Читать книгу The Majors' Holiday Hideaway - Caro Carson - Страница 11

Chapter Three

She was running on empty.

International travel was always draining, but this trip had been especially so. India had only fallen asleep for little fifteen-minute, neck-straining naps on the plane, despite spending the hours before her flight not sleeping, but instead gathering up every single thing Gerard-Pierre had littered around her house. The books she’d stacked neatly in the hallway outside her apartment door. She respected books; they hadn’t done anything wrong. The rest she’d dumped into a pile in the hallway.

The bra she’d hung on the century-old doorknob. Explanation enough in any language.

India checked the pickup truck’s gas gauge. Her body wasn’t the only thing rapidly running out of energy. She’d found Helen and Tom’s pickup waiting for her at the airport, right where their text had said it would be. The tank had been almost half-full, surely enough to cover the distance from the Austin airport to the countryside beyond Fort Hood. She’d passed a dozen gas stations leaving Austin. A half dozen through Georgetown. More in Killeen...but when Helen had said her house was out in the middle of nowhere, India had forgotten how big nowhere could be in the States. She’d been driving for ninety minutes, enough to have gone to another country from Belgium, but she was still in Texas, driving past miles of land occupied only by grazing cattle and the occasional barn. Sheesh.

She had just decided it would be wise to turn around and head back to the last gas station she’d passed when she saw a mailbox, the standard American kind, a black metal shoebox with a rounded top, mounted on a wood four-by-four. When she’d been a little girl, she’d thought the shape looked like the Road Runner tunnels that the Wile E. Coyote was always trying to enter—with no luck. He was shut out, denied, every time.

Gold letters on the black metal read 489. Who opened this mailbox every day without even thinking about how easy it was? India slowed the truck as she passed the driveway. Its single lane of asphalt ran for at least a quarter mile, unwaveringly straight, to a classic two-story brick home. The colors of the bricks were distinctly Texan, though, gold and beige and cream that reflected the afternoon sun, which was bright even in December in this part of the world.

She didn’t need to turn back, after all. Helen’s house number was 490. Her mailbox was up ahead, a little sentry on the side of the road. India hit her turn signal, then scoffed at herself. Who was there to signal? Her truck was the only vehicle on the road. But as she slowed and started to turn, she looked down Helen’s straight driveway—and tapped the brakes.

Someone was there.

The garage door was open and, even though a red pickup blocked most of her view, India could see that someone was moving around. A thief.

She didn’t turn in, but kept driving. Tom and Helen had a dog, but Helen had texted her that the dog would be at the neighbor’s house, so India could sleep off her jet lag without having a dog wake her. A barking dog might have scared off a thief, but the house was empty.

Don’t be crazy, India. Why would a thief go to an empty house when the owners are out of the country?

Not so crazy. India could dial 911. Maybe. She’d turned off cellular data on her phone to avoid astronomical international roaming charges. Wasn’t 911 supposed to work from all phones, regardless? But she didn’t have an American phone. Maybe it wasn’t programmed for that emergency service. How long would it take a sheriff to get out here, anyway? The thief would have plenty of time to help himself to whatever he wanted and then drive away with a flat-screen television in the back of his pickup.

She stopped the truck on the road’s shoulder. Think about this, India girl; stay awake. She scrubbed her hands over her face, then dug in her bag for a peppermint. The bracing flavor woke her up. She turned the truck around and drove by one more time, slowly. The parked red truck was awfully nice, shiny and new, hardly the getaway vehicle of a criminal.

She pulled in the driveway of 489 to turn around and head back, feeling exceedingly stupid. She was just tired. And emotional—she’d failed to protect her own home. Hadn’t that thought been relentlessly circling in her head as she’d kicked out Gerard-Pierre? Well, kicked out his stuff, anyway. That was why she was thinking of homes being invaded.

Damn. She’d passed her own driveway again. With a sigh, she made a U-turn in the middle of the empty road. Helen’s house wasn’t finished yet. The truck probably belonged to the general contractor who’d been building the house, supervising all the subcontractors. The truck could belong to one of the subcontractors, too. Maybe to an electrician. A tile layer. Who knew?

She was getting so sleepy, she didn’t care. If it did turn out to be a thief, she’d at least get a license plate number as the truck drove away, before she fell asleep waiting for the sheriff to show up.

She drove up to the house and debated parking behind the truck to block it in, just in case this person had no reason to be here. But then she caught a better view of the man in the garage. His back was to her, but the width of his shoulders was enough to make her decide to park out of his way. She was a soldier, but she’d spent the last four solid years tied to a desk. She was super rusty when it came to close quarters combat. She wouldn’t want to take on this guy, anyway, not without a stick or a bat or something. Gee, I’m fresh out of ninja staffs.

