Читать книгу Marriage, Maverick Style! - Christine Rimmer - Страница 11
ОглавлениеTessa woke slowly, smiling a little. All cozy and safe in bed, she was curled on her side, the blankets tucked up close under her chin.
But then she opened her eyes and felt her smile melt away.
What was this place?
The room was rustic, but richly so. She blinked and stared at an antique bronze mission-style glass lamp by the side of the bed. It sat on a night table made of gorgeous burled wood. Across the room—which was quite large—she saw a pair of French doors that looked out on a redwood deck with plush, padded furniture and a view of evergreen-blanketed mountains beyond. In the far distance, rugged snowcapped peaks poked the sky. It was clear, that sky, and very blue.
Daylight blue.
It must be morning.
But hadn’t it been nighttime just a moment ago, nighttime at the Memorial Day picnic in Rust Creek Falls Park?
She shut her eyes and waited. Surely when she opened them again...
Nope. Nothing had changed. Same big, beautifully appointed room. Same morning light.
She pulled the covers tighter under her chin and whispered, “Where am I?” not really expecting an answer.
Then things got worse.
A sleepy male voice asked from behind her, “Tessa?”
She knew that voice—didn’t she?
Carefully, slowly, clutching the covers close, she rolled to her back. With great reluctance, she turned her head. And there he was, Carson Drake, hair all rumpled, the scruff on his lean cheeks thicker than last night, his devastating mouth sexier than ever.
With a tiny squeal of distress, she lifted the covers enough to confirm her suspicions.
Yep.
Naked under there.
She grabbed the covers close again. “This cannot be happening.”
He looked as bewildered as she felt. “Tessa, I don’t...” Dark eyebrows drew together. Now he looked worried. About her. “Look, are you okay?”
She turned her gaze to the beautiful beamed ceiling above. Staring at it really hard, she whispered, “No, Carson. I am not okay.” Panic rose. Breathe. She did, slowly, and exhaled with care. “I’ve...got nothing. I have no idea what we did for a least half of last night. I don’t know how we got here.” And then she went ahead and confessed the awful truth. “This is exactly like what everyone said happened to people last July Fourth. I’ve had a blackout, I think. Last thing I remember, we were in the park sampling Homer’s moonshine.” She gulped and stared even harder at the ceiling overhead. “Do you, um, happen to know where we are and how we got here?”
“Hey. Look at me. Come on. Please?” He spoke so gently. As though her ears were tender and wounded—like her heart right now, like her self-respect and her very soul. She made herself face him again. He captured her gaze. “I didn’t know—I promise you. I didn’t believe that a jar of moonshine could really—”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Carson, what I mean is I didn’t believe it, either. Just...would you answer my question, please? Where are we and how did we get here?”
“We’re in my suite at Maverick Manor. But as to how we got here, I don’t have a clue. I remember we drank the moonshine. And there are...flashes of memory after that. Us laughing on the blanket, staring up at the stars. I kissed you. And we danced.”
“That was earlier.”
“Yeah, and then we danced again, later. And...well, it all starts to go hazy after that.”
“But did we...?” It seemed silly to even ask the question. They were here, together, naked. Almost certainly, they had.
He reached out a bare, beautifully muscled arm and scooped some bits of foil off the nightstand. “Looks like it.”
“What do you mean?”
He opened those long fingers to reveal three empty condom wrappers. They crackled on his palm as the foil relaxed.
“Omigod.” How could she? She didn’t even know this man. And yet here she was naked in bed with him, staring at empty condom wrappers with no recollection of using them. It was awful and embarrassing and not the kind of thing she would ever do—well, except with Miles. She’d fallen straight into bed with Miles the night she met him, too. But at least she was conscious when she did it. At least it had been her choice, and she’d loved every minute of it.
This, on the other hand...
No. Just...no.
This was all wrong. She didn’t remember making a choice. She couldn’t recall anything after those first few sips of moonshine.
Okay, she’d been attracted to him from the instant her eyes met his. Wildly so. But falling into bed with him? Uh-uh. No way.
“God. Tessa. Your face is dead white. Are you sure you’re all right?” He was watching her as though he feared she might shatter.
Well, she wouldn’t. Not a chance. She was tougher than that. Yeah, she’d messed up royally. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t hold it together. She let out a shaky little sigh. “I just can’t believe that this is happening, that’s all.”
“At least we were safe about it,” he offered sheepishly.
