Читать книгу Father Of The Brood - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 11

Ike needn’t have worried that Annie would take his remark about her dressing habits to heart. When he knocked on her hotel room door some hours later—the real room to her door, not the connecting one—she responded to his summons wearing an ankle-skimming dress of some crinkly fabric, that buttoned from hem to scooped neck, claret in color and patterned with tiny flowers in pale yellow and ivory. A velvet, burgundy ribbon tied around her neck and simple gold hoops looped through her earlobes served as her only jewelry, and her hair hung down her back in a foot-long, loosely plaited braid. Her shoes were flat, the same texture and color as the ribbon around her neck, and as a result, she was forced to tip her head back substantially to meet his gaze.

She still looked like a hippie, he thought. But there was something about her getup that he found more than a little appealing.

And Patchouli, he suddenly realized. That was the scent that surrounded Annie Malone. But only faintly, as if it were the result of soap or powder, and not a heavily applied perfume. The fragrance was clean and fresh and slightly exotic, much like the woman herself. For some reason, Ike wanted to bend to bury his head in the curve of her neck and drink in great gulps of her scent. Only with a massive amount of restraint did he keep himself from doing just that.

“You look lovely,” he said, surprising himself. He’d never called a woman lovely before. Beautiful, many times, ravishing on a few occasions, and incredible when the word seemed appropriate. But lovely? It was an outdated term, something a person normally used when referring to an elderly aunt. At least, that’s what Ike had always thought before. But the word seemed somehow suited to Annie.

“Thanks,” she said. She eyed his dove gray Hugo Boss suit, his pale lavender Geoffrey Beene dress shirt and his multihued pastel silk tie. Then she grinned mischievously. “You look like an ad for GQ.“

He narrowed his eyes at her tone of voice. “You don’t make that sound like a compliment.”

Her grin broadened, and her tone was playful as she assured him, “Oh, it wasn’t meant to be.”

He smiled back in spite of himself. “I see. You, no doubt, prefer a man in Levi’s, Earth shoes and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, right?”

She lifted a hand to finger the necktie that was splashed with color like an abstract painting. She turned it over to check the label, smiled, then flattened her palm over the length of silk as she patted it back into place. “Hey, you’re the one wearing the Jerry Garcia tie, Ike, not me.”

It was the first time she had referred to him using his given name, and they both seemed to feel a little uncomfortable at having it hanging between them that way. Annie continued to meet his gaze levelly, tracing an idle pattern on his tie with her fingertip, seemingly oblivious to the oddly heated sensations her gesture raised elsewhere on his body. Before he became completely undone by the careless meanderings of her hand, Ike curled his fingers around hers and lifted her palm to his lips.

“You’re right,” he said after pressing his lips against the warm pad of her palm.

He had meant to say more, something about there being a little of the sixties in everyone, as hard as people like him tried to exorcise the decade. But the taste and feel of her skin on his seemed to numb his lips. Annie Malone may seem brittle and clipped, he thought, but she wasn’t. She was soft. Warm. He didn’t know how he could be so certain when he knew so little about her, but there were no edges to Annie, as much as she might try to make people believe that there were. And when Ike realized he was about to lift her hand to his mouth again for an even more intimate exploration, he quickly released her fingers and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“We’d better go,” he said, hoping his voice sounded steadier than it felt. “Our reservation is for seven.”

She nodded silently and preceded him down the hall. Ike followed closely behind, watching with much interest the way the skirt of her dress swung first one way and then the other in response to the subtle sway of her hips. He sighed. He had spent the entire afternoon following Annie all over Cape May in much the same way, wondering how he could have been so bothered by her hip-hugger jeans initially, when they hugged her hips so damned beautifully. The woman had some way of walking, he decided. And he couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the way she moved.

Annie could feel his eyes on her as she made her way quietly down the stairs toward the first floor, just as she had felt his eyes on her all afternoon. For Pete’s sake, what was he staring at? she wondered. He’d already gone out of his way to disparage her wardrobe, and she knew he didn’t like the way she wore her hair. He quite clearly didn’t like her, had even said so to her face. Although she loved the dress she was wearing, she knew it was old-fashioned and shapeless and revealed absolutely nothing of interest.

So, dammit, what was he staring at?

