Читать книгу After Dark - Donna Hill - Страница 11

SHE LET OUT a gasping breath.

She extended her hand and her fingers brushed across his fist, clenched on the table. “I never intended—”

When he lurched to his feet, she fell silent.

He shouldn’t have brought up the ugly darkness. Why had he?

To be cruel? To dim that bright, clever smile? Had his family’s pain and tragedy really turned him into such an un-feeling ass?

With his back to her, he forced his emotions to the pit of his stomach. “I understand you and your committee have a job to do. So do I. And I need to do it alone.”

“I don’t plan to burden you with my presence on a daily basis. Weekly inspections will be fine.”

He suppressed a wince. “Inspections?”

“Visits,” she amended.

There had to be a way around this historical accuracy nonsense. He only wanted to work and sweat, bring back elegance and beauty to something in this world.

“Suppose I ignore these rules? And your visits?”

“You could, I guess. But Sister Mary Katherine would consider that dishonorable, and you really don’t want to get on her bad side.”

Blue-hairs, teenagers, librarians and nuns were going to rule his life for the foreseeable future. It was completely, jaw-droppingly ridiculous.

“Also,” Sloan added, “My daddy is the sheriff, and my granddaddy is the county judge. You really don’t want to get on their bad side.”

And the law. Great.

He’d seen enough cops in the last year to last a lifetime. If only her cousin was a reporter, his torture would be complete.

Heading toward the whiskey bottle, he said, “The blueprints are in the library. Look at them all you want, make copies, pass them out to your fellow committee members, alert the media.”

“Thank you. That would be helpful.”

He poured his drink, then rested against the counter to sip it. “The carpenter is coming tomorrow. I’m sure you can discuss all my insidious plans with him.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” she said cheerfully.

“So go.”

She angled her head. “Does drinking improve or sour your mood?”

“Go!”

Shrugging, not looking at all offended by his surliness, she rose from the table, then walked down the hall.

She was right. She didn’t saunter. She strutted.

He poured more whiskey.

Rage and regret were living, breathing things. And both volatile. He longed to remember what his life had been like before, when his family had been happy and secure, when his communications company, which he’d inherited from his father and which had supported them all, had flourished. When he’d been full of himself and the fortunes he’d been surrounded by. When he hadn’t thought being on time to dinner would be the difference between life and death. When he hadn’t realized the power a total stranger had over everything that mattered.

Berating the police for lack of justice hadn’t solved anything. Avoiding the media hadn’t made them any less likely to go away. Selling the company hadn’t soothed his grief. Working himself to exhaustion hadn’t, as yet, tempered his anger.

Give it time, his friends said.

So he was.

As he sipped his drink, he forcefully pushed his thoughts to the work he’d accomplished the last few days and ignored the briefcase sitting on the floor a few feet away. He’d sanded the floor in the dining room, preparing it for staining. He’d accepted delivery of a mattress and box-spring set and assembled it into the antique mahogany bed frame he’d bought a couple of weeks ago at an estate sale. He’d repaired the bookcase in the library.

Where Sexy Sloan was now.

Why didn’t she leave? Why did the sensual, tropical fruit scent of her perfume linger, even when she wasn’t in the room?

He stiffened as he heard her move down the hall toward him.

“These are really good,” she said, holding the rolled-up plans. “You’ve done a lot of work already.”

“I haven’t changed anything,” he said sharply. “Just simple repairs.”

She held up her hand. “I can see that. I saw the pictures of the new stair and balcony railing. Did you have it built?”

“I bought it at an estate sale.”

“I have a hard time seeing you puttering around old houses on weekends.”

He paused in the process of sipping his whiskey. “I don’t putter.”

“No.” Her gaze drifted down his body, leaving heat and need in its wake. “I imagine you don’t.”

“You’ve got what you want,” he said harshly, irritated by her ability to arouse him so effortlessly. Now go.

She seemed to sense his unspoken words and crossed to her briefcase, which she set on the kitchen table. “I’ll get the plans back to you tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

Straightening, she faced him. “I’m not your enemy, Aidan.”

It was the first time she’d called him by his given name, and the moment sent a pulse of excitement through his veins. A moment he didn’t want and shouldn’t feel.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” she added.

He never knew what to say to this. Thanks? They lived a long and full life? Since neither of those were true, he remained silent.