She played along, because she was not going to lose it right here in front of him. “Yeah. I guess that’s something, right?”
“Right.” He pushed himself to a sitting position.
She did the same, careful as she scooted up against the headboard to keep the blankets close. They leaned against the headboard side by side. She stared hard at the far wall and wished that the floor would just open up beneath her and swallow her whole.
The silence, weighted so heavily with regret and embarrassment, went on forever.
Finally, she murmured shakily, “I want to go home.”
He looked at her again then. His eyes were so sad. “Tessa, I’m so sorry...”
She showed him the hand and aimed her chin high. “Don’t. It’s no more your fault than mine. I don’t blame you. I drank that moonshine of my own free will.” It had tasted so good. And she’d never really believed the stories about it. Until now. Slow fury rose in her. “I might have to kill Homer Gilmore, though.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “Seriously. It’s like we were roofied.”
He made a low sound of agreement. “So much for my big plans to get the formula for Drake Distilleries. That stuff is way too dangerous.”
She pressed a hand to her queasy stomach. “I may never drink anything with alcohol in it again.”
“Believe me, I understand.”
They shared a wry, weary glance, and she said, “I really do want to go now.”
“All right.”
She looked away, toward the balcony and the snowcapped mountains in the distance. The covers shifted as he left the bed. More fabric rustled.
He said, “I’ll just use the bathroom.” Footsteps padded away.
As soon as she heard the bathroom door close, she jumped from the bed, grabbed her wrinkled clothes from the bedside chair and put them on. Once she was fully dressed, including her socks and red boots, she went looking for her hat.
She found it on the coffee table in the sitting room—next to a sketch pad and a bunch of pastels and colored pencils. “What in the...?” She picked up the pad and turned the pages slowly.
The drawings were her own, though she had zero memory of creating them. And as to where she got the pad and pencils, who knew? But apparently, not only did she and Carson use three condoms last night; she’d also whipped him up an ad campaign for Homer’s magic moonshine.
For the first time that morning, she almost smiled.
Not bad. Not bad at all. Clean, clear, imaginative and well executed, if she did say so herself. Even her domineering, tough-as-nails former boss, the legendary Della Storm of Innovation Media in New York, would approve. Tessa especially liked her rendering of a frosty-blue bottle with a sliver of silver moon on it and the words Blue Muse in a retro font. She also thought the sketch of a golden bottle with a lightning strike on the front was really good. That one was called Peach Lightning in bold copperplate Gothic. And the way she’d managed to work the Drake Distilleries logo of a rearing dragon into both designs? Damn good.
Glancing up from the pad in her hand, she stared into the middle distance, remembering how much fun she and Carson had had in the park, how they’d bantered back and forth over whether the ’shine was blackberry or peach. She’d loved every moment with Carson yesterday—at least, every moment that she could recall.
She heard the bathroom door open. With a hard sigh, she tossed the sketchbook back on the low table.
He appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, fully dressed in jeans, a knit shirt and a different pair of high-priced boots than he’d worn the day before. Dear Lord, he was a fine-looking man. Regret dragged at her heart that there couldn’t be more between them.
But no. It had all gotten way too complicated too fast. She didn’t need complications with a man, not until she had her own life figured out. She needed him to take her back to her grandmother’s boardinghouse. After that, she never wanted to see that amazing face of his again.
Across the room, he stared her somberly. Probably trying to think of something to say to her.
She knew exactly how he felt. “I’ll just use the bathroom and then I’m ready to go.”
* * *
Carson found his car in his usual space in the parking lot. He’d had his keys in yesterday’s jeans, so he must have driven them there. It freaked him the hell out to think that he’d gotten behind the wheel so drunk on moonshine he had no memory of the trip.
The ride back to town was a silent one.
Carson despised himself the whole way. And he couldn’t stop thinking about the condom wrappers, couldn’t stop asking himself if they were fools to depend on those empty wrappers as proof that they’d played it safe.
When he pulled in at the curb in front of the boardinghouse, she grabbed her hat off the seat with one hand and the door handle with the other. He should just let her go. It was obvious she wanted to get as far away from him as possible.
But he couldn’t let her walk away. Not yet. First, they needed to deal with the consequences of their actions—whatever the hell those actions had actually been.
“Wait, Tessa. Please.” She froze and stared at him, her dark hair a wild tangle of curls around her unforgettable gypsy-girl face. He made himself ask, “Are you on any kind of contraception?”
