Читать книгу Lone Star Daddy - Cathy Gillen Thacker - Страница 9

Chapter Three

Rose led the way to the only semiprivate area on the bungalow’s first floor—the foyer.

Once there, she pivoted so the hand-carved staircase was against her spine and folded her arms in front of her. “So much for leaving a cowboy in charge.”

Clint tried not to notice how the fading sunlight pouring in through the transom over the door illuminated the golden highlights in her dark-blond hair. “Hey, I can wrangle a kiddo or two. I just wasn’t expecting that.”

“Noted,” Rose said dryly. “And for the record, you’re going to want to put some water on those stains as soon as possible—otherwise that handsome shirt of yours will be permanently ruined.”

Clint looked down at the splashes of ketchup, mustard and honey marring the otherwise pristine white-and-blue tattersall-plaid shirt. He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yeah, but this calamity was due to my kids, so...” Her voice trailing off, Rose looked him up and down, shaking her head in mute consternation. “You know, the stains aren’t just here.” She made a sweeping gesture, her glance moving down past his throat, to the center of his chest, to his waist, back up along his sleeves. “You’ve even got some in your hair and on your cheek.” She motioned to a place just next to his ear.

However, Clint couldn’t help but note, the flour on her face was gone.

One of the other ladies must have told her.

Which was a shame. He would have liked to have seen to that himself.

She winced, oblivious to the licentious direction of his thoughts. “Seriously, I’m sorry you got caught in the middle of the triplets’ never-ending quest for culinary independence.”

“And here I thought it was just the prelude to a preschool-style food fight.”

“I wish,” she replied ruefully. “Anyway, again, my apologies...”

It didn’t escape his attention that the first two buttons on her blouse were undone, revealing a triangle of creamy, soft skin above her breasts. Ignoring the pressure building behind his fly, Clint smiled back. “I think I’ll survive.”

She laughed. “I imagine you will.”

Their gazes locked. Something changed in her eyes, a flicker of vulnerability glimmering in their beautiful green depths. His pulse amped up as she drew another quick breath.

“But in the meantime, I insist you do something about that shirt before it’s ruined.” She gestured toward the second floor. “The bathrooms are upstairs. Fresh linens—and the stain remover pens and spray—are in the linen closet in my bathroom. Feel free to help yourself while I return to oversee the minions.”

Clint nodded. “Thanks.”

He found the higher floor even smaller than the first floor. There were only two bedrooms. One decorated in primary colors sported three youth beds, arranged dormitory-style, with built-in drawers beneath. The bedroom was connected to a small bath, also adorned in bright colors. Monogrammed towels hung from a rack. The bathtub was outfitted with toys and antislip safety decals. A sink with a child-size stepstool in front of it was smudged with toothpaste and hand soap.

He moved on down the hall to the other bedroom, which was obviously Rose’s. It held a big four-poster bed with canopy, a padded bench and an old-fashioned makeup table with mirror. Clothes were strewn everywhere, from the closet floor to the end of the unmade bed and the back of an oversize satin chaise, which looked as if it served as a reading chair.

The master bathroom was beyond that, and the only way to get to it—and the linen closet where the stain removal supplies were kept—was to go through the perfume-scented domain.

Telling himself it was no big deal—if it had been, Rose wouldn’t have sent him up there—Clint made his way through the softly carpeted lair into the master bathroom.

It, too, was unutterably feminine. Decorated in pink and white. There was a single sink sunk into a wide white cabinet with plenty of drawers. The gray-and-white marble countertop held a variety of hair products, perfumes, makeup, fragrant bubble baths and candles. A big claw-foot soaking tub, outfitted with a showerhead and a circular shower curtain, sat beneath the only window.

A book stand next to the tub overflowed with novels and magazines. More clothes were tossed onto the floor, and a bundle of frilly lingerie spilled out of the hamper.

Standing there, he became aware of two things.

First, Rose was a lot more girlie than he had ever imagined.

And second, there weren’t enough hours in the day for her to do everything she needed to accomplish.

And care for her three very active kids.

Which explained the harried look on her face when she answered the door, as well as her penchant for going full steam ahead toward her goal, no matter what the obstacles...

