Читать книгу More To Love - Dixie Browning, Dixie Browning - Страница 9

Dammit, they couldn’t be too far away, or else they’d have locked the place. Pushing the door open, Rafe shoved the groceries and his battered leather bag in out of the rain. He should have called first. He should have called before he’d ever left Florida.

Too late now. After a quick look around, he set to work on the surprise birthday dinner. He preferred to think of it as that rather than as a test for the bride, but he was beginning to have a funny feeling about this whole affair. If things didn’t work out, Stu was going to take it hard. From some unknown ancestor, the kid had inherited the genes for vulnerability and sensitivity. Thank God those had skipped Rafe. If there were two things he was not, it was vulnerable and sensitive.

The place was a dump. If there was a level surface anywhere, it wasn’t easily discernible. It was small to the point of claustrophobic, and the two refrigerator-size birdcages in the room across the hall didn’t help. Stu had mentioned that his bride had a couple of birds. Rafe had pictured budgies. Maybe canaries.

Through the open door, he eyed the two red-tailed gray parrots in the next room. Tilting their heads, they eyed him back. Feeling vaguely self-conscious, he turned his attention back to the turkey he’d bought in Tampa and allowed to thaw on the way north. He probably should’ve opted for something simpler, but the grand gesture had been part of the plan. Showing up with deli food and a bottle of wine wouldn’t do the trick. It had been his experience that wives didn’t care much for surprises, and a raw turkey definitely qualified as a surprise.

Rafe had had a wife of his own, briefly. He’d like to think Stu would have better luck, but he wouldn’t bet on it. Marital bliss was not a component of their gene pool, on either the maternal or the paternal side, he reminded himself as he rummaged underneath the counter for a roasting pan. If the kid found himself married to the wrong kind of woman, who better than Rafe to lead him out of the wilderness?

Judging strictly from the wedding pictures that had been waiting in his stack of mail when he’d gotten back from his extended stay in Central America, the lady was gorgeous and at least three inches taller than her bridegroom, who’d been grinning like Howdy Doody in every single picture. Knowing Stu, Rafe figured his half brother probably hadn’t bothered to draw up a prenuptial agreement.

Knowing women in general, the bride probably would have talked him out of it even if he had. His baby brother all but carried a sign that said Kick Me.

The range was an ancient model, the oven barely big enough to hold a roasting pan and the sweet potato casserole he’d planned. In the years after Stu had gone off to college, Rafe’s cooking had been limited to intimate dinners for two, usually followed by breakfast. Other than that, he ate out. Domestic, he was not. A woman he’d once known briefly had called it a defense mechanism. She’d been into pop psychology and thought she had his number.

Defense mechanism? No way. He simply liked his life just fine the way it was, and saw no reason to change it. And dammit, he was not lonely, no matter what anyone said! Anytime he wanted company, all he had to do was pick up the phone. Could a man have it any better than that? All the fun, none of the hassles?

There was a row of broken shells on the kitchen windowsill and he wondered if that was a clue to the kind of woman Stu had married. Was there some hidden psychological meaning here? What sort of person would bring home broken shells? Judging solely from the wedding photos, the bride could be a model or a starlet. She had the looks. According to Stu, she was supposed to be working on a degree in linguistics.

What the hell was linguistics, anyway?

A long-haired yellow cat with a wide head and ragged ears stalked into the kitchen and glared at him. Rafe glared back. “Don’t even think about it, friend,” he growled, plopping the turkey into the sink.

“Balderdash!” screamed one of the two African Grays from the living room.

“Yeah, right,” Rafe grumbled as he ran water through the cavity and wondered if he’d remembered to buy prepared stuffing. He was getting a low-pressure headache. Either that, or second thoughts were piling in faster than his brain could process them.

The second parrot tuned up with a creditable imitation of a squeaking door, followed by a realistic smoker’s hack. From there, things went rapidly downhill.

Rafe wanted to get dinner in the oven before he started checking around for a hotel room. At least since his first disastrous attempt to create a Thanksgiving feast for a desolate kid, he’d learned to remove the unmentionables inside the bird before cramming in the store-bought stuffing.

“Help! Lemme go! Bad-ass, bad-ass!”

“Shut up, you red-tailed devil, or you’re going into the oven with baldie here.”

