Читать книгу Midnight Choices - Eileen Wilks, Eileen Wilks - Страница 8

Highpoint, Colorado

Humidity fogged the kitchen window where Duncan stood, gathering in tiny droplets at the bottom of one pane. Spaghetti sauce simmered on the stove, layering the air with scent—oregano, basil, the sweetish bite of onion and the meaty aroma of the Italian sausage he liked to use instead of hamburger. The phone was ringing.

Probably his brother. If not, the caller would either give up soon or leave a message.

He wiped a circle clear of fog and left his hand on the glass. It was cold. According to the calendar, spring had arrived, but winter died slowly in the mountains. It was likely to hang on, snarling and snapping, for another few weeks.

He looked out at the line of cedars his father had planted along the back fence when he was three. They were nearly thirty feet tall now. He tilted his head and saw a gray sky sliced and diced by the bare black limbs of the oak that sheltered the rear of the house.

Three rings…

Duncan counted heartbeats in the silence between rings. His pulse was still elevated from his workout. A drop of sweat meandered down his neck. His arm throbbed like a mother, but that was to be expected. He’d learned to stop before throbbing turned to solid pain. Pushing for more than his body could give just slowed his recovery, and he couldn’t afford any setbacks. He’d maxed out his personal leave; added to medical leave, that gave him just over a month to get himself in shape.

In more ways than the obvious.

Four rings. Idly he rubbed the raised tissue of the new scar on his forearm. It was cold outside, but free of ice or snow. He could run.

With a click, the answering machine picked up. After a pause he heard his brother’s gravelly voice: “You’d better be in the shower or something, not out running in this weather. I’m in no mood to nurse you through pneumonia.” Another pause. “I’ll be a little late—a problem with a supplier.” Then the click as he disconnected.

Duncan shook his head. Habits died hard—especially with someone as thickheaded as his big brother. Did Ben think the army only let them go out to play when the weather was nice?

Still, he should pull on a dry sweatshirt. He headed for the stairs at the front of the old house.

The doorbell rang. He paused with one foot on the step, tempted to ignore it as he had the phone. But this intrusion had arrived in person and would have seen his Jeep out front. He or she would probably keep ringing for a while, and it was cold outside.

Reluctantly he moved to the front door, turned the dead bolt and pulled the door open.

The woman on his doorstep looked cold. Her hands were pushed into the pockets of a pale pink cardigan that zipped up the front; it was the exact shade of her creased trousers. Her sneakers were pink, too, with shiny silver shoelaces. The flat white purse slung over her shoulder had the soft look of expensive leather. Her hair was icy blond and very short, revealing complicated little knots of wire and gems that dangled from her ears, which were small and pink with cold. So was the tip of her slightly crooked nose. Otherwise she was pale. And tiny. If she were to step straight forward into his arms, the top of her head would fit easily under his chin.

His heartbeat picked up. His mind skittered for purchase.

She was too young, too skinny. Her hips were no wider than a boy’s, and the hand she pulled out of one pocket was long and narrow. He wasn’t attracted to tiny, fragile-looking women a decade younger than he was.

What color were her eyes? In the fading light he couldn’t tell.

Then those uncertain-colored eyes met his. And his thoughts spilled out, leaving his mind blank.

“Is Ben here?” she asked. “Benjamin McClain?” When he stared dumbly at her, her eyebrows pulled together.

Dear God.

“I have come to the right house, haven’t I?”

What is this? What just happened? He licked dry lips. “Ben will be home soon. I’m his brother, Duncan. Duncan McClain.” After a long moment it occurred to him to step aside. “Come in.”

Gwen stepped across the threshold. It was, thankfully, a good deal warmer inside. Somewhere spices were simmering in tomato sauce. It was a homey smell…a homey place, she thought, glancing around. The entry hall was large, with a door opening off it to the right—probably a coat closet—and a staircase diagonally across from the front door. An open arch on the left led to the living room. The wooden floor was clean enough, but dull, as if it had been a very long time since it had received more than perfunctory care.

There was a coatrack next to the door. It held a black ski cap and two jackets—a dark green parka with a hood and a denim jacket. Both obviously belonged to large men—to Ben and this man, she supposed. Duncan McClain, Ben’s brother.

Her hands were balled into fists in her pockets. She’d known Ben wasn’t married or living with a woman. If he had been, she would have approached him differently. But she hadn’t asked the detective to find out if he was living with anyone else—like a brother. This was a complication she hadn’t allowed for.

When in doubt, fall back on manners. That was one lesson her mother had taught her that Gwen often found useful. “I’m Gwendolyn Van Allen.”

He nodded without speaking. Obviously the name meant nothing to him. What odd eyes he had—very pale gray, rather striking with the dark hair and those straight, slashing eyebrows. Something about his eyes made her uneasy and she looked away.

A pair of muddy boots sat next to the coatrack—work boots, the brown leather much scuffed and discolored. They were huge. She glanced from them to the running shoes on Duncan McClain’s feet. The boots were bigger. They must belong to Ben.

“May I take your sweater?” Ben’s brother asked.

