Читать книгу The Marriage Maker - Christie Ridgway - Страница 9

Ethan Redford sat in his newly purchased Range Rover outside White horn, Montana’s Bean sprouts day care center. Out his tinted windows he had a perfect view of the center’s fenced playground. Under the watchful gaze of several women he didn’t recognize, little kids built sandcastles, slid down a wavy slide, made imaginary meals in a gaily painted playhouse. Pleasing though the sight was, Ethan’s fingertips drummed the saddle-colored leather armrest.

He was stalling.

As humbling as the confession might be, he had to admit to himself that the idea of confronting Cleo Monroe after his abrupt, three-month absence was making his palms sweat. Hell! And this from a man who’d faced down his drunken, raging father at nine years old and brokered his first multimillion-dollar merger at thirty.

He rubbed his hands against his deliberately casual khaki slacks. Though the deal he wanted to propose today was the most important of his life, he knew it wasn’t the moment for an Armani suit and his best silk tie. For Cleo, he needed to appear approachable instead of powerful. Friendly, not frightening.

Cleo.

As if thinking her name had summoned her, the woman he’d been fantasizing about for three months stepped from the back door of the stucco building onto the fenced play yard. Instantly she was surrounded, little kids clamoring for her attention, little hands patting her legs, little fingers grabbing her hands.

Kind of like what he wanted to do. Grabbing her sounded good to him, too.

Ethan closed his eyes and groaned, remembering the sweet, silky feel of Cleo’s skin. He saw the voluptuous rise of her breasts over her lacy bra and felt again the tremors shaking her body as he brushed his thumbs over her nipples. He groaned again.

When he’d left Cleo that night, he’d considered himself pretty damn heroic for backing away from the wildfire of their mutual physical attraction. He hadn’t wanted to lead her on. She was the marrying kind, and he wasn’t. She deserved a man prepared for the type of family life she undoubtedly desired, and that hadn’t been him, by any means.

Fate must be laughing its head off about right now.

To the faint echoes of its capricious guffaws, Ethan forced himself out of his car and then reached into the rear seat for what had brought him from Houston back to White horn, back to Cleo. He wrestled a bit with the latch that released the baby carrier from its car seat base, letting loose a soft curse.

Guilt gave him a little jab and he quickly apologized to the blond, wide-eyed baby staring up at him. “Sorry, Jonah.” And sorry to you too, Della. The boy’s mother wouldn’t appreciate the child’s first word being something better suited to a locker room than a nursery. He took a breath, pushing away the pain that came when he thought of Della. The only thing he could do for her now was to take care of Jonah.

That was where Cleo came in.

At the reception desk inside Bean sprouts, Ethan asked to speak with the center’s director—Cleo. The young receptionist gave him a friendly smile and after rising from her chair to peek at Jonah, told Ethan they didn’t take children until they were two years old. She would be happy to place his name on their waiting list.

Ethan bared his teeth in what he hoped would pass for a smile, and mildly asked once again to see the Bean sprouts director. When the still-friendly but outright curious receptionist gave in and showed him into a small office, she asked his name.

Ethan told her he wanted to keep it a surprise.

He sure as hell hoped Cleo liked surprises.

When she walked through the office door, it was obvious she didn’t. As she caught sight of him, her feet stopped before the rest of her body did and she grabbed the doorjamb to keep herself from pitching forward. Expressions chased them selves across her face. Ethan couldn’t separate them all—but the last one he read loud and clear.

It was as cool and distant as her voice. “Ethan Redford,” she said as if he’d never tasted the hot wetness of her mouth. Then her gaze dropped to the infant carrier he held against his chest as if it were a shield. She blinked, shook her head a little, blinked again.

“Who? What?” Her cheeks flushed a deep pink. “Oh,” she said.

Oh? What did she mean by that significant oh? And then it hit him.

Uh-oh.

“The baby’s not mine,” he said quickly. But then he had to correct himself. “Well, he is mine, but—” From the look on her face this wasn’t going well. He sighed. “It’s complicated.”

Cleo took a breath and Ethan pretended he wasn’t aware of the way her breasts pressed against the long-sleeved white T-shirt she wore. “What do you want, Ethan?”

He sighed again. “That’s complicated, too.” The smile he gave her was supposed to be charming, but she looked distinctly unmoved. “Could we talk?”