Hitching her briefcase on her shoulder, she started out. “It’s a nice town. You’ll be—”

“Happy?” He shook his head. “I want to be alone.”

“I was going to say you’ll be accepted,” she said softly. “If you make an effort.”

“I want to be alone.”

“Yeah?” She cocked her head, her eyes bright with challenge. “How’s that workin’ out for you so far?”

He tossed back the rest of his whiskey. “Fine,” he lied.

With a half smile, she nodded. “I’ll leave you to it.” She turned and headed down the hall and toward the front door.

Finally.

And yet some mad, invisible force pulled him after her.

Watching her hips sway as she walked, he reflected on times when he’d been whole and happy. He used to run a successful, international communications company. He used to wear custom-made designer suits and attend all the important events in Atlanta. He used to be sociable. He used to relish the attention of smart, beautiful women like Sloan.

Today, the shell of him that walked through the dark, dusty halls of this ancient house had consumed him.

But wasn’t it right that he was here? Hadn’t his thoughtless attitude put his parents in danger? Hadn’t his failure to see the cold world realistically reminded him in a brutal way that he had to embrace darkness to see it clearly?

Didn’t he deserve to be alone?

She brushed her fingers across his cheek. “Where’d you go?”

Unnerved by her touch, by the tenderness in her expressive blue eyes, he jerked back. “Nowhere pleasant.”

She sighed, as if exasperated by his continual—yet completely failing—efforts at distance. “When was the last time you had a decent meal?”

He thought of the ham sandwich he’d had for dinner. “Define decent.”

“I’ll bring you something from Mabel’s Café for lunch tomorrow. Along with returning your plans,” she added quickly, as if sensing the protest that rose to his lips. “My apology for showing up unannounced tonight. Besides, if you’re going to work yourself into the ground, you need nourishment. If you get sick, you can’t work.”

Since he could think of no immediate argument to that, he nodded. “Fine.”

There was a lot of fineness going on, actually. And none of it on his part.

As they talked, he’d been keeping his gaze focused—deliberately—on her face, but now he let it slip over her curves, her long, seemingly endless legs.

Merciful heaven.

His whole body, already aroused, hardened like steel. He wanted her beyond sense and reason, beyond his self-imposed isolation. Certainly beyond what he deserved.

“Do you get a lot of teenage boys hanging out at the library?”

Since she was halfway down the steps when he spoke, she had to glance over her shoulder to look at him. She smiled, no doubt completely aware of the effect she had on the male population. “They’re my best customers.”

“SORRY TO DRAG all of you down here so early,” Sloan began, glancing around the library’s conference table at her fellow committee members. “But I felt we should get on top of this project immediately.”

It was 7:00 a.m. on Tuesday, the only time everyone could gather before work and school to discuss the all-important restoration of Aidan’s house.

“Batherton Mansion could be a jewel for us,” said Courtney, a fiery redhead who owned the local hair and nail salon.

“If we can get Kendrick to cooperate,” Helen, their local real-estate agent added. “I’ve dealt with him, and only through his attorney, but this guy is tough.”

“But he obviously cares about history,” Penelope pointed out, blinking behind her large steel-framed glasses. “Why else would he buy this house over some posh and trendy beachside resort?”

“We don’t have posh and trendy,” Helen said.

Penelope nodded. “Exactly. He probably wants peace and quiet.” She lowered her voice. “Especially after being chased by reporters for the last few months.”

“And that’s precisely the problem, ladies.” Sister Mary Katherine folded her hands in front of her. “We simply can’t have our reputation gaining at the expense of Mr. Kendrick. He’s been through enough.”

“Still, we have to attract some new members to the committee,” Helen reminded them. “Rich ones, if possible.”

“Or a corporate sponsor,” Courtney said. “We can’t let the few historical properties we have fall into disrepair. Not after all we’ve been through.”

Looking uncertain, Penelope bit her lip.

Sloan, being the lone member who’d actually encountered the prickly former executive, who’d obviously longed to throw her bodily from his precious house, tended to lean toward Helen and Courtney’s side. She sympathized with his grief, but the committee had its own problems.

She was also annoyed that she lusted after the man.

And she was trying desperately to hide it.

“We just want to put his house on our brochure to attract more tourists and new members in the area, not exploit his personal life.” Helen continued, “And wouldn’t it be nice to hold a fund-raiser out there when everything’s finished? Sort of an elegant wine-and-cheese party?”