She winced and then confessed bleakly, “No. I had an implant, but when it expired last time, I didn’t replace it. And... I know, I know. Way more information than you needed.”
His gut twisted at her news, but he kept his voice gentle and low. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stop thinking that those condom wrappers don’t really prove we were as careful as we needed to be.” For that, he got a soft, unhappy groan.
She put her face in her hands. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” With a ragged intake of breath, she lifted her head and squared her shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. I’ll get the morning-after pill today.”
Rust Creek Falls had one general store. That store had no pharmacy area that he could remember. “Can you get it at Crawford’s?”
She chuckled, a sound with very little humor in it. “No. I’ll drive over to Kalispell. It’s a quick trip, not a big deal.”
He didn’t want her doing that all alone. “I’ll take you. We can go right now.”
She looked at him for a long count of five. And then she answered firmly, “No, thank you. I appreciate the offer. You’re a stand-up guy. But I really need to get through the rest of this walk of shame on my own.” She grabbed the door handle again and was out on the sidewalk before he could think of some way to change her mind. “Goodbye, Carson,” she said. The word had all the finality of a death sentence. She shut the door.
He watched her climb the boardinghouse steps and knew that it was over between them—over without really even getting started.
* * *
Tessa’s grandmother Melba Strickland was waiting for her in the foyer just inside the front door.
“There you are.” Melba reached out her long arms for a hug. Tessa went into them. Her grandmother always smelled of homey, comforting things. Right now it was coffee and cinnamon toast and a faintly floral perfume. “When you didn’t come down for breakfast at seven as usual, I got a little worried. I knocked on your door. No answer. I tried calling you, but your phone went straight to voice mail.”
“Sorry.” She’d left her phone in her room the night before. Because she’d only been running down the street to the park and she’d expected to return within a few hours. It must have died.
Her grandmother took her by the shoulders. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Tessa resisted the urge to make up a lie that explained her whereabouts last night. Yes, her grandmother had old-fashioned values and wouldn’t approve if Tessa said where she’d really been. But Tessa was a grown woman and her mistakes were her own to work out. Her grandma didn’t need to hear it. “I want to grab a shower. Then I need to drive into Kalispell and pick up a few things.” You know, like the morning-after pill. Because I’m an idiot, but I’m trying to be a responsible one.
Melba searched her face. “I just want you to know that I’m ready to listen anytime you need to talk.”
Tessa’s empty stomach hollowed further with a mixture of equal parts love and guilt. “I do know, Grandma. And I’m grateful.”
Melba gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You need to eat.”
“I really want to get going.”
“Humor me. An egg, some toast, a nice cup of hot coffee...”
So Tessa followed Melba to the kitchen, where eighteen-month-old Bekka sat in a booster seat at the table, drinking from her favorite sippy cup and munching on Cheerios and grapes. It was after nine, so Levi was off at work in Kalispell.
“Auntie Tess, Auntie Tess! Kiss!” Bekka made loud smacking sounds until Tessa bent close and let the little girl press her plump, sticky lips to her cheek. Tessa might not be good with most babies, but at least her niece seemed to like her well enough. Bekka offered a fistful of Cheerios.
They were limp and soggy. Tessa ate one anyway as Bekka beamed her approval.
Then Tessa got herself some coffee, pausing to pat her sister’s shoulder as she went by. Claire sent her a questioning look, and Tessa gave a rueful shrug in response. She set herself a place at the table, and Claire whipped her up some scrambled eggs. The food helped. Tessa felt a little better about it all once she’d eaten.
Upstairs, she hung her hat on the peg by the door, had a shower and paid no attention to the mild tenderness between her legs. She ignored the love bite on her left breast. It would fade to nothing in a day or two. She let the water run down over her, soothing her shaky nerves. And she tried not to regret what she couldn’t even remember.
Not too much later, dressed in a short denim skirt and a soft plaid shirt, she was on her way to Kalispell. At the first drugstore she came to, she bought a root beer and the hormone pill she needed. She took the pill the moment she got back behind the wheel, sipping the root beer slowly as she drove back to town.
That taken care of, she helped Claire in the kitchen for a while and then went upstairs to check email and dig into some projects she’d acquired through her website. Last Friday, when she’d agreed to ride the Gazette float, she’d told Dawson Landry, the paper’s editor and publisher, that she was looking for design work. Dawson had said that if she came by, he would put her to work. She’d said she would, on Tuesday.