If Stu’s lovely linguist bride was responsible for her birds’ vocabulary, she was a hell of a lot tougher than she looked. Remembering the pictures of the gorgeous vision in white clinging to a beaming Stu reminded Rafe of another reason why he was here instead of being back in Pelican’s Cove, Florida, inspecting his latest acquisition to get some idea of how much was salvageable.

Belle was getting married this weekend. Long-legged, sexy Belle, his mistress of the past eight months, who was every bit as good in bed as she was on the tennis courts. They’d met at a yacht christening and promptly entered into the relationship with both pairs of eyes wide open. Rafe had made a point of sharing his philosophy right up front. Except for the five years when Stu lived with him, his motto had always been easy come, easy go. Work hard, play hard, and avoid encumbrances. If he lost everything today, he’d start over tomorrow. Once he’d launched his kid brother and gotten his own life back on track, he had quickly reverted to his old lifestyle. Life was an adventure, he remembered telling Belle at some point. He made a point of not setting up any false expectations. While he was scrupulously faithful to one woman at a time, the last thing he wanted was an anchor holding him down. When the time came to move on, he simply moved on. When both sides clearly understood the ground rules, moving on was easy.

Both he and Belle were in their late thirties and unencumbered. Rafe had been wildly attracted to her body and Belle had been equally attracted to the lifestyle of a young, moderately wealthy bachelor. Rafe prided himself on being a generous lover, both physically and financially. And he had been, right up until Belle’s biological alarm clock had gone off. Six weeks after she had regretfully handed him his walking papers in exchange for a gold charm bracelet and a block of stock, she’d snagged herself an insurance salesman. The last time he’d heard from her they were shopping for a house near a good school.

Rafe wished her luck because he’d genuinely liked the woman. But he’d been feeling increasingly restless ever since he’d heard the news. He’d had his personal assistant pick out an expensive wedding gift, and then he’d rearranged his calendar and filed a flight plan to an off-the-beaten-track island on North Carolina’s Outer Banks.

A mile away, Molly struggled to hide a yawn. They’d spent a few hours driving along the beach, and for a little while she’d felt like the heroine of one of those adventure movies, racing along the beach, splashing through the surf with the wind blowing in her face and an attractive man at her side.

Jeffy liked open windows. Said he could smell a school of fish a mile out at sea. Over the roar of the wind, he had told her about his father’s concrete block business and his own high school football career, and the trophy-size channel bass he’d taken a few years ago. He had perfect teeth, Molly noted absently during the monologue, and a really nice smile. Actually, he was good company if she overlooked a few minor detractions. His jokes were a little raw, but then, the new Molly wasn’t going to be as big a prude as the old Molly had been.

After driving from one end of the island to the other, Jeffy insisted on stopping off for a seafood dinner at Delroy’s Pub. By that time she was too hungry to resist. Which meant she was going to have to starve for days to make up for the fried scallops and French fries, even though she had left one of each on her plate.

And then someone fed the jukebox. As soon as the music started, two couples got up to dance. From a corner booth, Molly watched, tapping time on the tabletop.

“Hey, come on, what do you say we show ’em how it’s done?” Jeffy stood and held out his hand. There was a chorus of whistles and catcalls from the bar and he turned and bowed, grinning at his buddies.

“I don’t—” she started to say, but he cut her off.

“Sure you do, honey. Everybody does. Just do what comes naturally.”

What came naturally was to disappear. To hole up in her room with a book. But that was the old Molly, and she had sworn that once she left West Virginia she was going to reinvent herself.

The music was loud and fast. Even those who weren’t dancing were swaying and tapping their feet. It was a convivial group, just as Sally Ann had said. Ready for a good time. Beer was served by the pitcher and everything on the seafood platter was fried. And so far, Molly had enjoyed everything except the beer.

But dancing? “I’m not very good at this,” she protested breathlessly while Jeffy twisted and snapped his fingers. She wasn’t dressed for it, either. Some women weren’t built for snug jeans and T-shirts. She was getting there, but she still had a long way to go.

“Just shake it, honey. That’s all you have to do.”

She slid out of the booth and tried her best to “shake it” without actually shaking it. The music was mostly beat with no discernible melody, but the rhythm was contagious. She was actually beginning to enjoy herself when one of the men at the bar yelled, “Hey, Jeffy, what happened to that gold ring you usually wear?”

