Читать книгу Hook, Line and Shotgun Bride - Cassie Miles, Cassie Miles - Страница 9

From his car seat in the back of the van, Benjy chanted in a singsong voice, “George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson.”

Angela asked, “And who is president number thirteen?”

“Easy,” Benjy said. “Millard Fillmore. And twenty-three is Benjy Harrison. He’s the best. He’s got my name.”

Her son had an uncanny gift for memorization. He could repeat an entire book back to her after she read it aloud just once. He rattled off the multisyllable names of dinosaurs without a glitch. And he loved lists, like the presidents.

From the driver’s seat, Shane said, “What number is Teddy Roosevelt?”

“You mean Theodore Roosevelt,” Benjy said. “Twenty-six.”

“Theodore used to visit Colorado a lot,” Shane said. “The next time I take you up to the mountains, I’ll show you a hunting lodge where he stayed.”

“Mommy, I want to go to the mountains. Now.”

“Soon,” Angela promised. To Shane she said, “Turn left at the next stop sign.”

Nervously, she checked her wristwatch. They were running late.

After Shane convinced her that it wasn’t smart to stay at her house, she’d packed up a few essentials and some of Benjy’s toys. Neil’s house was safer. Not that it was a fortress, but he had a top-notch security system.

When she’d called Neil and told him their plan, he sounded pleased, which didn’t surprise her a bit. Neil liked to have things under control—his control.

They’d made arrangements to meet at his house at one o’clock sharp for lunch. It was past that time now. Angela fidgeted in the passenger seat, knowing that Neil’s housekeeper, Wilma, would be annoyed. Her thin mouth would pull down in a disapproving frown, and her eyes would fill with judgment.

At the stop sign before they entered Neil’s cul-de-sac, a black truck crossed in front of them. Thousands of similar vehicles cruised the streets of Denver, but every time she saw one, she was reminded of the hit-and-run driver who killed Tom. The black truck was a bad omen.

“Straight ahead.” She pointed. “Pull into the driveway.”

Shane gave a low whistle. “Wow. That’s a whole lot of house.”

Three stories in English Tudor style, Neil’s seven-bedroom house took up the end of a cul-de-sac that bordered on forested land. His perfectly manicured lawn stretched like a green carpet to the double-wide oak doors beneath the porch. Summer flowers and cultivated rosebushes, which were tended twice a week by gardeners, made brilliant splashes of crimson, yellow and purple.

Every time she beheld this magnificent house, Angela wondered how she’d handle the responsibility of caring for the property. Being mistress of the manor didn’t come naturally to her. With the gardeners and the housekeeper and the people who came to clean, she felt as if she was moving into a hotel instead of a home that was truly her own.

As soon as they parked, Benjy threw off his seat belt and scrambled free from the car seat. “Open the door, Mommy.”

To Shane, she said, “We can leave the suitcases here for now. We’re already eight minutes late for lunch.”

“Is that a problem?”

She didn’t want to admit that she was worried about the housekeeper’s opinion and trying her best to live up to everybody’s expectations. “I like to be on time.”

As soon as she opened the van door for Benjy, he jumped out. With his backpack tucked under his arm, he bounced along the sidewalk to the porch.

Neil opened the door and stood there, framed by his grand and beautiful home. In his white shirt with the open collar and his gray linen slacks, he looked elegant. Lean and healthy, he had a summer tan from playing golf and tennis. His sandy-blond hair curled above his forehead. His best features, as far as she was concerned, were his dark eyes. There was a fierceness in those eyes, an indication of passions that ran deeper than his sophisticated outer veneer.

When he lifted Benjy in his arms and gave the boy a hug, her tension eased a bit. She could see that Neil cared about her son. Marrying him wasn’t a mistake.

As she and Shane approached the porch, Neil said, “I have a surprise. My dad just arrived from Virginia.”

She stiffened her spine. Only once before had she met Roger Revere, retired general and former JAG lawyer. He’d made it very clear that she needed to shape up if she truly wanted to be a member of their family. He would certainly disapprove of her disheveled hair, the smear of cooking grease on her chinos and her well-worn sneakers.

“You boys go ahead to lunch,” she said. “Start without me. I need to freshen up.”

“Take your time,” Neil said as he carried Benjy through the foyer to the dining room.

Shane hung back. He touched her arm. “Are you okay?”

Not okay. I’m a wreck. She felt like a big, fat mess— confused and borderline nuts. “I’ll make it.”

“Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

His offer of unconditional support touched her. Everybody else in her life made demands and passed judgment. Not Shane. He’d seen her at her worst, and he was still her friend.

Forcing a grin, she turned away from him. “Start without me. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

She darted up the stairs to the second-floor master bedroom she would be sharing with Neil, probably from this day forward. The black-and-white décor felt sterile and cold. The only pictures on the walls were black-and-white photographs of landscapes—places she’d never been. In the adjoining bathroom, she closed the door and leaned against it.

The tension she’d been holding at bay coiled tightly around her, squeezing her lungs and making her heart beat too fast. No matter how fiercely she denied the threat, she felt danger all around. Either she was going insane or someone was after her. I’ve got to calm down.

She dug into her purse and took out the amber vial of the prescription sedatives Neil had given her. She was only supposed to take one at night before bed, but she needed to quell her rising fears. Even if she fell asleep this afternoon, that was better than running through the house screaming.

Popping off the cap, she tapped a light blue pill into her hand and swallowed it dry. Soon, she’d be more relaxed.

