breath. Even now, outside in the fresh morning air, she could still see him as vividly as when she’d stood in his bedroom. The blush she’d managed to hold back inside now bloomed on her cheeks. Her skin felt warm and tingly. Heavens, but the man was something incredible to look at. Long and lean, with broad shoulders and a wide chest sprinkled with coarse, dark hair. His arms were muscled, his stomach tapered, without an ounce of fat.

When the blanket had slipped down, her heart had skipped rope. He’d been naked under those covers, she was certain of that, and standing in his bedroom, surrounded by that masculine scent of him, staring into his sleepy, sexy eyes, she’d found it difficult to breathe.

And then she’d wondered what it would be like between those warm, rumpled sheets with him. What those sculpted muscles would feel like under her hands, how his tall, hard body would fit against her own.

She’d distracted those wayward thoughts by fawning over his bed. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, but the only reason she’d known specifics was because she’d actually been at the auction and she’d admired it then, as well. She’d picked up a French Victorian buffet herself that she intended to use in the entry of her restaurant.

But that buffet had definitely not been on her mind when she’d been kneeling beside Reese’s bed. In spite of her yammering on about carvings and stains, she’d had more lascivious thoughts in mind. And she’d walk naked through a blizzard before she’d let Reese know that.

Honestly. If the man’s empty head got any bigger, he’d have to wear lead shoes on a warm day to keep from floating away. The last thing Reese Sinclair needed was another female admirer. And the last thing she needed was to have her head turned by a superficial, immature rake whose single most recurring thought was about sex.

Tip her tiara, indeed.

Not likely.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched back to the tavern, determined not only to honor her end of this ridiculous bargain, but to put all prurient thoughts about Reese Sinclair out of her mind.

She hadn’t spent nine months in culinary school and restaurant training for nothing. Squire’s Tavern was distinctly eighteenth-century English: Tudor design with dark woods, rough-hewn oak beams, peg and groove floors, and a massive stone fireplace. There was a warmth to the tavern that welcomed its customers, and the food was very good. She was particular to the hamburgers and French fries herself.

Still, that didn’t mean there weren’t areas that could stand a little improvement. A tweak here, a nip there. Why not pass along a few of the ideas that had popped into her head as she’d walked through the main restaurant area this morning?

And anyway, Sydney thought as she let herself in the back door of the tavern, no matter what she did, Reese probably wouldn’t notice at all.