Читать книгу Kisses To Go - Irene Peterson - Страница 8

Ian crossed his arms over his chest and waited for the strange woman to start explaining why she wore the dressing gown he himself had given Mrs. Duxbury last Christmas and what she had been doing, rooting around in his refrigerator.

The female pulled the dragon-patterned red and gold silk across her breasts and tugged the slim belt tighter, all the while returning his barely disguised glare.

Seconds crawled by, turning the whole bizarre encounter into a staring match. Ian finally broke and glanced toward the pot rack overhead, asking his ancestors for the strength to keep his hands off the scantilly clad woman in front of him. Did she know what happened to her breasts when she cinched the belt even tighter? Did she realize that parts of her anatomy were outlined deliciously by the smooth, soft silk that left very little to the imagination of a man as randy as Ian Wincott felt right now?

He took a deep breath and faced her again.

“I am Ian Wincott. This is my home. I live here.”

The tone of voice he had employed usually guaranteed him a quailing, obsequious reply. In fact, he counted on it. To add to the impact, he set his face into his best no-nonsense, jaw-lifted expression.

The woman, bold as brass, actually had the nerve to give him a quick up-and-down look, as if she were assessing him. She wasn’t quailed. Didn’t even take a step back!

“I’m Abigail Porter. I forked over a lot of money to stay at Bowness Hall for two weeks.”

The blood draining from Ian’s head so quickly made him feel faint. Forked over? Paid money? What the bloody hell was going on?

“You paid money to stay in my home?”

Abigail Porter started to unfold her arms but stopped and brought them up again. “Yes.”

Ian felt the world spinning out of control, along with his rage. He brought his hand up to his forehead for a second, trying to clear away the woman’s words, hoping desperately she had not really uttered them.

The Yank remained before him, arms in place, causing her breasts to jut over her forearms. Her hair, still mussed from sleep, curled in soft dips and turns about her face. He noticed, through his turbulent emotional storm, that she had beautiful skin. Her eyes, alight with strong feeling that radiated from them like heat from a hob, were the color of aquamarines with a golden ring around the pupil.

He turned away again as soon as he felt his body reacting to her in a most primitive way. She’s American, he reminded himself. Usually that thought cooled him off better than a swim in the River Brue in April. The sight of her rather pulchritudinous femininity would be, however, permanently etched in his mind.

Better to leave and sort this out with Duckie and Imp before he did something he would ultimately regret for the rest of his life.

The American woman hadn’t moved until she placed her hands on her hips and said in a very controlled voice, “I’m about to make breakfast. There will be plenty should you care to join us.”

What cheek! Ian felt his blood pressure surge upward.

“I doubt I will be doing that,” he sputtered.

As he left the kitchen in search of his housekeeper and sister, he distinctly heard a snort followed by the clatter of glassware and tins.

Tish stood in the office, her chin notched higher than usual, listening to her brother’s tirade. He’d been nattering on for close to fifteen minutes already.

“You let out a room in my house?”

She had already been over this. “Yes, I let a room to a complete stranger. Two, in fact. The other didn’t come.”

Ian slapped his forehead, then turned from the window to glower at her. “Why in the name of all that is holy did you do such a rabbit-brained thing?”

Tish weighed her answer. Since things had already gone so terribly wrong, it didn’t seem wise to let her brother have the information all at once. He already knew about Duckie’s accident. That had disturbed him a great deal. But she knew he was seething. Answering his tedious questions while trying to make him see reason never, ever really worked once he’d got the wind up.

“Ten thousand dollars, American,” she said at last, hoping desperately that would be sufficient.

It wasn’t.

Her brother stood stock-still.

“You mean to tell me this…woman…paid ten thousand dollars to live in my home for two weeks? Hell, I thought they were all mad. Now I’m sure of it.” He laughed, the bitterness undisguised and raw.

Sensing his true feelings, Tish quickly added, “Abby is really quite delightful, Ian. She’s a real sport, too. After being locked out of her flat by some gruesome character who stole her money, she came anyway! That’s how much she wanted to come to England! She’s terribly nice, what with all that’s happened to her—not that I’ve heard the entire story. And as I said, she was supposed to have someone with her, but at the last minute, he backed out.”

