Читать книгу Monahan's Gamble - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 8

There was nothing Sean Monahan enjoyed more than a game of cutthroat poker—unless it was a game of cutthroat poker played with a couple of his brothers. Sean was a gambler by nature, and a winner by birth. When he took chances, they invariably played out. And there wasn’t much that gave him a bigger charge than fleecing his own flesh and blood.

Hey, that was just the kind of guy he was.

He and two of his brothers and two of their friends had only been playing poker for an hour, and already Sean’s take was substantial. Best of all, he’d won most of his loot from his big brother, Finn. At this rate he’d have the down payment for that new roadster he’d been lusting after for months, in no time at all.

As he sat in the kitchen of Finn’s expansive—and, Sean knew, expensive—condo, he gazed over a pretty decent hand at Cullen, one of his three younger brothers, and tried to gauge his sibling’s hand by the expression on Cullen’s face. As he did so, Sean puffed diligently on a very nice cigar, inhaled the spicy aroma of Finn’s famous five-alarm chili and pondered whether or not he should get up for another beer or simply wait until someone else did—preferably Finn—and have him get Sean one, too.

Life just didn’t get any better than this.

“Where’s Will tonight?” he asked, having noted the glaring absence of Will Darrow, Finn’s best friend since childhood and a staple at the group’s twice-monthly poker/chili/beerfest.

His big brother chuckled low in a way that Sean found very interesting. “Will’s got some things to work out,” Finn said cryptically. “Issues. The boy’s got a lot on his mind these days.”

Charlie Hofstetter, another member of the all-male poker quintet, glanced up from his own hand. “Is that why he’s been so cranky for the past week? What’s up with that? Will’s never cranky.”

Finn’s cryptic chuckles eased into a mysterious grin. He puffed once on his own cigar and dragged a hand through his black hair. “Like I said. Issues.”

“But what does that mean?” Sean insisted, shoving back a fistful of his own dark locks, thinking he and Finn both needed a cut.

“You’ll all find out soon enough,” Finn told him. But he said nothing more to elaborate.

Sean muttered an impatient sound. “You always think you know everything, Finn.”

“That’s ’cause I do know everything,” his big brother stated with all certainty.

Sean wanted very badly to argue with that statement, but he knew better. Somehow Finn always did seem to know everything. It was a damned annoying trait for an older brother to have.

“Gordon’s missing tonight, too. Where’s he?” Sean asked further, wondering why none of the other four men had offered an explanation for it already.

Cullen sighed dramatically. “Gordon’s nursing a broken heart,” he said in a girlie, wistful voice as he puffed on his cigar.

Sean chuckled. “That’s some feat. I didn’t realize Gordon had a heart to break. Who’s the lucky girl?”

Cullen shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Autumn Pulaski,” he mumbled around the obstruction.

“Autumn Pulaski?” Ted Embry, the fifth member of the group cried incredulously. “What was he doing going out with her in the first place? Everybody knows Autumn never dates anyone for longer than a month.”

“A lunar month, at that,” Charlie pointed out.

“She is such an oddball,” Ted remarked.

“Free spirit,” Finn corrected him. “I believe the correct label for a woman like her is ‘free spirit.”’

“‘One hot tomata’ seems like a more appropriate label for her to me,” Cullen added.

None of the other men disagreed with the evaluation, including Sean. In fact, he noted, all of the other men observed a moment of worshipful silence in honor of the occasion. So what could Sean do but respect that by observing a moment of reverential meditation himself.

Then Ted broke the spell. “Okay, so I guess I can see why Gordon was going out with her. But he should have realized there’d be a time limit on the thing. He shouldn’t have involved his heart. Hell, he never should’ve involved any other body part than his—”

“Oh, man, did you see her at Josh and Louisa’s wedding last month?” Charlie—delicately—interrupted.

Oh, man, indeed, Sean echoed to himself. Had he ever seen her. She’d looked good enough to— Well. A number of ideas erupted in his brain at the recollection, all of them vivid, none of them decent. She’d worn a paper-thin dress of some flowery, gauzy fabric, and every time she’d crossed in front of the reception hall windows that bright, sunny afternoon, every male breath in the place had gone still.

She might as well have been wearing nothing at all, so clearly outlined had her body been under that dress. It had more than made up for the wide, ridiculous-looking straw hat she’d worn on her head, the one whose brim had been big enough to obscure the beautiful face beneath. Then again, Sean thought, few people had been looking at Autumn’s face that day.