Without answering, Jeffy managed to twist around until he was between her and the men at the bar. “Ignore ’em. They’re drunk.”

They weren’t drunk, but neither were they sober. She asked breathlessly, “What ring is he talking about? Did you lose one at the beach?”

“I never wear a ring when I’m fishing.”

And then, just like that, it hit her. It was written all over those bedroom eyes of his. Guilt. She should have recognized it, having seen so much of it in the past. “What ring? Jeffy, are you married?”

“Aw, c’mon, honey, do I look married?”

“Not to me, you don’t,” she said, and he could take that any way he wanted to. She headed for the table, where she’d left her damp, sandy embroidered denim jacket and her shoulder bag. She would pay for her own darned supper. She was going to be paying for it in other ways, she might as well go all the way.

“Come on, Moll, be a sport.” She dug into her bag and came up with her wallet.

Jeffy shook his head. “No way—put your money back. When a gentleman invites a lady out to supper, she don’t have to pay her way.”

“Then thank you.”

“Aw, come on, sugar, be a sport.” He was whining. If there was one thing she hated in a man, it was whining.

“You could have told me.” She headed toward the door, with Jeffy right on her heels. People were staring, some of them grinning, a few calling out comments.

“You tell him, sugar!”

“Go get ’er, tiger!”

Feeling her face burning, Molly was glad for the dim lights.

“I was going to tell you, honest. See, me and Shirl, we been having a little trouble and I figured on getting to know you better and then maybe asking how you’d handle it if you was me. I mean, a woman like you, I could tell right off you were the understanding type.”

“No you couldn’t, because I’m not,” Molly said flatly. She had done all the understanding she intended to do, and it had gotten her nowhere. She might be a slow learner, but eventually the message got through.

It was dark. The rain was coming down in solid sheets, blowing across the highway. She hesitated, trying to get her bearings, and then Jeffy opened the door of his truck. “I’ll drive you home. I owe you that much.”

She was tempted to refuse, but even the old Molly had better sense. It was pitch dark and pouring rain. Given her track record she would probably walk right off the edge of the island and drown.

Jeffy drove her home. He was a sullen companion, but then, so was she. She didn’t know whom she was angrier with, Jeffy or herself. She should never have gotten into the truck in the first place. So she’d met him once before on the ferry—he was still a stranger. He’d seemed friendly and likable, but he was a man—a married man. She couldn’t afford another of those in her life. Her bank balance hadn’t recovered from the last one.

His fishing buddies had stood at the bar all evening, drinking beer, laughing, talking. It hadn’t struck her at the time, but not once had any of them come over to the table to be introduced. That had to mean something…didn’t it?

Feeling more miserable by the minute, Molly wondered if he had done the whole thing on a dare. Five bucks says you won’t pick up the fat girl. Ten says you won’t show up with her at Delroy’s. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been the butt of a joke.

She wasn’t all that fat, she thought defensively. She had measurements. She might use up a few more inches on the measuring tape than some other women but she had a shape.

Jeff double-parked outside the cottage, blocking the street. The yard light was on, and for the life of her, she couldn’t recall if it was automatic or not. There was a beach buggy wedged in next to her own ten-year-old sedan, the two vehicles squeezed between a picket fence and a massive live oak tree. Sally Ann had warned her that parking was a haphazard affair at best, and once the season got underway, it was next to impossible.

“Thank you for supper and bringing me home,” she muttered, all in one breath.

“Hey, Moll, I’m sorry. Really.”

“Why me?” There was obviously something about her that attracted lying, conniving losers.

“’Cause you’re nice? ’Cause you looked sort of lonesome on the ferry, and I just decided, what the hell? You know how it is.”

“No, not really.”

“Most women—you know, like they expect a man to blow his paycheck on ’em, and then they cut him dead if he wants a little fun.”

“And you wanted a little fun, right?” Sally Ann had warned her about that, too, but she hadn’t listened.

“If it had worked out that way.” He shrugged. “I wish now I’d told you about Shirl—my wife. Like I said, we’re having some problems. She wanted me to skip the tournament just so I could go to this reunion thing, and we sorta had us some words before I left. You’re a real good listener. You prob’ly could’ve given me some tips on how to handle situations like that.”