Ian shook his head. “Enough, Imp. She paid to live in my home?”

“Actually, she paid for two people to spend two weeks in legendary Bowness Hall.”

His hand went up to rub the back of his neck.

“Who thought up that drivel?”

Tish took umbrage. “I did. I wrote the advert. Thought it was rather effective. ‘Two weeks in legendary Bowness Hall. Tour the famous sites of historic Great Britain while living like royalty.’”

Ian’s eyes closed, then quickly opened again. “And just where did this wonderful advert appear?”

As she walked away from the big desk that held her brother’s drawing equipment, Tish’s thoughts flashed with lightning speed. How should she drop this bomb?

“Well,” she paused and steeled herself, “Brian Brightly was delighted to help me out. He said he owed you, and this would go partway to paying you back. It went in last month’s Gourmet Cuisine magazine.” She smiled, unaware that her brother’s temper could erupt any further or even hotter than before.

Ian’s head snapped up so quickly she thought he’d break his neck if it weren’t so thick.

“You went to Brian Brightly to run an advert to let a room in Bowness Hall?”

The sheer bloodcurdling timbre of Ian’s voice made Tish’s legs go jelly.

“I…no, we needed that money, Ian. The plumbing in the cottages…the pipes, they burst. Water was pouring out of the walls when I went in last month. Everything was getting ruined. You weren’t around—you were off in the States, and I was here alone. I had to come up with a solution after we shut off the lines. I didn’t know what else to do. Duckie and John and I didn’t want to bother you once we’d come up with this solution. We thought,” here she sniffed, for tears rolled down her cheeks and curved into her nostrils, “we thought that we could do it quickly and quietly and you’d never know.”

She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to hold in the anguish. It had been years since she’d cried in front of her brother.

Ian rose from his seat and, to her surprise, handed her his handkerchief. Gingerly, he put his arm around his sister’s shoulders.

“Oh, Imp. Please, don’t…”

At this display of sympathy, so unexpected in the heat of battle, the young woman dissolved into full-blown wails.

Ian squirmed and dropped his arm.

He waited for his sister to regain her composure.

Slowly, she sniffled, wiping her hand across her teary face. “I thought I could solve just one problem, Ian. I thought you had enough to deal with, and that this was a good, viable solution.”

Slowly, Ian’s head shook from side to side. “So now Brightly knows that I’m in the soup,” he said, his chest heaving a big sigh.

“Oh, no,” Tish protested. “I never said that we needed the money! I just told him that I wanted something to do…some company. I told him that I hoped I could make this a regular thing—Easter week at Bowness. And I told him it was entirely my idea, now that I’m out of school with nothing to do.”

The look he gave her, from under his dark brows, showed her that he still suspected Brightly. Her hopes plummeted.

“Tish, you know I’ve had trouble obtaining funds for the Rivendell project. Nobody wants to lend me money, for a perfectly sound development. I’ve never had this problem before. Now, if Brightly happens to put it about that my sister is taking in lodgers, all of England will think I’m having financial problems. And absolutely no one will back my project.”

She had control of herself once more. It hurt her to see her brother so dispirited.

“What can I do, Ian?”

He walked a few steps away from her. “We’ll have to give the American back her money and send her packing.”

Tish studied the pattern on the carpet briefly. “Ian, we can’t do that. The money, Abby’s money, has all been spent on the pipes in the cottages.”

Ian’s shoulders slumped. Tish thought he looked tired and beaten. His long dark hair, loosed from the tieback, fell across his cheeks. The pallor of his skin, shadowed blue by the growth of beard, gave him a sickly appearance that worried her. Could he take one more blow?

“Ian, there’s something else. Only Abby showed up. She hasn’t got any clothing with her—that’s a long story—but the other person, the one who didn’t come…we have to pay her back.”

His expression couldn’t get any darker. “Imp, we’re done for. I can’t pay back five thousand dollars right away.”

The young woman started to walk toward the door, then stopped and spun around. “Ian! We can sell something!”

“No!” he blurted out. “We cannot start selling anything, not now!”