With a little roll of one of her shoulders, she fully entered the room and shut the office door behind her. Then she walked past him, the familiar, delicate flower scent of her perfume brushing by him nonchalantly. Cleo’s T-shirt was tucked into a long denim skirt that showed off her small waist and rounded hips and he had to look away until she was completely seated behind her desk.

She linked her fingers on the surface of a blotter-size calendar full of notations in neat, rounded handwriting. “What would you like to say, Ethan?”

He’d like to say he wished like hell they’d not been interrupted by her mother’s nightmare that evening. He’d like to say that he’d been thinking of her kisses, of her skin, of the beauty of her wavy, russet hair for the past three months. He’d like to say that even in the midst of grief and worry, the memory of her smile and laughter had been a warm beacon.

Instead he sat in a chair across from her, the infant carrier resting on his knees. “This is my nephew, Jonah,” he said simply. “And the day I left your mother’s bed-and-break fast, I was called away because Jonah’s mother, my sister, had been the victim of a carjacking.”

One of Cleo’s hands rose to cover her mouth.

He went on doggedly. It wasn’t an easy story to tell. “I probably should have left you some word, or called you when I reached Houston, but all I could think about was Della and Jonah. She was in intensive care with head injuries and Jonah was missing.”

“Oh, my Lord,” Cleo whispered. Suddenly she wasn’t in her chair, but kneeling beside Ethan, her attention focused on the baby. One fingertip stroked his nephew’s downy head. Her gaze turned Ethan’s way. In her violet eyes was the sudden awareness that his story didn’t have a happy-ever-after. “But the baby was found.”

Ethan nodded. “In an alley, in Della’s abandoned car.” His hand curled into a fist, as the useless waste of the tragedy cut through him again like an acid burn. “Two days later the carjacker was killed in a police shoot-out. A day after that, my sister died.” His voice was hoarse.

“Oh, Ethan.” Cleo’s warm hand covered his fist and he closed his eyes, her touch soothing and so damn welcome. “You must have loved her very much.”

“She was my little sister.” He opened his eyes and saw Cleo still kneeling between Jonah and him, one hand touching his, one hand on the baby’s hair, linking all three of them together.

Just as he knew she would.

“Tell me about her, Ethan. You never even mentioned to me you had a sister.”

Guilt stabbed him again. When he’d been in Montana three months ago he’d been carefully impersonal with Cleo. To tell the truth, he was carefully impersonal with everyone, but Cleo was the kind of woman who invited you to bare your soul. And because he’d been interested only in baring her body, he’d steered completely clear of anything that would even vaguely hint of any deeper intimacy.

But things were different now. Everything was different. Not him, though. He hadn’t changed. But his needs had. So that meant telling Cleo what she wanted to know.

He cleared his throat. “Della was twenty-nine years old. She worked for me, at my office in Houston.”

Cleo looked at little Jonah and smiled. “Was she blond like you?”

He pictured his sister in his mind. Not as he’d last seen her, her head swathed in bandages, bruises on her face and tubes everywhere, but as she’d been before the carjacking. “She was tiny, shorter than you, and she did have blond hair. After Jonah was born, she cut it short as a boy’s.”

Cleo nodded solemnly. “Easy to take care of.”

“She was easy to take care of.” Ethan broke off, suddenly embarrassed. Yeah, he missed his sister, but he wasn’t about to get all maudlin in front of Cleo.

Maybe she sensed his reluctance, because she turned her attention back to the baby. “How old is he?”

“Seven months,” Ethan replied.

“And where’s Jonah’s father?”

“His biological father abandoned both Della and the baby before Jonah was born. They were engaged, but let’s just say Della found it a little…distressing when Drake gave her a black eye instead of a welcome home kiss one evening.” Ethan and Della knew a lot about black eyes and the kind of men who dispensed them.

“She decided that she and the baby were better off without him and he didn’t put up a fuss.” With Ethan there, backing Della up, the cowardly bastard wouldn’t have dared.

“And now that Della’s…gone?” Cleo asked quietly.

“As far as Drake’s concerned, Della and Jonah were gone from his life a long time ago.” Ethan paused, because now they were getting to the important part. “I’m Jonah’s f—”

Damn. He ran his hand through his hair. It was hard to say the word because he’d never considered himself suited to the job.

Cleo rose and leaned against the back of her desk, smiling a little as she looked down at Ethan. “His f—?” she asked, her almost-teasing voice easing the moment. “His what? Feet? Fiddle? Filly?”