Normally, though, that wasn’t the case at all. Because in addition to being a ‘free spirit,’ as Finn had tagged her, she was also, most definitely, what Cullen had called her, too. One. Hot. Tomata. True to her name, Autumn’s hair was a tumble of auburn curls that spilled in a rich, riotous cascade down to the middle of her back. Her eyes were the color and clarity of good Irish whisky—and every bit as intoxicating. Finely sculpted cheekbones and one of those faintly turned-up noses gave the impression that she had posed for any number of classical paintings. And her mouth…

Oh, her mouth.

Sean could write rhapsodies about that full, luscious, decadent mouth. Her complexion seemed to be perpetually golden, regardless of the season, and somehow Sean knew—he just knew—that there were none of those irritating bathing suit lines to mar the color. Autumn Pulaski, free spirit, oddball and one hot tomata, just seemed like the type who would go for nude sunbathing.

“Gordon will get over it,” Charlie said confidently as he went back to arranging his hand. “Every man Autumn’s ever dated has gotten over it. Eventually.”

“I still don’t see why Gordon got involved in the first place,” Ted said. “I mean, he’s actually been looking for a long-term relationship, and everybody in town knows that Autumn’s hard-and-fast rule has always been that no man—no man—will ever last longer than four weeks when it comes to dating her.”

“Why does she have that rule, anyway?” Cullen asked. “I never could understand the reasoning behind it.”

Sean glanced up just in time to see Ted shrug. “No idea,” Ted said. “But ever since she moved to Marigold—what?…two years ago?—she’s always made that clear. I get the feeling it’s a rule she’s had in place for a lo-o-o-ong time. I’ll open,” he added carelessly, tossing two chips into the middle of the table. Just as carelessly he continued, “Hey, Gordon was lucky. At least he got in the full four weeks with her before she dumped him. A lot of guys never even make it to the half-moon.

“She is such an oddball,” Ted said again.

“Free spirit,” Finn corrected once more.

“Well, whatever she is, I’m not asking her out,” Cullen announced. “I have enough trouble with women, thank you very much. I don’t need one starting a timer on me the minute she opens the door.”

“You and me both,” Charlie agreed. “I don’t think there’s a man in Marigold—hell, in the entire state of Indiana—who could last longer than four weeks with Autumn Pulaski.”

Sean shook his head slowly and tossed two chips into the pot to see Ted’s opening bid. “I could date Autumn Pulaski for more than four weeks,” he stated quite seriously—and not a little proudly.

“You?” a chorus of incredulous echoes erupted from around the table.

Sean gaped his indignation at the disbelief that was so evident in each of his compatriots. “Yeah, me. What’s so unbelievable about that?”

Each of the men gazed at him in silence for a moment, as if they couldn’t imagine why he would even ask such a thing. But it was Finn who challenged, “What makes you think Autumn would go out with you for any length of time, let alone more than her very standard, very adamant, lunar month?”

Sean shrugged. “I’ve got a way about me.”

Now each of his compatriots laughed. Quite raucously, in fact, something Sean decided he probably shouldn’t dwell on.

But he did. “Well, what the hell is so funny?” he demanded.

“You’ve got a way about you all right, boyo,” Finn said through his chuckles. “But it’s not necessarily the one you think.”

“Hey!” Sean cried even more indignantly. “Women love me.”

“Autumn’s different,” Cullen said.

Sean took some heart in the fact that at least Cullen didn’t deny that women loved him. After all, there was so much evidence to the contrary. Women really did love Sean. Often for weeks on end.

Sean threw his little brother an indulgent look. “Autumn’s not different,” he said. “Women are all alike. Deep down they all want one thing.”

Four male faces gazed back at him, this time in very expectant silence. But it was Finn who said—and he was clearly battling a giggle when he did so—“Oh?”

Sean nodded.

His big brother grinned tolerantly. “And what, oh omniscient knower of women, would that one thing be that they all want?”

“Equal pay for equal work,” Cullen offered with a smile before Sean had a chance to answer.

“No, men who do their own laundry,” Ted piped up with a chuckle.

“No, men who not only do their own laundry but sort by light and dark, too,” Charlie threw in for good measure.

“Oh, hardy-har-har-har,” Sean replied. “Very funny, wise guys.”

Eventually the men stopped laughing—again. And when they did, Finn turned a more serious—sort of—gaze on his brother. “Truly, Sean,” he said. “What is this one thing that all women want? We’re on the edge of our seats.”

Sean lifted his chin a bit defensively. “A wedding ring,” he said.

Cullen narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Gee, they can get one of those down at Huck’s Pawnshop for twenty bucks. Thirty if they want one that’s not hot.”

“A wedding ring with a husband attached,” Sean clarified—not that any clarification would be necessary if it weren’t for the fact that he was sitting at a table with his four moronic friends and relatives.