Tish rushed over to her brother. “No, that’s not what I mean. Abby said that some of the furniture in the old rooms is worth a small fortune. She said that people in the States would pay lots and lots of money to have some of those old tables and beds and candlesticks in their houses. She’s something of an art historian and knows the value of things like furniture and paintings.”

Her brother shook his head despondently. “I wouldn’t know how to go about it, Tish. And I don’t exactly have time right now to worry about it.”

“I’ll do it,” she stated. “I got us into this mess; I can get us out.”

Ian raised his head. “Let me think about it. Maybe we can come up with a better plan. If not, I’ll let you handle the particulars.”

Filled with relief and the positive optimism of her youth, Tish beamed at him. “I’ll talk to Abby.”

A look of alarm flashed across Ian’s face. “Imp, under no circumstances are you to let her know that we cannot refund her money right away. We’re good in the village; we know enough people and our family name is good enough to allow you to show this woman around the countryside without costing us a great deal. For once, we may have to call in some favors, but we won’t—we cannot—let on that we are in need of funds.”

Tish reassured him that she would do what was best; after all, she was a Wincott.

Ian laughed, but there was bitterness behind the empty sound.

“Come with me, then, Ian,” Tish begged, grabbing onto his hand and giving it a tug. “If you’re lucky, and you apologize for spoiling Abby’s morning with your grump, perhaps she’ll cook for you. She’s quite good at it. Come—use some of your charm. Maybe she’ll forget about the money if you’re the handsome Earl Bowness from the papers.”

Heaving a sigh, her brother glanced over the work piled on the desk, moved a few pencils about, then gave in. “All right. I’ll see what I can do, although I doubt I can ever live up to what they write about me in the papers. Give me a few minutes, though.”

Even after all that fuss, she was proud to be related to him.

Abby breathed out her relief when Tish entered the room alone. She’d followed Mrs. Duxbury’s menu for breakfast and, although the stove was full of pans and the sink full of bowls and utensils, there were platters of sausages, thick English bacon, scrambled eggs and toast, and broiled tomatoes on the counter ready for the earl and his sister.

But no earl.

Abby waited for Tish to tell her whether she’d done things right.

“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Mrs. Duxbury will be so pleased to know her kitchen is in such good hands.”

The anticipation that had weighted Abby unconsciously lifted. She answered Tish’s casual questions about America, filling the young woman in on some of her background. Art school followed by the need for a real job, then culinary school.

“I learned that I couldn’t eat art history. There isn’t much call for art history majors fresh out of college, but chefs are in great demand. So I went back to school.”

“Which was more fun?”

Abby didn’t hesitate a second. “Cooking school. My class was full of comedians. Every day they joked and worked really hard. Pulled some stunts, I can tell you. It wasn’t quite proper for kitchen behavior, but they got serious when it was necessary, and it was great.”

Tish appeared to hang on Abby’s every word. “Oh, it sounds like so much fun.”

Abby wiggled an eyebrow. “That’s not the half of it. The evening of our graduation, the school had a wine tasting. All of us drank way too much. As a result, I have a little tattoo in a place…oh.” Her hand moved to her side; then the list popped into her mind. Don’t get personal. She stopped just in time to see the earl standing in the doorway. “Never mind,” she whispered. “Tell you later, maybe.”

Tish giggled.

He walked right in front of her. The almighty Earl of Bowness. Mr. Antarctica.

Making a conscious effort to be pleasant, Abby smiled ever so slightly. She had to get serious. Remember the list! Besides, what did Americans know about nobility? Zippo. Did she care that this guy was descended from a long line of grumpy, old, boring men? That he might have a crown hidden somewhere that he wore only on special occasions? Hah. And as she looked at this particular earl now, he looked scruffy, his hair long and well onto his shoulders, his face unshaven, his clothing casual to the point of comfortable, not fashionable.

He could almost be her older brother, home from work, ready to take on the neighbor kids in a game of horse. Only this guy didn’t seem the basketball type.

Polo, she figured, from the air of dignity he had surrounding him.

Tish spoke first. “Abby, this is my brother, Ian Wincott.”