Ethan’s lips twitched and his brows came together. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Montana lady, but this city boy seems to recall that a filly is a female horse, right?”

At her little nod he couldn’t resist reaching out to stroke one finger against the back of her hand. “Well, now, Cleo, you gotta know I’m all man, don’t you?”

Her face pinkened and she snatched her hand away, and for the first time in months, Ethan’s mood lightened. Cleo. God, it was right to come back to her. When his lawyer had made what should have been an outrageous suggestion, he’d instantly thought of her, of her wavy hair, of her warm touch, of the way she looked at him.

And the lawyer’s suggestion was what he had to tell Cleo about now. Jonah had drifted off to sleep and Ethan carefully moved the carrier to the carpet beside him. He casually rested his hands on the arms of his chair, though the situation he found himself in was anything but casual.

“I’m Jonah’s family now,” Ethan said. “Nothing and no one is going to take him away from me. Della named me as his legal guardian.” He paused.

“I think I hear a but,” Cleo said slowly.

He nodded. “After Della…died, I hired a nanny right away. I was able to postpone the deal I had going on here in White horn, but there were a couple of others I couldn’t put off. You know what that means.”

“You were out of town a lot.”

Ethan stared down at the sleeping baby. “Yes. But I was cutting my trips as close to the bone as possible and the nanny was working out fine. Then Drake’s parents entered the picture.”

“The baby’s grandparents.”

Ethan nodded. “They’re rich, they’re socially prominent and they don’t think much of me as Jonah’s…father since I’m away from him so much.”

“But the nanny—”

“Isn’t a mother.” Ethan looked up into Cleo’s unsuspecting but sympathetic violet eyes. “They’re suing for custody of Jonah.”

“Oh.” Cleo kneeled again, putting one hand on Ethan’s shoulder. They were face-to-face, and hers was full of concern and sadness. “I’m so sorry, Ethan.”

He looked at her steadily, and suddenly she dropped her hand and jumped to her feet. “Well, well.” Something was making her very nervous, and he wondered if she’d figured out what he was about to ask.

She swallowed. “So now you’re back in Montana,” she said briskly. “The ATI Com-Sokia deal again?”

Ethan captured her hand and stood. “I’ve been thinking about another kind of merger altogether.”

She swallowed again, but didn’t say a word.

“I need something from you, Cleo.”

“Me?” Her voice sounded breathless and her hand tried to slip from his. “What could I possibly do for you?”

Ethan held her fingers firmly. “You could marry me, Cleo.”

Marry him. Marry Ethan.

Cleo’s heart lurched, as if it were trying to find a way out of her chest. “Are you kidding?” she said, her voice sounding very far away.

Ethan’s blue eyes were scarily solemn. “Not kidding.”

Cleo’s heart pitched again, like a boat ready to capsize. Marry Ethan? This whole episode was like something out of a fantasy, a too familiar fantasy born the first moment she’d seen Ethan last winter. A fantasy that had only grown in detail and proportion every time she’d encountered him after that.

But the reality of Ethan was right in front of her, too close, really. She could smell his delicious, sophisticated scent and see new lines of tiredness, or grief maybe, etched around his serious mouth. His sister had died. He had a baby now.

Little Jonah was real, too. Cleo looked down at the sweet baby, snoozing in his carrier. With his blond hair and the blue eyes she’d glimpsed, he could really be Ethan’s.

A husband. A child. Ethan and Jonah.

“Cleo?” Ethan rubbed his thumb across the backs of her knuckles, and she suppressed a shiver. A fantasy couldn’t come to life this easily. “What are you thinking?” he asked.

She swallowed. “Ethan, I need to know—”

A light knock on the office door interrupted her.

They both started and with the distraction Cleo was able to reclaim her hand. She moved away from Ethan and hoped she appeared calm.

“Come in,” she called.

The door opened and Lynn, one of the caregivers on her staff, peeked in. “I’m sorry, Cleo, but Bessie had a fall and needs your expert touch in the bandage department.” Lynn’s gaze slid toward Ethan and her eyes widened. “That is, if you have the time.”

“I always have time for Bessie,” Cleo said, almost glad for the temporary reprieve. She smiled as Lynn escorted the four-year-old into the office.

Bessie had platinum-blond hair in pigtails and her eyelashes were spiked wet with recent tears. A painful-looking scrape slashed across one knee.