“Oh, hey, I’m sorry, but Huck doesn’t include that kind of service with his pawn,” Cullen said. “A man has to draw the line somewhere.”

Sean sighed impatiently. “You know what I mean,” he said evenly. “Women—all women—want to get married. They want to find that one special someone and settle down forever, then milk the poor sap for everything he’s got—socially, financially, emotionally, spiritually, you name it. Women want to be wives. That’s all there is to it.”

There wasn’t a single comment from anyone present at the table for a moment, then, “Stand back, everybody,” Finn said mildly, “I think his brain is about to blow.”

Sean growled under his breath. “Look, all I’m saying is that if Autumn Pulaski has this ridiculous rule about not dating anybody for more than a month—”

“A lunar month,” Cullen reminded him.

“A lunar month,” Sean said through gritted teeth, “then she’s only doing it to rouse more interest.”

Finn eyed him levelly. “You know, Sean, I think I speak for everyone here when I say, ‘Huh?”’

The other three men nodded their agreement.

Sean rolled his eyes. “Autumn wants to make herself seem more appealing, in order to snag a man,” he said. “She thinks that if she has this no-dating-after-a-month—”

“A lunar month,” Cullen corrected him again.

“—rule,” Sean continued, ignoring his younger brother, “then it’ll just make guys that much more determined to date her for more than a lunar,” he said before Cullen could interrupt him, “month.”

“So you don’t think she’s serious when she says she’ll never date a man for longer than four weeks?” Ted asked.

“Of course she’s not serious,” Sean said with much conviction.

Ted eyed him curiously. “Then…why hasn’t she ever dated any man in Marigold for more than four weeks?”

Sean shrugged. “She hasn’t met the right guy, that’s all,” he said. “That’s another reason she’s got this alleged rule. So she can let the less-desirable guys go without a messy confrontation.”

“And you think you’re the right guy,” Charlie assumed.

“I’m certainly a damn sight better than any of you mooks,” he said smugly. “And Gordon.”

“Yes, well, you always were a legend in your own mind,” Finn remarked mildly.

“I’m serious,” Sean insisted. “Autumn Pulaski only has her cockamamie lunar-month rule because she knows it will just make guys that much more determined to go out with her. Then, when she finally reels in the one she wants, she’ll have the guy so bamboozled, she’ll be able to wrap him up in silver wedding paper with a big, white bow.”

Cullen studied him with much speculation. “So what makes you think that you could, in addition to dating her for more than four weeks, avoid being so bamboozled and wrapped up like a wedding gift yourself?”

“Like I said, I know women,” Sean reiterated matter-of-factly. “I’m hip to her game before we even start to play it. I will come out the winner. In more ways than one.”

“You really think so?” Finn asked.

Sean nodded. “Hey, if there’s anybody out there who can last longer than a lunar month with Autumn Pulaski,” he said with a smile, “I’m the man.”

Finn chewed his lower lip thoughtfully for a moment, eyeing Sean with much consideration. Then, right when it occurred to Sean, at the very back of his brain, that he might have just steered himself toward a deadly cliff—but much too late for him to backpedal out of the fatal fall— Finn uttered the words that, for thirty-four years, had tolled the death knell for Sean’s good sense:

“Prove it, little brother,” Finn said knowingly. “Prove it.”

Autumn Pulaski was wrestling with a large mass of dough, one that would eventually be a nice loaf of seven-grain onion dill, when she heard the tinkle of the bell over the front door in the shop area of the Autumn’s Harvest Bakery. Normally that door would still be locked this early in the morning, but she’d brought some things in through the front earlier and had neglected to lock up behind herself. It had hardly seemed necessary, because few people in Marigold, Indiana, were even awake this time of morning—particularly on a Saturday. And those who were awake were almost certainly not out and about. And those who were out and about were either working themselves, or were on their way to go fishing.

“We’re not open yet!” she called out toward the shop. “Come back at seven!”

But instead of hearing the tinkle of the bell as her 6 a.m. customer left, Autumn heard silence instead, indicating the visitor was still out in the shop. She was more curious about that development than she was concerned for her safety. This was, after all, Marigold, Indiana. In other words, Small Town, U.S.A. The only crimes that occurred here were crimes of fashion.

Plus, she wasn’t alone in the bakery. She was working with two of the teenage girls she’d hired for the summer, not to mention Louis, who always came in to help her in the mornings. And Louis was six foot seven, had shoulders the size of the Hoover Dam and forearms as big as a Bekins truck. His long, gray beard was braided down to nearly his very ample waist, and a tattoo on his right bicep read, quite simply, Raise Hell. Nobody, but nobody messed with Louis.