Well, it was Tuesday. And follow-through mattered.
So once she’d made sure she was on top of her other projects, she called Dawson. He said to come on over.
At the Gazette, she spent a couple of hours punching up the layout for the next edition. Once she got absorbed in the work, she was glad she’d come. It helped to keep busy.
As for Carson, well, whatever they’d done last night, it wouldn’t be happening again. Last night was clear proof that she should have followed her first instinct when it came to him, should have stayed at the boardinghouse and out of his way.
She wouldn’t be seeing him anymore. She would get past her own stupid choices yet again. Everybody made mistakes and life went on.
And if Homer Gilmore knew what was good for him, he’d keep the hell away from her for the next hundred years.
* * *
Carson didn’t notice the sketchbook until late that afternoon.
He’d driven into Kalispell, too. He’d had a late breakfast at a diner he found. And then he’d wandered around the downtown area, checking things out, seeing what the larger town had to offer.
Was he hoping he might run into Tessa?
A little. Maybe.
But it didn’t happen.
It was so strange, the way he felt about her. He missed her. A lot. He’d met her less than twenty-four hour ago, yet somehow he felt as though he knew her. She had a kind of glow about her, an energy and warmth. Already he missed that glow.
His world was dimmer, less vibrant, without her.
As he drove back toward Rust Creek Falls, he realized that he hadn’t felt this way about a woman in years. Not since he was fifteen and fell head over heels for Marianne.
He wished he could remember making love with Tessa. Somehow, even though he couldn’t remember what they’d done late in the night, the clean, sweet scent of her skin and the lush texture of her hair were imprinted on his brain.
At the Manor, he spent a couple of hours catching up with email and messages. He got on the phone to a number of employees and associates in Southern California. When asked how the moonshine project was going, he said that it had fallen through.
He didn’t, however, mention flying back to LA, though he might as well pack up and go. There was no reason to stay. So far, though, he’d failed to start filling suitcases. Nor had he alerted the pilot on standby in Kalispell to file a flight plan and get his plane ready to go.
At a little after four, Carson dropped to the sofa in the suite’s sitting room and reached for the TV remote on the coffee table in front of him.
He noticed the two dozen colored pencils and bright, fat, chalklike pastels first. For several seconds, he frowned at them, wondering where they might have come from. Then he saw the sketchbook. The maids had been in and placed it just so on top of the complimentary stack of magazines.
Tessa. The sketchbook must be hers. But he didn’t remember her carrying any art supplies with her yesterday. Where had the pad, the pencils and the pastels come from?
He had no idea. It was yet another lost piece of last night. Curious and way too eager to see what might be inside, he grabbed the sketch pad and started thumbing through it.
Instantly, at the first drawing of a series of different-shaped jars and bottles, he was impressed. Each design was unique. The jars were mason-style, the kind with raised lettering manufactured into the glass. Each one made him feel that he could reach out and grab it, that he could trace the pretty curves of the lettering with the pad of a finger. She had great skill with light and shadow, so the bottles almost seemed to have dimension, to be smooth and rounded, made of real glass.
Carson got that shiver—the one that happened whenever he had a really good idea.
These drawings of Tessa’s gave him ideas.
She gave him ideas. Because beyond being gorgeous and original, with all that wild, dark hair and a husky laugh he couldn’t get out of his head, Tessa Strickland had real talent. He slowly turned the pages, loving what he saw.
She knew how to communicate a concept; her execution was brilliant. Unfortunately, now that a deal with Homer was off the table, he wouldn’t be able to use what she’d come up with here.
But you never knew. Homer Gilmore didn’t have the moonshine market cornered. If Drake Distilleries developed their own, less dangerous brand of ’shine, the Blue Muse and Peach Lightning flavors might well have a future, after all.
And even if he gave up on making moonshine completely, Drake Distilleries could benefit from a talent like Tessa’s. And so could his restaurants and nightclubs. Targeted, carefully executed advertising and effective promotion were a lot of what made everything he put his name on successful. Adding Tessa to the firm that promoted his brand could work for him in a big way.
And for her, too. Before last night faded into oblivion, they had talked about her career, about where she might be going with it. He’d said she should go big. Now that he’d seen her work, he knew he’d been right. If he could make her a tempting enough offer, maybe he could convince her to come to LA, after all.
All at once he felt vindicated. He hadn’t told his people he was returning to Southern California because he wasn’t. Not yet.