“Or a tea,” Courtney suggested. “With those sweet little biscuits Mabel makes.”

Sloan frowned. “That’s going to be tricky. I specifically told him we were neither using him for a fund-raiser nor after his money.”

“We’re not using him,” Helen insisted. “We’re using the house.”

“Though if he wanted to make a sizable donation,” Courtney added, “we certainly wouldn’t say no.”

“But isn’t one of our goals more media exposure?” Penelope asked, as always, wise beyond her years. “If we call attention to Batherton Mansion, it will naturally call attention to the owner. I don’t think Mr. Kendrick is interested in any more TV or newspaper coverage.”

“Perhaps after we get to know Mr. Kendrick a bit better,” Sister Mary Katherine offered, “we’ll feel more comfortable asking for his help in raising our profile in the area.”

Sloan didn’t think it was appropriate to share with the nun just how well she wanted to get to know Aidan Kendrick, so she remained silent and let the discussion buzz around her.

She couldn’t imagine losing her father so tragically, then having her life and business practices scrutinized on a daily basis. Maybe Aidan Kendrick could have handled things better—a few well-timed, but brief statements.

Instead, he’d tried to hide, and that only made the reporters more determined to uncover the dirt he was concealing. Did reckless playboy Aidan Kendrick owe money to the mob? Were his parents’ supposed mugging and murders really pay-back? Was he into drugs and had crossed the wrong dealer? Had he dated a woman with a jealous boyfriend—or even a husband?

The police had discounted all these wild theories and called the case a simple mugging, but Kendrick had kept quiet, so they persisted. He’d sold his successful company, disappeared for a month, then, a couple of weeks ago, wound up on tiny Palmer’s Island.

She didn’t want to cause the man more problems, but if the committee didn’t do something quickly, if they couldn’t attract more members and their funds, they’d likely lose the historical properties they owned and maintained.

Though they’d had a lucrative budget to buy the first church established on the island and a historical home once owned by a pirate, several of their benefactors had passed away in the last few years. Those properties needed constant maintenance, payment of water and power bills and a staff of tour guides.

To keep the revenue coming in for those expenses, they had to attract new tourists to their area and sign up a whole bunch of new, dues-paying members. A really rich benefactor would be a dream come true, hence the interest in both Aidan’s property and Aidan himself.

“I think we should call for a vote,” Sloan said after a few minutes.

She, Helen and Courtney carried the motion three to two. “So, we plan to use Batherton Mansion in our next publicity campaign. And, ladies, let’s keep this between us for now. We’re going to need to approach Mr. Kendrick slowly and carefully.”

“And make sure we can protect his identity,” Penelope said, with concern.

“Naturally,” Sloan said easily.

Approaching Aidan with this idea now would never work. In his present state, there was no way he would be open to photographers and historians tramping through his precious halls.

The ways she might soften him up flitted through her mind, heating her blood, sending anticipation soaring.

She cleared her throat and forced her attention back to business. “Now, what do all of you think of the plans?”

They discussed the various materials and styles Aidan was using and all agreed they were aesthetically superior, as well as historically accurate. The fact that this house would soon be returned to its glory, and on their little island, was exciting and encouraging.

When the meeting broke up, Penelope and Sister Mary Katherine walked out the door together and Helen took the opportunity to grab Sloan’s arm and hold her back. “So, how hot is he?”

Courtney, brown eyes sparkling with interest, leaned in to hear all the good stuff.

Remembering the wicked heat that flared intermittently in Aidan’s silver eyes, the silky-looking texture of his inky hair and his long, lean body, Sloan barely suppressed a shudder of longing. And since both women were always on top of the latest island gossip, she didn’t see any point in lying. “Off the scale.”

They groaned simultaneously.

Sloan could hardly argue that reaction.

“Since you got there first, I guess this means he’s off-limits to the rest of us,” Helen said.

“You are the mankiller in this town,” Courtney added, then grinned.

Sloan stared at her. “I am not.” Well, maybe lately she had been dating quite a bit. When a girl was unceremoniously dumped, she was entitled.

Courtney’s gaze turned speculative. “Your ego and heart aren’t still bruised over Davis, are they?”

Knowing she definitely didn’t want that nugget dropping around town, Sloan crossed her arms over her chest and made an effort to look bored. “Please.”