And nobody made better cream puffs, either.

Autumn sighed heavily and jerked her head to the side, pitching her long, fat, auburn braid over one shoulder. She wiped her hands on her white apron, tugged the sleeves of her white peasant blouse down over her elbows, and did her best to straighten the white kerchief she had tied around her head, pirate-style. And she abandoned, for now, the heap of seven-grain onion dill that taunted her, and went out to the shop to assess the situation.

Immediately she wished she had stayed in the kitchen and sent Louis instead. Not because of any threat to her personal safety—well, not any criminal threat at any rate. But because Sean Monahan stood front and center in the middle of her shop, looking adorably sleep rumpled and half dozing, his slumberous blue eyes even sexier than usual. And all Autumn could think was, Oh, no.

Of course, she thought further, finding one of the Monahan brothers in her immediate sphere of existence was bound to have happened sooner or later. This was, after all, Marigold, Indiana, where everybody knew everybody, and everybody met everybody just about every day. She only wished this episode could have happened a lot later than it had.

Then again, she thought further still, she supposed she should be grateful this encounter had taken two years to occur, even if she had made every effort to ensure that such a meeting never took place. Because the last thing Autumn wanted or needed was to have a handsome, charming, eligible man in her immediate sphere of existence. Her entire move from Chicago to Marigold had been driven by just that need. Or, rather, that lack of need. Or something like that.

Two times—two times—Autumn had found herself involved in relationships with handsome, charming, eligible men, men who had promised to love her and honor her and cherish her, in sickness and in health, till death did them part. Unfortunately, the men in question had just never made those promises at the altar. They’d said they would make those promises at the altar, but neither of them— neither of them—had shown up at the respective altars where they had been scheduled to appear.

Fool her once, shame on them, Autumn reasoned. Fool her twice, shame on her. Fool her three times, and it was going to be necessary for her to enter a convent. Which would pose problems on a variety of levels, not the least of which was the fact that Autumn wasn’t Catholic. She was an Emersonian Transcendentalist. So the nun thing wasn’t really going to be doable. Therefore, she was just going to have to make sure there wasn’t a third time. She’d entertained a lot of possibilities about how to ensure that, and had decided on the one plan that had sounded best—moving to a small town where there were no handsome, charming, eligible men to sidetrack her, and doing what she’d always dreamed about doing: opening her own bread bakery.

So that was why Autumn had fled to Marigold—to follow a dream, and to get away from men like Sean Monahan. She had reasoned that small-town life would be a hugely welcome change from the big-city lifestyle she had embraced for so long. She had also thought that a small town like Marigold would be infinitely safer than big-city living. Not because of the crime factor—though, granted, Marigold’s nonexistent crime rate was a nice by-product of her change of venue. But more because small towns were supposed to be utterly bereft of handsome, charming eligible men—unlike Chicago, which had seemed to be overflowing with them.

Autumn needed a respite—a nice, lo-o-o-ong respite, like maybe for the rest of her life—from handsome, charming, eligible men. Marigold, Indiana, had seemed like the kind of place that would have almost none. Small towns were supposed to drive young singles away in, well, droves. Instead, no sooner had she unpacked her belongings and opened her bakery than she had wandered out into the town itself to make friends…only to discover that Marigold, Indiana, was overflowing with handsome, charming, eligible men, from the head of the Chamber of Commerce—who, thankfully, was happily married—right down to the local mechanic—who, wouldn’t you know it, was not.

And right at the top of that pile were the Monahan brothers—all five of them. Five of them, she marveled now as she gazed anxiously at Sean. As if one wouldn’t have been overwhelming enough for the universe—or, at the very least, for Autumn Pulaski. Each one of them had piercing blue eyes and dark, silky hair and finely chiseled features. Each one was a piece of Greek-god artwork just waiting to be worshipped. Each one was handsome. Each one was charming. Each one was eligible.

Damn. Just her luck.

“Hello,” she said to Sean now, trying not to notice his piercing blue eyes or his dark, silky hair or his finely chiseled features.

But doing that left her nothing to focus on except for his Greek-god-artwork physique, and that was no help at all. Clad in lovingly faded, form-fitting Levi’s and an equally faded and form-fitting black T-shirt, his entire body fairly rippled with muscle and sinew and, oh, my stars, it was just too much for Autumn this early in the day, before she’d even had her second cup of coffee. Looking at Sean Monahan was making her feel sluggish and indolent and warm, and very much in the mood to return to her bed. Except…not alone. And…not for sleeping.

“Can I help you?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t sound as sluggish and indolent and warm as it—and the rest of her—felt.