Oh, yes, she was a grand listener. She had listened to a description of every fish the man had caught in last year’s tournament, legal or otherwise, including the weight and length, and what type of tackle he had used. She had listened three times to the description of his game-winning touchdown against Marcus P. Struthers High in the regional play-offs.

Just as she had listened to another man explaining earnestly why he could never hold a job, or why he needed to dress for success, and what he was going to do for her once his ship came in.

Kenny’s ship had never left harbor. The last thing she needed was a man whose only ship was a smelly old ferryboat. And what’s more, she didn’t care if he never caught another fish in his entire life, she was tired of trying to solve problems for men who didn’t have the gumption to solve their own.

“Thanks again for supper.” She opened her door and dropped to the ground before he could come around and help her out, not that he made a move to get out of the vehicle. It was raining hard, after all. Head down, she jogged up the path to the cottage, stomped the sand from her feet on the front porch and opened the door.

The kitchen light was on. It had been midafternoon when she’d left, so she wouldn’t have turned on any light except for the one by the birdcages. Molly swallowed hard, clutching the plastic bag that held her apples and the broken shells she’d collected earlier. Could Stu and Anna have come home early? Could she have made a mistake and barged into the wrong house?

Hardly. Not with those familiar raucous cries coming from the living room. Not with that smelly long-haired cat wreathing her ankles. She’d gotten lost more than once before she’d found her way around the village, using the map on the tourist brochure, but not this time. This was definitely the right house.

Cautiously she moved inside and peered into the kitchen. The bag fell from her fingers. Apples rolled across the sloping floor. She stared openmouthed at the tall, tanned and sun-streaked guy with a dish towel tucked into his belt and a dead turkey cradled in his arms.

Rafe, on hearing a car door slam outside, had peered out the window to see a woman jump down from a dark green pickup truck and hurry up the path to the front porch. He waited for Stu to join her, but the truck drove off.

But then, Stu didn’t drive a truck. He drove an expensive toy his father had given him for his twenty-first birthday to make up for a lifetime of neglect.

It also occurred to Rafe that unless the wedding photographer had used a trick lens, this was definitely not the bride.

Rafe was still standing there with the bird all ready for the oven when the woman appeared in the kitchen doorway. Neither of them spoke for a moment. “Surprise, congratulations and happy birthday, kid,” didn’t seem appropriate.

No way was this Stu’s bride. Somebody had a lot of explaining to do. Even wearing wet denim instead of white satin, there was no resemblance. Stu’s bride was a tall, slender beauty. This woman was none of the above.

Housekeeper? Housebreaker? Mother-in-law? Friend of the family? “You want to go first?” he offered.

“I think you’d better go first, starting with what you’re doing in my kitchen.” Her voice was the most striking thing about her. Husky, but with a hint of firmness that was unmistakable.

“Your kitchen?”

“I asked who you are,” she reminded him with a take-no-hostages glint in her whiskey-colored eyes.

“Actually you didn’t, but I’ll tell you anyway. Name’s Rafe Webber. And if this is your kitchen, then you must be—?” He was momentarily distracted by seeing her eyes narrow. Eyes that big and slumberous weren’t equipped to look suspicious, but she managed it anyway.

“Rafe Webber? Is that supposed to ring a bell?”

Well, hell… He wasn’t used to having to explain himself. He’d long since earned the privilege of asking the questions, not having to answer them. “You have the advantage of me, Miss—?” A gentleman to the bitter end, he thought with wry amusement. His headache wasn’t getting any better.

“Until I know what you’re doing here, I don’t have to tell you anything. How did you get in?”

“Front door. It wasn’t locked. I figured Stu would be back any minute.”

“You know Stu?”

He decided to cut her some slack. Had a feeling it might save time and trouble in the long run. “He’s my brother.”

“Stu’s name isn’t Webber. Try again.”

The lady was sharp. In no mood to go into the convoluted relationships in his immediate family, Rafe kept it simple. “We’re half brothers. Same mother, different fathers.”

“Do you have some identification?”

Deep breath. Open oven door, insert turkey, shut door and smile. Turning back, he said, “Dammit, lady, I don’t need any identification, I know who I am. And I know you’re not Stu’s wife, so suppose you produce some identification of your own.”