He wasn’t a thief, anyway. He wasn’t moving in a sneaky, furtive way. As she parked, he walked calmly over to a refrigerator in the garage. She’d forgotten how Americans not only had giant fridges in their kitchens, but they often kept one out in the garage, too, the good old beer fridge that held the leftovers when holiday dinners called for a mammoth turkey. The man with the buff shoulders opened the door and took out a beer. He wore a leather tool belt around his waist, a hammer hanging from it. Someone in construction, of course.

She was an idiot and she wanted to go to bed, but she supposed she’d have to make small talk with this contractor and hope he was almost ready to leave for the day. She opened the door and practically fell out of the cab, dropping the foot from the cab to the ground, landing with all the grace of a tired elephant. She slammed the door. This man was all that stood between her and a soft bed with fluffy pillows.

The man in the tool belt turned around.

Oh, my.

India abruptly felt awake and alert. Just the sight of that man, that tall, dark and handsome man, sent a jolt through her system better than a whole roll of peppermints.

* * *

Aiden had shaken his head as he’d watched his neighbors’ pickup drive by, drive by and drive by again. She couldn’t read the numbers on the mailbox, maybe. Poor little old lady, he’d thought.

Aiden looked at the woman standing in the driveway.

Poor drop-dead gorgeous woman.

He didn’t let the beer bottle slip out of his grasp. That was something, anyway, but he sure as hell was knocked speechless. This woman was the definition of a knockout. Literally, the sight of her knocked the sense out of his brain—because she looked rumpled and sleepy, and all his brain could think about was that he’d like to be rumpled and sleepy with her.

Enjoy being a bachelor, his sister had written.

He’d thought about milk cartons and sippy cups.

He wasn’t thinking about sippy cups anymore. He was thinking about the brunette standing in front of him, looking at him with gray eyes. Gray. Beautiful. All grown-up and beautiful.

Okay. Right. He should speak now. Right.

“Are you almost done here?” she asked. “I’m dying to get in bed.”

The beer bottle in his hand slipped an inch.

Okay. Right.

She tilted her head at his silence. “I’m going to be staying here while Tom and Helen are on their honeymoon. Did they tell you that?”

“Right.” One word. He sounded like an idiot. It may have been a long time since he’d been a bachelor, but he was thirty-four years old and a battalion S-3, not thirteen and in middle school. He gestured toward her with the bottle in his hand. “Would you care for a beer?”

He’d meant there were more in the garage fridge since he’d just put a six-pack in there, but she huffed out a tired sigh and plopped her overnight bag on the concrete floor, then took the beer from his hand. “Actually, I would.” She wiped off the mouth of the bottle with a quick swipe of her sleeve, then tilted her head back and chugged the whole bottle right down that graceful, womanly throat with long, sure swallows. She finished it and gave him a polite, sleepy smile. “Thanks.”

Okay. That was...provocative. “I take it you like beer.”

She scrunched up her nose a bit. “Actually, that tasted horrible. I just ate a peppermint.”

He laughed.

Her smile turned a little more genuine, but still tired. “I needed the calories. I haven’t eaten much more than airplane snacks for the past twelve hours. That beer was my dinner, because I will be asleep in two minutes. I suppose Tom and Helen gave you a house key?”

“Right.”

She pondered that for a moment. “I won’t ask for it back, but could you make yourself scarce for the next ten hours?”

“Okay.”

“Make that twelve.” She turned her head away and put the back of her hand to her mouth and burped the tiniest, ladylike burp. “Sorry.”

He laughed—again—and took the empty bottle from her. She was all grown-up and beautiful, but also surprising and adorable. And rumpled and sleepy, which was a sexy damn look on her. Oh, hell yeah. It’s all coming back to me now.

She picked up her overnight bag. “I’ll be here all week, so even though you have a key, knock first. I’ll let you in.”

“Promise?”

“I—Oh.” She looked at him, startled.

He winked. Just joking. For now.

She looked away, but her lips quirked into a smile. She had just a touch of a dimple in one cheek. How easy it was to imagine her smiling at him as they shared a pillow.

“So.” She gestured toward his truck. “If you’re done here...?”

“I can come back. I just have to have this project finished by Christmas.” He nodded at the planks he’d stacked on the floor.

“What are those for?”

“Bookcases.”

“Nice. Well. Goodbye.”

But they stood there, staring at one another. He unbuckled his tool belt without breaking eye contact. She bit her lip.

He shook his head to himself a little bit as he turned away to set the belt on the stack of planks, trying not to be bowled over because a sexy woman had done a sexy thing like biting her sexy lip.

He’d been asked to leave; time to go. He stopped at the small security box on the wall just outside the garage and punched in the code that lowered the double-wide door. It started rolling down. He looked over his shoulder at her, savoring his last glimpse of rumpled and sleepy. “I’ll see you later.”

The chain and motor were loud as the door lowered, but Aiden could have sworn he heard a one-word answer: “Definitely.”