Helen leaned her shoulder against the door frame. “Oh, so you’re not upset he’s back in town?”

Sloan swallowed hard. Her susceptible, traitorous heart thumped with almost painful intensity. “He’s back?” she managed to ask, suddenly realizing Helen had been dying to share this information for the last half hour.

“Definitely,” Helen replied.

Courtney shrugged. “He worked for Kendrick Communications, which has now been sold. There was bound to be some fallout with the employees.”

Again, Sloan couldn’t help but think Aidan and Davis in the same town wasn’t a coincidence. Were the two men friends? Davis, for all his faults, had been an islander his whole life. She supposed he’d mentioned his hometown to his boss at some point.

“I’m sure Davis will come looking for you,” Helen said, her smile sly. “You’ll give us all the details when he does, won’t you?”

“Sure. You bet,” Sloan agreed absently, still trying to wrap her mind around the idea that Davis was on Palmer’s Island.

What was he doing here?

There was no doubt he could land a job with another big-time company in Atlanta. Returning to his roots was a step backward.

Not to mention her daddy still had vague ideas about reinstituting the firing squad for the sin of Davis hurting and humiliating his precious daughter.

She said good-bye to Helen and Courtney, then headed to the main desk to actually start doing her job. She reorganized the entire medieval research area, dusted seventeenth-century fiction and helped two students find the history of bacteria and antibiotics for the science fair.

But the whole time, she thought of Helen’s news.

Davis is here.

He could be standing on the front steps even now. He might have left her a message—she checked her cell phone six times. He could drop by her condo at any moment.

Davis, with his charming smile, sandy-blond hair and cheerful elegance was a polar opposite to dark and brooding Aidan Kendrick. Was that why she was so attracted to Aidan? Was she subconsciously leaning toward a man totally unlike the one who’d broken her heart and left her beloved island for more excitement and another woman?

At eleven-thirty, one of the Junior League volunteers arrived, so Sloan quickly made copies of Aidan’s plans, then headed toward the café. There, she took Mabel’s advice and ordered two blue plate specials—country-fried steak with sawmill gravy, collard greens, creamed corn and hot yeast rolls. And, of course, sweet tea.

Hey, it wasn’t part of the low-carb, low-fat diet, but it was comforting.

As she pulled into the driveway at Aidan’s, she checked her cell phone again—though it hadn’t rung. If Davis was here, why hadn’t he called?

Her mind half on historical society business and half on Davis, she wasn’t paying too much attention to the door she’d knocked on.

Until it opened.

Aidan stood in the opening. Luscious and beautiful, even with his fierce scowl.

The stubble on his face was slightly thicker. She wanted to stroke it as much as she wanted to see that magnificent jaw clean-shaven. He wore a snug navy T-shirt, showing off his lean torso and leanly muscled arms, and she couldn’t help but wonder about the heat and feel of the skin the shirt covered.

“I’m trying to work here,” he said rudely.

Her gaze darted up to his. Wow, oh, wow. He did have those intense eyes. Davis’s eyes were a nice, safe, sort-of-boring brown.

Then the scent of Mabel’s special hit her.

“I brought lunch. Like I said.” Sloan held up the bag. “You have time for a break now?”

His eyes flashed with irritation. “No.”

In her other hand, she held up his original plans. “I’m also returning these.”

He took the rolled-up plans and considered her. “That does smell good.”

Okay, note to self—don’t attempt to seduce the hot, new guy with perfume.

She smiled. “Uh-huh.”

He sighed and stepped back, allowing her to enter.

“I’m assuming you have candles and wine at the ready,” she said breezily—if sarcastically—as she walked inside.

“I don’t.”

“No?” She turned, giving him a purposefully surprised look. “I told you that I’d bring you lunch today, so I assumed you’d be expecting me.” She paused. “Or at least grateful that I showed up to feed you.”

He remained silent. A muscle along his jaw pulsed. Finally, he extended his arm toward the hallway leading to the kitchen. “So feed me.”

Her first instinct was to dump Mabel’s special gravy over his head, but she resisted the urge and reminded herself that she wasn’t much for accepting help, either.

She was her father’s daughter, and she could handle anything that came her way. With her mother gone, surrounded by lawmen, the sisters at the Catholic school where she attended were her primary female influences. So, she’d developed the strength and ruthless nature of men and the compassion and sense of community responsibility that taught her to work, not take handouts.