Not until he’d convinced Tessa Strickland to move to LA, where he could help her have the kind of successful design career she so richly deserved. He knew he could give her a big boost professionally.
And if it went somewhere personal, too, he would be more than fine with that.
* * *
First thing the next morning, Carson called Jason Velasco, his contact at Interactive Marketing International in Century City. He was about to explain that he’d found a brilliant graphic designer and he was hoping she might be a fit for IMI. He planned to tell Jason that he wanted Tessa working on the various ad campaigns that IMI developed for both Drake Distilleries and Drake Hospitality, which was the mother company for Carson’s clubs and restaurants.
But then he caught himself.
True, Jason knew where his bread was buttered. If Carson wanted Tessa working at IMI, Jason would damn well do all in his power to make that happen.
But how would Tessa react to Carson’s setting her up for an interview without consulting her first?
Quite possibly not well.
Given that she’d walked away from him yesterday without a backward glance, he really couldn’t afford to take the chance of pissing her off in any way.
And Jason was still waiting on the line, probably wondering if he’d hung up. Carson said lamely, “Hey! Just thought I’d call and check in, see how we’re doing with the new campaign.” Drake Distilleries was preparing to launch a series of flavored brandy-based liqueurs.
Jason gave him a quick rundown. Then he asked, “So you’re still in the wilds of Montana on that supersecret new acquisition of yours?”
“Still in Montana, yes. And the project did start out as a secret. But this is a small town, and it’s hard to keep a secret around here.” He explained about Homer’s moonshine, and how he’d thought it might work for Drake Distilleries. “But it was a long shot and it didn’t pan out. The downstroke is it’s a no go.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Can’t win ’em all.”
“So you’ll be on your way back now?”
“Not yet. I have a few more things I need to look into here first.” Things like how to convince a certain adorable brunette that California is the place for her.
“But we’ll see you on the twentieth?” On the twentieth, Jason and his team would be presenting the game plan for the liqueur campaign. It was an important meeting. In fact, Carson had more than one meeting he couldn’t miss during that week. He would have to return to LA by then.
That gave him two and a half weeks to get through to Tessa. Ordinarily he had limitless confidence in his powers of persuasion. Not so much in this case.
“Carson? You still with me?”
“Right here. And of course I’ll be there on the twentieth.”
Once he hung up with Jason, Carson called Strickland’s Boarding House. Tessa’s sister Claire answered, politely identifying herself. He almost told her who he was. But then he remembered the look on Tessa’s face when she’d left him the morning before. If Tessa knew he was calling, would she even come to the phone?
He decided to take no chances. “I’d like to speak with Tessa Strickland.”
“Hold on.”
A moment later, she came on the line. “This is Tessa.”
Just the sound of her voice made his chest feel tight. He wanted to see her, wanted it a lot. “You probably won’t believe this, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
A silence. Not a welcoming one. “Hello, Carson.”
“I was thinking maybe lunch. We could drive over to—”
“Carson, I don’t think so.”
He lowered his head and stared at his boots. “It’s just lunch.”
She spoke again, her voice almost a whisper. “Please don’t worry. I went to Kalispell yesterday and took care of it.”
“It?” And then he caught on. He swore low. “Come on, Tessa. Don’t. I’m not calling about the damn morning-after pill.”
A silence on her end. A long, gruesome one. Then finally, “It’s just...not a good time for me to get anything started, you know?”
“Fine.” Though it wasn’t. Not fine in the least. “This isn’t a personal call, anyway.” That was only half a lie. He wanted to get close to her, absolutely. But he also wanted to help her have the career she deserved. “Did you know you left sketches in my suite?”
“Yeah. I saw the sketch pad on the coffee table and looked through it. I don’t remember how or when it happened, but apparently we plotted out a moonshine campaign.” She paused, then, “Wait a minute. You’re going ahead with the moonshine thing after all?” Now she sounded surprised—and not in a good away.
“No.”
She sighed. “Glad to hear it. You had me worried there for a minute.”
“This isn’t about the moonshine. It’s about you, about your future. Those sketches are amazing. I want you to think about—”
“Carson.”
He stared at his boots some more and knew he was getting nowhere. Feeling desperate and pitiful—emotions with which he’d never been the least familiar—he took one more stab at getting through to her. “You have so much talent. I only want to—”
“No, thank you,” she said softly, with utter finality. “I have to go now. Goodbye.”