And what had that kiss on her palm been all about? She closed her eyes briefly as she remembered the rigidness of his torso beneath her hand when she’d straightened his necktie. She had always thought executives and businessmen were supposed to be flabby and soft. But Ike must get some kind of regular exercise, she thought, because he’d felt like solid rock beneath her fingers. Hot, solid rock, she realized further. Hot, solid rock that was alive and rabid and…

Stop it, she ordered herself when her thoughts started to become far too graphic. She was being silly. He was just some guy she was spending the weekend with. Some hot, rigid guy who—

Annie sighed fitfully and forced herself to pause at the foot of the stairs to let him catch up. She had no reason to be running away from him to begin with, she told herself. Just because he’d kissed her hand, and just because she’d felt that kiss wind a blazing trail all the way from her fingertips through her heart to her toes… Annie squeezed her eyes shut again and tried to remind herself that she didn’t like Ike Guthrie. Unfortunately, that deep-seated animosity she had been so certain would be her constant companion this weekend had evidently packed up and gone home.

She made herself relax when he joined her at her side, inhaling a calming breath as he took her elbow lightly in his hand to lead her toward the dining room. The Hanson House was as renowned for its restaurant as it was for its hospitality, and Annie figured out why almost immediately. Even if they served nothing but greasy burgers and fries, people would keep coming back to this place. Because the dining room was so beautiful.

Where the bedrooms of the bed-and-breakfast were light and airy, the dining room was dark and intimate and cozy. A huge crystal chandelier hung at its center, dimmed low to mimic candlelight. Real candles flickered in crystal votives on each of the tables, all of which seemed to be isolated by virtue of very strategically placed potted ferns and lacy screens. The walls were papered in sapphire moirè, the mahogany chairs upholstered in gold velvet. The table to which the maître d’ led them was draped with ivory lace, a single yellow rose rising from a crystal vase at its center.

“Wow, this place is wonderful,” Annie said as she made herself comfortable. She tried not to notice how the candlelight flecked Ike’s hair with bits of golden fire, tried to ignore the way his cheekbones appeared even more prominent in the shadows. Tried and failed miserably.

He picked up his menu and began to idly scan it. “Yes, it is. And I imagine it’s a far cry from the way you usually have dinner.”

Annie had picked up her menu and started to open it, but she slapped it shut and tossed it back onto the table when he uttered his comment. She wished he would quit making references to her life sound as if she were the little match girl. And she wished she would stop caring about what he thought of her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

He glanced up, clearly not understanding why she was angry. “What’s what supposed to mean?”

“Why do you keep talking to me like I’m some indigent, ignorant rube?”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do. Just about everything you’ve said to me since you picked me up this morning has been insulting. What I want to know is, why?”

He seemed genuinely surprised by her charge. “That’s not true.”

Annie lifted her hands, touching the index finger of one to the thumb of the other. “You’ve insulted my home,” she began. She then pressed one index finger to the other. “You’ve insulted my neighborhood.” She counted off the rest of her fingers as she added, “You’ve insulted the way I dress, my system of beliefs and my way of life.” She dropped her hands to the table, folding them convulsively together to keep herself from popping him in the eye. “You’ve insulted me. Continuously. And I’m telling you to cut it out. Now.”

He opened his mouth to argue, seemed to think better of it, and said simply, “Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. And it won’t happen again.”

Annie picked up her menu and studied the appetizers. “Thanks,” she muttered.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for some moments, each seeming inordinately fascinated by their dinner choices. A wine steward came and went when Ike ordered something for them to drink that Annie had never heard of, then returned again with a bottle that was very dusty and old-looking. She watched Ike smile and nod his approval, then the steward opened the wine and poured a scant splash of red into Ike’s glass. Annie studied him as he lifted the glass to his mouth and swallowed the contents, uttered a murmur of satisfaction and nodded again. The steward then filled Annie’s glass before performing the same task for Ike’s.

The whole episode lasted scarcely a minute, but Annie felt as if time had expanded to eternity. Her heart seemed to have climbed into her throat as she watched him sample the wine, and her stomach was still flip-flopping madly. Her breathing had become shallow and was making her feel faint. Her face and neck were hot, her hands sweaty. How could she possibly feel as if she’d just made love to the man when she’d done nothing but watch him take a sip of wine?

It was his mouth, she decided. Although Ike’s chin and jaw were square and blunt, his cheeks rough with pale blond traces of a day-old beard, his lips were full and softlooking. And without even realizing what was happening, she suddenly found herself indulging in a too realistic fantasy about what it would be like to feel those lips dragging openmouthed kisses along her calf and up the back of her thigh.

“Oh, jeez,” she whispered, closing her eyes in an effort to dispel the image. But it remained firmly imprinted at the forefront of her brain.

“What?”

She heard Ike’s roughly uttered question, but Annie kept her eyes closed for a moment longer, still unable to push the graphic fantasy away. When she finally did open them again, it was to find him staring at her in the oddest way. As if he wanted to yank her across the table and into his lap, hike up her skirt, and make love to her right there in front of everyone dining. That realization, of course, only agitated her further, and Annie struggled to regain control of her crazily spinning thoughts.