Cleo knelt by her side. “What happened, sweetie?” she said softly. Though Ethan had stepped out of the way, she continued to feel his gaze on her.

Bessie frowned fiercely. “Kenny G.,” she said, her gravelly voice always a shocking contrast to her angelic features.

Lynn, who stood behind Bessie, must have seen the puzzlement on Ethan’s face because she suddenly grinned his way and explained Bessie’s statement. “Not the famous musician, mind you, but an infamous three-year-old. We have four Kennys at Bean sprouts.” Her fingers ticked them off. “Kenny E., Kenny K., Kenny T., and—” she paused, “—Kenny G.”

Bessie’s truck driver voice took over. “Kenny G. pushed me down.”

Lynn smiled in Ethan’s direction again. “Kenny G. is currently having a time-out.”

Cleo tamped down a little spurt of irritation at the other woman. There was no need for Lynn to explain things to Ethan, or to even be looking at him with such appreciation. But she focused on Bessie instead, brushing back a stray strand of the little girl’s hair. “You’re okay now, though?”

Bessie nodded and held out a bandage. “But I want you to put this on for me.”

“Sure, hon.” Cleo swung the little girl into her arms and sat her on the edge of her desk. With gentle hands she lifted Bessie’s right leg and propped her sneakered foot against her own thigh. “Did Lynn clean this for you?”

Bessie looked as though she wanted to say “yes,” but Lynn produced a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a soft cloth. “She wanted you to do that, too.”

“No problem, kiddo,” Cleo said. “We’ll get it taken care of pronto.” She hadn’t met a child yet who didn’t detest getting his or her scrapes and cuts cleaned, but she also knew that handling it with confidence and without cringing was best for everyone.

Within moments she ensured the scrape was free of dirt and then she applied the bandage, the whole time chattering with Bessie about what was scheduled for the afternoon’s snack and the new kitten in the little girl’s household. Aware the entire time of Ethan’s focus on her, Cleo was proud that her hands didn’t shake once. She ended the first aid with her usual healing kiss on Bessie’s forehead and then she took the little girl’s light weight in her arms to lift her off the desk.

Bessie looked over Cleo’s shoulder. “Who’s that?” she asked in her improbably rough voice, pointing at Ethan.

“Um…” Cleo froze, and noticed that Lynn’s expression was as curious as Bessie’s. “That’s Mr. Redford. He’s my, uh, friend.” She set the little girl on her feet.

“He’s cute,” Bessie said, and she gave a little wave then skipped out of the room.

Lynn backed out more slowly, her gaze flicking between Cleo and Ethan. “Well, I’ll just, um…” She seemed to have forgotten who and what generated her paycheck. “I’ll just…”

“Go watch the kids?” Cleo prompted.

Lynn sighed. “Yeah.” But then, as if she couldn’t help herself, she sent Cleo a thumbs-up sign before shutting the door behind her.

Cleo hoped her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt when she turned to face Ethan. “I’m, uh, sorry about that.”

An echo of that old, confident Ethan grin flashed over his face. “Why? One female says I’m cute and another appears to have given me her stamp of approval. I’m thinking that’s good for my case.”

Apparently his proposal wasn’t just a daydream, after all. Cleo leaned against her desk, gripping the edges with tight fingers. Marriage to Ethan! But as appealing as the idea was…

She inhaled a long, deep breath. “Why me?”

His eyes widened. “Uh.” He shoved his hands in his pockets as he retreated to the far side of the small room, where he leaned his shoulders against the wall. “’Why you’?” he echoed.

Cleo tightened her grip on the edge of her old oak desk. “It’s a hard question?”

“No. Yes.” He groaned and pushed his hands impatiently through his hair.

Cleo had never seen the golden locks so disordered, not even the night she’d touched them herself as they’d kissed. She ignored the little hot rush of her blood at the memory. “Talk to me, Ethan,” she said quietly.

His fingers raked through his hair once again. “My attorney in Houston—the one handling Della’s estate and all the legalities regarding Jonah—he’s very experienced in custody issues.”

Cleo nodded. Ethan was no fool and money was no object. He’d hire the best.

“The Coving tons—Jonah’s grandparents—have a lot of influence in Houston. If it comes to a court battle, they have the time and the money. To ensure I keep Jonah the attorney thought I needed something better than fat bank accounts, a trust fund for Jonah, and a top-ranked nanny. He thought I needed—”

“A wife.” Cleo wasn’t a fool, either.