In the mirror over the sink, she confronted her reflection and groaned. Making herself presentable was going to take more than a fresh coat of lipstick. This would require a major repair job.

FOLLOWING NEIL, SHANE entered the spacious living room with a fireplace at the south end. When they were outside the house, he’d noticed two chimneys rising above the gables. As he’d said to Angela, this was a whole lot of house—big and classy with Persian rugs, heavy furniture and framed oil paintings. Two older gentlemen sat opposite each other in oxblood leather chairs.

One of them he recognized as Dr. Edgar Prentice. Prentice was the doctor Tom had used for the frozen embryo procedure, and Shane vaguely recalled some kind of recent scandal involving Prentice’s fertility clinic in Aspen.

Slowly, Prentice unfolded himself from the chair. He moved with hesitation as though he suffered from arthritis. Even stooped, he was nearly as tall as Shane—taller if Shane counted the thatch of thick white hair.

“We’ve met before,” he said.

“Tom Hawthorne was my cousin. I came to your office with him.”

“And you’ve remained in contact with his wife for all these years. An admirable display of loyalty.”

His comment made Shane’s relationship with Angela sound like an obligation. Nothing could be further from the truth. “I’m privileged to call Angela my friend.”

The old man’s eyes lit up behind his glasses as he focused on Benjy. “This must be the young man I’ve heard so much about.”

“I’m not a man,” Benjy said. “I’m a kid.”

“Of course. And what’s in your backpack?”

“Stegosaurus, T-Rex, Triceratops. Want to see?”

The boy plopped down on the carpet. With much straining, Prentice bent lower, listening intently as Benjy unpacked his plastic dinosaurs and talked about the Mesozoic era.

Neil introduced him. “Shane Gibson, I’d like you to meet my father, Roger Revere.”

In contrast to Prentice, the stocky, red-faced man sprang from his chair with impressive vigor. Shane braced himself for a power handshake; he wasn’t surprised when Roger glared into his eyes and squeezed hard.

Though Shane wasn’t a fan of macho games, he matched the older man’s grip. It went without saying that Shane was stronger; he was probably thirty years younger than Neil’s father. If he’d been feeling gracious, he would have let Roger win this little battle. But he sensed the importance of establishing dominance.

Smiling through gritted teeth, Roger continued to apply pressure. “I hear you’re a sheriff in the mountains.”

“I was,” Shane drawled. “A deputy sheriff in Clear Creek County. But I’ll be moving to Denver soon.”

Neil arrowed a sharp glance at him. “Angela never mentioned anything about your move.”

“Because I just told her this morning.” With a flick of his wrist, Shane broke free from the prolonged handshake. “I’m taking a job with Premiere Executive Security Systems.”

“Impressive,” Neil said. “They’re one of the best in town.”

“I met the owner last year during a mountain rescue situation.” The search for a missing client had been a harrowing few days, fortunately with a happy ending. “We have a lot in common.”

Roger stuck out his square jaw. “I suppose that means you’ll be seeing more of Angela.”

“And Benjy,” Shane said. “I sure hope so.”

“Maybe you can convince her to cut down on her hours at the pancake house,” Roger said gruffly. “The only person she needs to be cooking for is my son.”

Though he didn’t agree that Angela should quit her job and become a full-time wife unless that was what she wanted, Shane sidestepped the issue. “She works hard.”

“Nothing wrong with dedication,” Roger said, “as long as you’ve dedicated yourself to a worthy goal. As you know, my son has an acclaimed reputation as a virologist. He cures illness. He’s saving the world, dammit. His wife should be something more than a cook.”

Shane couldn’t let Roger’s idiotic statement go unchallenged. “She’s a chef. Not a cook.”

“What’s the difference?”

Roger had stuffed his right hand into his jacket pocket, and Shane hoped that his muscular handshake had cracked a couple of bones. “It’s hard to explain unless you’ve tasted her food. There’s a damn good reason why her restaurant always has a line. She’s an artist.” He remembered a description Yvonne had once given. “A culinary artist.”

“It’s true,” Prentice said as he straightened his posture. “Angela concocts recipes with the skill of a chemist. She trained at Cordon Bleu in London.”

A tall woman with thinning black hair stepped into the room. Her long, skinny fingers twisted in a knot. “Gentlemen, it’s time for lunch. Please come to the table before the soup gets cold.”

Shane was hungry but didn’t really want to sit down to a meal with these guys. He reconsidered his plan to stay in one of the guestrooms at Neil’s house. Though he wanted to be close to Angela in case she needed protecting, he didn’t like the Revere family—father or son.

“Before I sit down,” Shane said, “I should see what’s keeping Angela.”

“You go ahead and relax,” said Dr. Prentice. “I’ll check on her.”

As Prentice left the room and crossed the entry way to the staircase, Shane noticed that his arthritic shuffle changed into a confident stride. He was much stronger than he had appeared when he rose hesitantly from his chair.

Why had Prentice tried to create the impression of being a tired, elderly man? As a lawman, Shane knew that a man who lied about one thing will lie about another. He needed to check out Dr. Edgar Prentice and find out what else he was hiding.

SINCE SHE’D ALREADY moved many of her clothes to Neil’s house, Angela had a lot of options. She’d chosen a cotton dress in conservative navy blue with white trim because it seemed least likely to provoke a response from Neil’s father. As she finished brushing her hair, she heard a knock on the bedroom door.

Her first instinct was to lock the door until the little blue pill worked its magic and numbed her nerves, but she wasn’t a coward. Slipping into a pair of navy flats, she marched to the door and opened it. “Dr. Prentice?”