In clinging wet jeans and a baggy wet jacket it was obvious that she was carrying a few extra pounds. For reasons he didn’t even try to dissect, a few of his defenses crumbled. The place wasn’t big enough for a full-scale war. It was your bottom-line basic seventy-year-old cottage, with slightly newer appliances. He thought about the wedding gift he’d had shipped to Stu’s apartment in Durham, a fancy piece of equipment that did everything from poaching salmon to pouring tea, or so he’d been told by the salesman. With it he’d ordered monthly shipments of salmon and prime beef. God knew where they were now. Rotting in some post office, probably.

The woman stared pointedly at the towel around his waist until he whipped it off and flung it at the counter. It fell to the floor. In the next room, the parrots cut loose with a stream of profanities, which didn’t help matters.

“They’re next, as soon as I get another pan ready.” He nodded to the oven.

Her eyes widened without losing the look of suspicion. She glanced down at the apples on the floor as if wondering how they’d got there. Glanced at him as if wondering the same thing.

Rafe had to admit the kitchen was a mess. When it came to cooking he was used to state-of-the-art equipment and someone to clean up after him. He said, “You’re wet.”

Without breaking eye contact, she said in that firm, husky voice, “It’s raining.”

So what now? he wondered. He scooped her apple bag off the floor and discovered it was half full of shells. Sandy, broken shells. At least one mystery had been cleared up, which left only a dozen or so to go.

She slipped off her wet jacket and hung it on a hook by the back door. Rafe let his eyes do the walking. The term Rubenesque came to mind. As for her face, it was…interesting. At the moment she looked as if a smile would fracture her jaw, but her skin was the kind a woman had to be born with. Cosmetics could never achieve that buttery smooth texture. He’d seen too many women come to regret having spent half their lives sunbathing not to recognize the difference.

“I don’t suppose you know where they are?” He decided on a flank attack. She still hadn’t told him who she was, but that could wait. Once the honeymooners got home, they could do the honors.

“Who, Annamarie and Stu?” The look of suspicion was replaced by a look of puzzlement. Or maybe she was just nearsighted. “They’re supposed to be in Jamestown.”

“Jamestown,” he repeated. And then “Jamestown? As in Virginia? What the hell are they doing there? I’m cooking their supper.”

“Um…studying the diggings. I guess.”

“Studying the diggings. You want to run that by me again?”

“It’s Annamarie’s birthday present.”

He shook his head. “Somebody gave her a trip to Jamestown for a birthday gift?” A change in barometric pressure always did a number on his head. This time it had evidently affected his hearing, as well.

With a majestic sigh, the woman said, “It’s Annamarie’s gift to Stu. He’s the historian, as you should know if you really are who you say you are. While they’re down here working on her thesis, she’s giving him this side trip for a birthday present.”

Rafe pressed his cool fingertips above his eyes and rubbed. With a sigh, he said, “Look, Miss—”

“Dewhurst. And it’s Ms., not Miss. Annamarie is my baby sister.”

“Ms. Dewhurst,” he repeated. Great. He’d come all this way, planning to check out his new half sister-in-law and make up to Stu for all the missed occasions with a belated birthday feast, and now he was stuck here with Ms. Congeniality.

“Actually, it’s Molly,” she said in that quiet, husky voice of hers that kept getting between him and his anger.

Make that frustration. “Well, Molly, whoever you are and whatever you’re doing here, I hope you like turkey. And candied sweet potatoes and spoon bread and whatever green vegetable I can find in Stu’s pantry. It’ll probably be canned peas, but with enough butter and seasoning, they’re not half bad.”

“Balderdash, balderdash, balderda—!”

Moving swiftly, Rafe closed the door between the two rooms, making the kitchen seem smaller than ever. The whole cottage would fit nicely into his suite at his latest acquisition, a small resort hotel on Florida’s Gulf Coast.

“I think we’d better talk,” Ms. Molly Dewhurst said as she shucked off a pair of very wet pink sneakers. “But first I really need a cup of coffee. It might be April, but I’m freezing.” As if to prove her point, she sneezed, begged his pardon and said, “You’re welcome to a cup if you don’t mind reheated.”