Belatedly she realized she probably shouldn’t have asked the question at all. Not only did it offer him an opportunity to say something flirtatious—and everyone in Marigold knew that flirtatious was Sean Monahan’s natural state—but there was nothing for her to help him with. The store wasn’t open yet. There was no bread to sell. Then again, knowing what she did of Sean Monahan, which was surprisingly a lot, considering the fact that she’d never met him formally—or even casually—he probably wasn’t interested in her bread, anyway.

But before she could make clear the fact that she had nothing to offer him—nothing of the bread persuasion, at any rate—Sean smiled at her, and her entire body went zing. Truly. Zing. She’d had no idea that the human body could, in fact, go zing, until now. But that was exactly what Sean’s smile did to her. Because it was the kind of smile a man really shouldn’t smile at a woman unless they were extremely well—nay, intimately—acquainted.

“I just wanted to get a big, strapping cup of coffee,” he said, cranking up the wattage on his smile to a near-blinding setting.

Oh, Autumn really wished he hadn’t said the words big and strapping, because, inevitably, they drove her thoughts—and her gaze, dammit—right back to that Greek-god-artwork body of his.

“My coffeemaker went belly-up on me this morning,” he continued.

Oh, she really wished he hadn’t said the word belly.

“And I have to make a long drive today—”

Oh, she really wished he hadn’t said the word long.

“—and no place else is open this early.”

Oh, she really wished he hadn’t said the word open.

Stop it, Autumn, she berated herself. Not one word the man had uttered had been in any way suggestive, but as he’d spoken, somehow Sean Monahan made her feel as if he’d just dragged a slow, sensuous finger along the inside of her thigh. How did he do it?

“We, uh…” Autumn began eloquently. She swallowed with some difficulty, and tried not to notice just how incredibly handsome, charming and eligible he was. “We, ah…we’re not ope— Um, I mean…we’re, ah…we’re closed, too,” she managed to say—eventually—still struggling over the word open, because that was exactly what she wanted to do at the moment. Open herself. To Sean Monahan. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually, physically, sexually. That was always her immediate response to handsome, charming, eligible men. Which was why it was so important that she avoid them at all costs.

He met her gaze levelly as he jacked up the power on his smile a bit more—Autumn had to bite back a wince at just how dazzling he was—then jutted a thumb over his shoulder, toward the front door. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying not to notice how the muscles in his abdomen fairly danced as he completed the gesture.

“Your front door’s open,” he pointed out.

It certainly is, Autumn thought before she could stop herself. And why don’t you just come on right inside?

Immediately she snapped her eyes open and pushed the thought away. This was, without question, the very last thing she needed, today or any day. She swallowed with some difficulty, her mouth going dry when the chorus line that was his torso synchronized as he dropped his hand back to his side.

“Yes, well, the door may be open, but the shop isn’t,” she told him, proud of herself for not stumbling once over the proclamation.

“I smell coffee brewing,” he said.

“That’s not for sale, it’s for the workers,” she replied. “We’re a bakery, Mr. Monahan, not a beanery.”

His blue eyes, so clear and limitless, reflected laughter and good humor, and something else upon which she told herself she absolutely should not speculate. “You know my name,” he said softly.

Oops. “Well, I know you’re a Monahan. It is a small town. And you Monahan boys all look alike,” she lied. “I just don’t know which Monahan boy you are.”

Oh, my. Two falsehoods before dawn. Autumn was definitely going to create some bad karma with that. And why on earth was she referring to him as a “boy”? Sean Monahan was quite undeniably a man, and probably five or six years her senior, to boot.

He took a few steps forward, his shoes scuffing softly over the terra-cotta tiles as he came, his mouth quirked into that sleepy, sexy smile—the one that made him look as if he’d just made sweet, sensational love to its recipient, successfully and repeatedly. He only stopped moving because the counter hindered his progress, but he still leaned forward and folded his arms over the glass top, right in front of where Autumn was standing. He was so close she could see the dark shadow of his freshly shaved beard, could smell the clean, soapy scent of him, could fairly feel the warmth of his body creeping over the counter to mingle with her own.

Instinct told her to take a giant step backward…and then run like the wind as far as she could. Instead she stood firm, waiting to see what he would do next. And as was always the case when it came to handsome, charming, eligible men, that was Autumn’s fatal mistake.

Because Sean Monahan’s piercing blue eyes pierced her right down to her soul, warming a place inside her she had forgotten could feel warmth. And then, “I really was hoping for a cup of coffee,” he said softly. “But you know, Autumn, now that you mention it, there is something else you can do for me, too.”