“No, thanks. I’m a little chilly.” Training enabled her to find a social smile and a topic, but her cheeks felt stiff. “I thought I was prepared for the weather here, but I’m a Florida girl. Your version of spring isn’t what I’m used to.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look much like Ben—at least, not like the photograph the detective had enclosed with his report. For a long time Gwen hadn’t wanted to remember Zach’s other parent, and she’d succeeded all too well at forgetting. Now she couldn’t summon a clear image of Ben’s face. Other things, yes, but not his face.

A flash of shame slid the smile from her face. “You did say you expected Ben soon?”

“Yes.”

That was it—just yes, no elaboration. And he was looking at her so intently… Nervously she sought for a topic that might drag more than a monosyllable from him. “I hadn’t thought he’d be working late at this time of year. Construction work is seasonal, surely?”

“Some of it is. You don’t want to pour concrete when it’s below freezing, for example, but if we waited for good weather to put up a building, Highpoint would be a very small town.”

“Do you work with your brother, then?”

“No. Your eyes are green, aren’t they?” He turned and started for the arched opening to the left. “You can wait for Ben in the living room.”

What an odd, abrupt man, she thought. Perhaps he was shy. He moved smoothly, though, like a man who was at home in his body and knew he could depend on it. He was taller than she was—well, almost everyone was taller than she was—but not as tall as his brother. Or as brawny. She did remember that much. Ben was an outdoors type. He’d seemed to bring a breath of mountains and open spaces into the trendy little club in Florida where they’d met.

The living room was large and old-fashioned, with moldings framing the ceiling and a carved wooden mantel that looked older than the house itself. The floor was wooden here, too, but mostly covered by a large gold area rug with brown borders. Two armchairs upholstered in a nubby beige fabric flanked a chocolate brown couch. Throw pillows in flame colors littered the long couch and one of the chairs; an orange pillow sat on the floor next to the other chair. The coffee table and end tables were cluttered and didn’t match, but the effect was comfortable rather than careless.

He turned on a lamp beside the couch. Though it was only five o’clock, it was dreary outside, dim inside. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”

She shook her head and sat, though she would rather have paced. Her insides felt jittery, as if she’d had too much caffeine. He sat in the chair at right angles to the couch, his long body loose and apparently at ease. Then he just looked at her, those curious eyes intent, as if she posed a puzzle he meant to solve before he spoke again. She curled her toes up inside her sneakers, resenting him. “Do I have a piece of broccoli between my teeth or something?”

He smiled slightly. “Am I staring? Sorry. You must be used to it, though.”

“No,” she said, startled, then she flushed. “That didn’t come out right. I wasn’t angling for compliments.”

“Of course not. Why would you?” He crossed his legs, resting an ankle on the opposite knee. He was wearing baggy carpenter pants and a black sweatshirt. “How old are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He shook his head. “Never mind. I take it your business with Ben is personal.”

“Yes.” She rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them and hoping to distract herself from the urge to jump up and pace. “I can’t explain. I’m sorry.” This man is Zach’s uncle. She was talking to her son’s uncle and he didn’t know it, and she couldn’t tell him. Not until she’d told Ben.

He studied her face a moment. “I’m not clever with small talk, but there’s always weather. Folks around here never get tired of talking about that, so I can probably hold up my end. Of course, we’re not as good at it as the English. They’ve elevated the discussion of weather to a fine art.”

“Have you been to England, then?”

“Briefly, a few years ago. Beastly weather,” he said, shifting flawlessly into upper-crust English. “Rained the whole bloody time.”

Surprise curled in the pit of her stomach. Why, he’s good-looking, she thought. His face was thin, but the strong cheekbones and eyebrows gave it character. As she saw him for the first time as a person instead of a hitch in her plans, her face relaxed into a more genuine smile. “I’m not sure how long I can talk about the weather, not being as well trained as you are. In Florida we don’t take much note of rain unless it’s horizontal and tree limbs are whipping by at seventy miles an hour.”

“I’d take note of that, too. Have you ever been through a hurricane?”

He’d claimed to lack skill at small talk, but he was very good at asking questions. And listening, truly listening, to her answers. As they talked, the nerves in her belly eased until at one point, when his eyes met her eyes in that direct way he had, she felt a sharp tug of pleasure.

Her eyes widened in surprise. It had been so long…not that attraction was appropriate. For heaven’s sake, this was Ben’s brother. But she couldn’t help being pleased. She was truly healing. Surely that meant she’d been right to take the steps she had.

Then she heard the front door open and all her nerves came rushing back. Before she’d thought about it, she was on her feet again. Facing the doorway.

“Smells good,” a deep male voice rumbled as the door closed. “We have company for supper?”

She knew his voice. It gave her a jolt. She hadn’t expected the quick hit of familiarity.

Then he was standing in the doorway, a big, solid man in a flannel shirt and worn jeans. He looked at his brother first, she noticed—a quick, assessing glance. Then he turned to her, a slight smile on his hard face, a question in his eyes. “You going to introduce me, Duncan?”

He didn’t recognize her. Humiliation burned like acid. “We’ve met. Though I see you’ve forgotten, so I’ll reintroduce myself. I’m Gwen. Gwendolyn Van Allen.”

Shock slapped the smile from his face. Good. At least he remembered her name. This would have been even worse if she’d had to remind him of what had happened between them five years ago. She pulled a photograph out of her purse and crossed to him, holding it out. “And this is your son, Zachary.”