The woman did not have time to mess around.

So she didn’t.

He admired her for that—even as the man in him longed to help her out.

“Clint?” A soft voice jerked him from his reverie. “What are you doing?”

He pivoted to see Rose standing in the doorway. Every thought except the possibility of making love with her went out of his brain. Aware she was waiting for some explanation, he finally admitted, “I’m still trying to figure out where the linen closet is.”

“Oh. Sorry!” Her cheeks lit with embarrassment as she swooped down to collect her clothes and then stuffed them on top of the lingerie. “I forgot about this mess when I sent you up here—”

He stopped her with a hand on her arm and drew her around to face him. He wanted her to know that as far as her personal life was concerned, he had nothing but admiration for her. “That’s not what distracted me.”

Struggling to get her balance, she glanced up at him in bewilderment. “Then what did?”

Clint tightened his grip to steady her. The feel of her body beneath his fingers sent a fresh wave of desire roaring through him. All thoughts of being a gentleman fled. He pulled her against him and did what he’d been wanting to do for days now. “This.”

* * *

ROSE HAD SWORN never again to be reckless when it came to her love life. Now she was conscientious and responsible to a fault. But something about this man brought out the passionate side of her.

Something that made her want him as badly as he seemed to want her. “Clint...” she murmured, splaying her hands across his broad chest. She felt the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath her fingertips. Saw his head lower, his eyes shut. And then there was no more thinking, no more talking, only the masterful sensation of his lips moving over hers and the erotic sweep of his tongue.

He tasted like mint. He kissed like a man who always got what he wanted. And what he wanted right now, Rose realized as his muscular frame pressed her achingly close, was her.

The trouble was, she wanted him, too. Had from the first moment they had squared off alone, under the hot Texas sun, days before.

She didn’t know what it was about him, she thought as he cupped her face in his hands and ever-so-slowly deepened the kiss. The fact that he was incredibly straightforward? She’d never have to worry about him hiding what was on his mind, because he was the kind of guy who would just flat-out tell her. Or was it her sense that he could see things about her no one else did? Or the oft-guarded look in his eyes that said he had suffered his share of life’s hurts and disappointments in their years apart, too?

All Rose knew for certain was that with just one kiss, he had her surrendering to the warm, sure pressure of his mouth in a way she never had before.

And that could not be, she knew.

Not with her three children right downstairs.

* * *

CLINT WASN’T SURPRISED when Rose tore her mouth from his and pushed him away. Hard.

The kiss had been completely unwarranted, given the situation. Yet he couldn’t say he was sorry he had done it. Because it had made at least one thing very clear: the two of them had the kind of attraction that was not to be denied.

Not if he had anything to do with it, anyway.

Her breath coming in unsteady puffs, she stepped back and shot him an indignant glare.

“Sorry about that,” he said more or less automatically, regaining his manners.

She harrumphed and narrowed her pretty eyes. “Are you?”

He chuckled. So she wanted him to be blunt? “Of course not.” Any more than you are.

Her scowl deepened in a way that made him want to haul her into his arms and kiss her all over again. “Then?”

He rubbed his jaw with the back of his hand, considering. Eventually he decided to go with the truth. “Seemed like the polite thing to say, given the way you just kissed me back. And maybe wish you hadn’t?”

Rose sighed, unable to mask completely the turbulent emotion on her face. “With good reason.” She shoved a hand through her unruly curls, pushing the silky strands away from her forehead. “Unlike you, it’s not just me I have to worry about.”

Aware she had a point, Clint sobered. “Where are the triplets?”

“They’re downstairs, drawing you some ‘I’m Sorry for Making a Mess on Your Shirt’ pictures for you to take home.”

Reminded of why he had ventured up there in the first place, Clint looked at her formerly all-peach blouse. “Speaking of messes...” he drawled, pointing to her left breast.

She glanced down, saw the smear of honey, ketchup and mustard that spread from heart to sternum and looked even more horrified.

Knowing the tension needed to be eased, Clint quipped, “Well, at least you got some of it off my clothes. Although maybe not in the way we intended.”