“A mother for Jonah,” Ethan corrected quickly.

Cleo’s blood was running cooler now, but there was still hope in her heart. “That still doesn’t explain why you came to see me, Ethan. Certainly you know plenty of women in other places. Someone from Houston, for example.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Cleo…”

“I never thought you were a man who didn’t appreciate your share of women, Ethan.”

He shifted again. “Sure, I have ‘appreciated’ women, but it’s not like I have a harem of them all dying to wear my ring.”

Cleo wanted to disagree, certain there were several—if not dozens—of women who wouldn’t say no to Ethan. Women who’d be thrilled to wear his ring.

Such as herself.

Without warning, she remembered again that night on the love seat in the little den. She remembered how needy she’d been for him, how her pulse leaped when he’d touched her with his big hands. How she’d craved to have all of him against all of her.

No man had ever made her so excited and so hungry. And now she could have it all if she agreed to wear his ring. But still…

“You’re in Montana, Ethan. Looking for a wife in my office. Please, just say it. Why me?”

“Because you’re perfect, Cleo.”

Her heart went crazy again, hopping around like a high school cheerleader. She released her grip on the desk, just about to launch herself into his arms.

“Because you’re so…capable.”

Capable? Cleo’s heart tripped, and then fell with a long whoosh. Going cold, hot, cold, she sagged back against the desk, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Instead Ethan smiled at her and continued. “You see, you’re a child care provider. How ideal is that? You have the education and the experience to be an unbeatable mother. My attorney couldn’t be happier.”

“Your attorney is happy?”

Ethan smiled wider and nodded. “’Unbeatable mother material.’ Those were his exact words.”

“What about a wife?” she said quietly, her words tinged with just a bit of sharpness. “What kind of wife material do you suppose I am?”

Ethan looked suddenly wary and he tried to step back, but his heel hit the wall with a soft thump. “Cleo, I—”

“What kind of wife material do you suppose I am, Ethan?” she asked again, her voice steelier this time.

He looked down at his hands for a moment, as if the answer might be written on them. Then he looked back up, his blue eyes guarded. “You’re a practical, capable, sensible woman, Cleo. I think you make fine wife material or I wouldn’t be here.”

Capable. Practical. Sensible.

Maybe it was because she hadn’t slept well the night before—she hadn’t slept well in three months—that the words sounded more like insults instead of flattery.

Ethan needed a mother for Jonah and she had the right credentials. Ethan was willing to take a wife to get that mother, and she fit the bill because she was practical, capable, sensible.

Was that really the best thing anyone could say about her? It certainly echoed the sentiments her mother, sister and cousin had expressed this morning. Everyone was so darn certain that Cleo was sensible and practical.

Or maybe she was really just boring.

She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly mad at the world, but especially mad at Ethan, her family, herself. What kind of woman gave a man the impression she’d be swayed by “practical” and “capable” and “sensible”?

She took a fast breath through her nose. “No,” she said.

He blinked. “No, what?”

Cleo stared at him. What an idiot. “No, I won’t marry you.”

He blinked again. “Cleo—”

“Go find someone else, Ethan.” She cast a look at Jonah and found herself softening when she saw the baby’s sweet round cheeks and silky eyebrows. So she looked back at the rotten, gorgeous, and unpleasantly surprised Ethan.

Practical. Sensible. Ugh. “Goodbye,” she said briskly.

“Goodbye?” he echoed stupidly.

“Goodbye.”

He swallowed. “We can’t talk about this some more?” He came toward her and she backed around her desk. “If not now, sometime later?”

So what that he was so darn good-looking he made her heart flutter? “No. I’m too busy. I have Bean sprouts to run. Children, the staff.” She looked out the window and remembered the most pressing problem. “I have to find a new building. My lease is running out and this one is up for sale.”

Without waiting for him to answer, she sat in her chair and pulled a list of phone numbers from her desk drawer. “If you’ll excuse me, Ethan.” She put her hand on the phone.

He could be as belligerent as she. “What if I won’t?”

She refused to look at him, even for one last time. “Please,” she said.

A long, tense pause and then there was a flurry of movement and firm footsteps. Her office door opened, closed.

The room was without Ethan.

Cleo instantly folded, bending over to rest her flushed cheek on the cool desktop. Hot tears stung her eyes and she was unsure whether she was elated or disappointed that Ethan had given up.