Without commenting, she pulled the plastic food containers from the bag. “I brought napkins and utensils. I wasn’t sure if you had them.”

“I have forks and paper towels.”

“Metal forks?”

“Plastic.”

“Naturally.” She finished laying out the meal and tried to pretend her pulse wasn’t vibrating simply from the sound of his voice. “I must say, Mr. Kendrick, this is by far the fanciest date I’ve been on in months.”

“This isn’t a date.”

She dropped into a chair and looked up to see him scowling at her, as usual. “You’re telling me.” Smiling, she patted the chair next to her. “You’re hungry. Have a seat.”

He hesitated.

She met his gaze. “I’m not going to keep asking.”

He sat.

They ate in silence for several minutes. “This is good,” he said, somehow sounding impressed and reluctant at the same time. “I was starving.”

“You can’t do the work you want without rest and fuel.”

“Is that a speech?”

She paused and looked over at him as she sipped her tea. “Are speeches usually one-liners?”

“I guess not.”

“Then, no, that wasn’t a speech.”

After several more minutes passed, she rose, folding her napkin, dumping her empty plate into the large, gray plastic can he’d so artfully set near the back door. When she turned back, he was standing behind her.

All six-foot-three amazing inches of him.

She drew a quick breath. Her gaze jumped to his. “Your eyes are bloodshot.”

“Up too late last night.”

Since his body heat was making her head spin, she simply took his plate from him and dumped it into the trash.

When she turned back, he was close.

Really close.

“Thank you,” he said, his gaze roving her face.

“You’re welcome.”

He scowled. “I thought about you half the night.”

Her stomach quivered. “That’s a bad thing?”

“Yes.”

This negative attitude toward her was really starting to be annoying. Unrequited lust wasn’t familiar territory for her. And though Aidan obviously wasn’t totally immune to her, her ego was taking a pretty serious hit. Why was she bringing him lunch, trying to make conversation, sympathizing with his pain and, in general, being nice, when his only genuine smile probably came the moment the door shut behind her?

She lifted her chin. “Well, that’s just f—”

His lips captured hers, silencing her in a flash. Her heart jumped in her chest, and she was pretty sure she let out a moan of longing, then she angled her head and sank into him.

He didn’t hesitate to tangle his tongue with hers. He tasted of the lemon he drank with his tea. He smelled of sawdust and spicy sandalwood.

She clutched his T-shirt in her fist, grasping to get closer, to absorb him into her. She wanted to feel his bare, sleek skin against hers, to have that intense gaze focused on her, to feel his muscles harden beneath her…to have him tremble and gasp along with her.

His hands, braced at the lower part of her back, molded her to his body, and she felt his need, the hunger, the wild lust. It had been a long time, too long, since she’d felt desire grab her so effectively by the throat. Since the liquid heat of her body had rushed and pulsed.

She wasn’t sure she’d ever felt so—

Ding-dong.

Aidan lifted his head, his eyes flashing silver like a wolf after prey. “What the devil is that?”

“Doorbell,” Sloan gasped, linking her hands behind his head, tugging him back to her, inhaling the sharp scent of arousal. “They’ll go away.”

Their mouths met again. He nipped her bottom lip with his teeth. Light and gloriously exciting. She wanted—

Ding-dong, ding-dong.

He yanked away, looked down at her and snarled.

Okay, maybe I’m taking this wolf metaphor a little too far…

“I’m going to kill whoever’s at the door.” He stalked away, apparently to do just that.

Sort of curious but mostly to cheer him on, Sloan followed him, pausing at the end of the hall, from where she could see the front door, but avoid the more serious bloodshed.

She did have on her favorite cream pantsuit, after all.

“What the hell do you want?” Aidan barked.

Again with the metaphor.

Sloan shook her head, sure the other voice was a man’s. And familiar.

“She’s busy,” Aidan said. “Come back later.” He started to close the door.

A hand gripped the edge of the door, forcing it open. “Where is she?”

Sloan gasped. That sounded like—

Davis, his hair lighter, his face paler than she remembered, appeared in the doorway. His head swiveled right and left, then he caught sight of her, hovering in the hall.

“Hey, baby,” he said, smiling as he started toward her. “Miss me?”