* * *

IF SHE HAD been the kind of gal to throw a punch, she really would have decked the sexy cowboy opposite her right about now. For kissing her and making her feel the kinds of things she most certainly did not want to feel. Fortunately for both of them, she had always been able to keep her temper under wraps.

“Cute.” Rose brushed by him, headed for the linen closet. To get to it, she had to tug aside the circular shower curtain, which had been gathered in front of it.

Her back to Clint, she eased the closet door open and brought out a spray bottle of stain remover, several cleaning and pretreating pens, a washcloth and a towel.

Swinging back around, she gasped.

“Now what?” he asked, appearing even more baffled.

Rose’s eyes widened in shock. She’d thought he had been sexy as could be when he’d been all sweaty and working on the tractor. That was nothing compared with how magnificent he looked when freshly showered and shaven, smelling of leather and spice. “You took your shirt off!”

He gestured aimlessly, more comfortable half-naked than she could ever hope to be.

“What was I supposed to do? I can’t have it on while you spray the stains.” Furrowing his brow, he nodded at the green bottle in her hand. “I’m allergic to that stuff.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

He lounged against her bathroom counter, legs crossed at the ankle, arms folded across his brawny chest. “Wasn’t worth arguing about. Besides,” he teased, “it’s not like you haven’t seen me with my shirt off before. Monday—”

She cut him off with an indignant huff. “I remember.” Boy, did she ever remember. She’d dreamed about it two nights in a row. Only in her dreams, his shirt wasn’t all he had taken off.

Meanwhile, he evidently had his own unshared thoughts. His gaze drifted over her lazily, lingering on the stains—which happened to be mostly across her breasts—before leisurely cataloguing her throat and face, and returning to linger, even more seductively, on her eyes. “Then what’s the big deal?” he asked huskily.

The big deal was they’d just been making out, Rose thought in exasperation. The big deal was his nipples were still every bit as taut as hers. Not that she had needed that confirmation. His strong arousal had been evident elsewhere, too...

Rose shut her eyes for a moment, willing the desire welling inside her to go away. Then she asked with exaggerated patience, “Do you have any other shirts with you? In your truck, maybe?” A lot of people who worked outdoors—like herself—carried extra.

He continued watching her, inscrutable now. “No.”

She did her best to become poker-faced as well. “Are you interested in a Rose Hill Farm T-shirt?”

“Sure. Except it would have to be washed first. Because I’m allergic to a lot of the anti-wrinkle coatings on new clothes, too.”

Aware she no longer needed the stain removers, at least in that moment, she set them down. “You really are difficult.”

Clint shrugged his shirt back on. Winked. “And in other respects, I am apparently oh-so-easy.”

Not from what she had heard.

He hadn’t dated anyone since he had been back in town. In fact, he had been as monk-like in his life as she had been nun-like in hers. At least, she’d been nun-like up until the last month or so.

Which begged the question—why had he kissed her?

Why was he still looking like he wanted to put the moves on her again? And most importantly, why did she want him to do just that?

Rose swallowed and tried to pull herself together.

“Look,” he said. “All kidding aside, there’s no reason for you to worry about my shirt. I’ll just take it home and wash it there in the detergent I know I’m not allergic to.”

Like he had originally suggested.

Sighing, Rose watched him button his stained shirt from the bottom. She’d let pure passion lead her astray once before and knew better than to let it happen again, no matter what her still-humming body wanted. “Maybe that would be best.”

Together they headed back downstairs. They’d just reached the foyer when the doorbell rang. Rose moaned.

Clint slid a hand beneath her elbow and slanted her a glance. “Not expecting anyone?”

“No. But it’s always like this when a brand-new crop of good produce comes in.”

Belatedly seeming to realize he still had a grip on her, Clint dropped his hand and peered at the clock—which now said seven-thirty. From the kitchen, the kids could be heard chattering about their drawings. “Don’t you have regular business hours?”

“Yes,” Rose said, over her shoulder, opening the door, “And no.”

On the other side stood her triplet sisters, Violet and Lily. And the oldest of them all the only single-birth McCabe daughter, Poppy.

The trio took in Rose’s shirt, then Clint’s. In unison, they started to laugh. Then Poppy blurted out, “What have you two been up to?”