The earl said nothing until Abby saw his sister poke him in the ribs.

“Good morning.”

Tish rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

What a stiff, thought Abby. Pity that he looked like Hugh Jackman but had the personality of Hugh Laurie’s character on House. Hugh Grant hair, but definitely a stiff.

Impulsively, Abby stuck out her hand. “Abigail Porter,” she said.

The earl looked surprised. Then the corner of his mouth quirked into a slight smile as he took her hand. The smile broadened to downright wolfish while he held on just a little too long, she thought.

Feeling slightly embarrassed because of the contact, Abby withdrew her hand and busied herself with the food.

“I don’t know how you want to do this…. I thought we’d just all eat in here,” she said, her confusion making her speak much too quickly even to her own ears.

The earl cleared his throat softly. “I guess my sister has neglected to show you the breakfast room, but this will do.”

He looked around, found the plates warming alongside the hob. The kettle boiled, the teapot waited for the hot water, his favourite Earl Grey tin open and awaiting his pleasure. He deliberately held back the pleasant smile he would have given Mrs. Duxbury. This untenable situation, eating breakfast in the kitchen, eating with a paying houseguest, left him slightly off kilter. He wasn’t sure how to act—friendly was entirely out of the question, though he certainly couldn’t behave as if he were eating with the help.

It just wasn’t done.

But he’d overheard her comment about the tattoo and couldn’t help wondering just where it was and what, if anything, it said. Her hand had dipped down slightly, then stopped. He should have stayed outside the door a few seconds longer. Hmm.

Perhaps the tattoo was on her…her…good God…her hip? Her belly? Lower yet?

Ian shuddered violently, the mere thought of a hidden tattoo on the woman’s body making him quake inside.

Stop! Stop it right this second!

With one last tremor ripping through him, he regained control and pulled himself together. Maintain control.

So he filled his plate and set it on the table, then poured the hot water into the teapot, swished it around, emptied it into the sink, and proceeded to prepare tea for them all the proper, British way. No doubt this American used tea bags at home, but he wouldn’t allow that in his domain.

The American woman had changed into the same costume she had worn on the aeroplane, he noticed. Different jumper, perhaps. Ah, yes, Imp had said something about her not having any luggage. That explained her being seen in Mrs. Duxbury’s dressing gown earlier.

When they were all finally seated around the old, scarred table, where the servants had taken their meals in days gone by, Ian felt his sister’s foot pressing down on the top of his underneath the table. When he scowled at her, Tish gave him her encouraging nods, then jerked her head slightly in the direction of the American.

“Miss Porter, I must apologize for my behavior earlier. I mistook you at first for Mrs. Duxbury…from behind. I haven’t been home in quite some time…wasn’t aware of my sister’s arrangements. Sorry and all that,” he said, hoping the woman wouldn’t want or expect anything more.

Abby put down her fork, patted her lips with her napkin, and replied, “I accept.”

Then she turned away from him and started talking with his sister. Ian felt as if he’d been hit by a lorry. That was it? I accept? That was all she had to say, that she accepted his apology, as if he had been in the wrong?

He couldn’t believe that he had allowed this woman to treat his apology this way. He’d apologized, she was supposed to apologize back, they’d be even, and he could leave. Instead, she sat across the table from him, chatting with the imp and patently ignoring him!

When he looked down at his plate, he realized he had eaten everything. Although he couldn’t quite remember what he’d consumed, it hadn’t been bad. It had been a regular English breakfast, just like Duckie would have made. So, the woman could cook.

She didn’t look at him. Instead, she sat directly across from him and discussed what she and his sister would do for the rest of the day.

Then they discussed her plans for dinner. His mouth watered despite his effort to control his reaction. Beef en croute. New potatoes. Asparagus tips.

Imp and the American carried their plates to the counter.

He found himself following them, looking for another helping. Duckie always had extra food for him.

Both women turned when he helped himself to more eggs and a sausage or two, then ignored him as they cleaned up the mess. The day help would do the rest. The American—Abigail—made a list of foodstuff for John to pick up in the village before they came back from Bath.

Bath!

Then, without so much as another word from either of them, off they went.