Читать книгу Taming Tall, Dark Brandon - Joan Elliott Pickart - Страница 9

One

The sleek, candy-apple-red sports car hugged the curving mountain road as the powerful engine beneath the shiny hood won the challenge of the steep climb with ease.

Andrea Cunningham drove the vehicle at the exact speed limit, nodding in approval at the performance of her new possession.

The car was an early Christmas present to herself, an indulgence that had surprised even her when she’d purchased it two weeks before.

She’d been researching automobiles for well over six months, reading consumer reports, price comparing at various dealerships, and going for test drives in sedate, compact cars.

The only color she’d even considered had been white, due to the extreme heat in Phoenix. She’d wanted the best gas mileage, a proven history of easy maintenance, and ease of maneuverability in the congested, big-city traffic.

But she’d been in a strange, out-of-character mood the day she’d walked onto the new car lot and seen the gleaming red sports car that seemed to be calling her name.

An hour later, she had driven away in the catchme-if-you-can red car.

Andrea flicked on the blinker, pressed on the gas pedal and whizzed past an eighteen-wheeler that was struggling to ascend the mountain. Safely in front of the big truck, she eased back into the right lane, then reduced her speed again to the exact number posted on the signs along the highway.

What on earth was she doing with a vehicle like this one? she thought, with a mental shake of her head. Granted, it had given her a bit of a rush to zoom past that big truck, knowing that if she was still driving her little compact car she’d be chugging slowly behind the eighteen-wheeler.

But this new car had cost her far more than she’d budgeted for when she finally admitted that her ten-year-old vehicle had to be replaced.

She, Andrea Cunningham, vice president of the firm of Challenge Advertising, was actually behind the wheel of a roaring, red sports car? It was unbelievable, ridiculous, and borderline embarrassing.

This car was not who she was, it was as simple as that.

Andrea sighed, her shoulders sagging a bit as a wave of fatigue swept through her, accompanied by the beginning of a throbbing headache.

She was furious at herself, at her body that hadn’t kept up with the pace she’d been keeping at work. The whole situation was so frustrating she could scream.

She’d been literally run out of town by her doctor, Andrea fumed. She’d finally gone in for a checkup, complaining of headaches, insomnia, lack of appetite, the inability to concentrate for great lengths of time and being so tired on occasion she’d been close to tears.

She was, the mighty medical man declared, suffering from complete physical exhaustion. He’d ordered her to take two full weeks off. No, she couldn’t just cut back on her hours at the office, she was to get away, go somewhere peaceful and quiet, where her staff couldn’t reach her. Only Jack, her boss, should be informed of her destination.

The doctor knew her personal history, was aware that she had no family to spend the holidays with. Her-parents had been killed in an automobile accident when Andrea was only four.

There had been no loving relatives waiting in the wings to make a home for the frightened little girl, who had had her serene world shattered by the death of her mother and father.

She’d been raised in foster homes before she’d struck out on her own when she was eighteen.

Now she was heading to the small town of Prescott, where she’d never been before, and where her two-week sentence would include the Christmas holiday.

Being away from home on Christmas didn’t matter. She paid little attention to the festive event. She gave gifts to a few close friends, but politely refused all invitations to Christmas dinner. It was a day for families, and Andrea had no desire to be odd-woman-out at anyone’s table.

But being in Prescott for Christmas wasn’t what had her hopping mad. It was the emotion of inadequacy, of not being up for all she’d taken on and promised to do. Complete physical exhaustion. That was infuriating.

The pain in Andrea’s head increased, but she now knew the frequent headaches were caused by fatigue. They even had the official medical diagnosis of fatigue headaches.

She was only twenty-seven years old, for heaven’s sake, not one hundred and seven. She was five foot six, weighed one hundred and twenty-two pounds, and had thought she was in tip-top shape.

Ha! What a joke. She was falling apart. A total wreck. Talk about embarrassing. This whole situation was mortifying.

What was she supposed to do in dinky little Prescott for two weeks? Sit in a rocking chair with a blanket over her knees and knit? She didn’t know how to knit, and she certainly didn’t know how to spend lazy days doing absolutely nothing.

She hated this. She really, really hated this.

Andrea was pulled from her fuming thoughts by the sudden slowing of traffic and the realization that she was approaching Prescott.

Glancing quickly at the piece of paper she had taped to the center console, she shifted into the lefthand lane. She’d written precise instructions to herself after carefully studying a map she’d spread out on her kitchen table.

An image of her empty apartment flitted in her mental vision, but it evoked no nostalgia or homesickness.

It was a group of rooms where she ate, slept and spent very few leisurely hours, the majority of her life being centered on Challenge Advertising.

As her mind roamed from room to room in the high-rise apartment in Phoenix, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d rearranged the furniture or purchased something new, pretty and personal for the place she’d called home for the past five years.

Why was she suddenly thinking about her dull apartment? she wondered. She’d do well to pay attention to her surroundings, or she’d probably drive right past Hamilton House, the hotel where she’d made reservations for the next two, long weeks.

“Oh, great,” Andrea said aloud, frowning. “It’s starting to snow. Isn’t that just dandy?”

She hated cold weather. She hated snow. She hated Prescott, Arizona, and the reason that she was there.

Her doctor had suggested the small town, saying it was picture-perfect beautiful, with friendly people thrown in as an added bonus. Not having the time, nor the energy, to consider her options, she’d settled on Prescott without further thought.

“The crummy doctor might have mentioned that it snowed up here,” Andrea said, stopping at a red light. “Oh-hh, I’m really hating this.”

Brandon Hamilton stood behind the registration desk of Hamilton House, humming along with the carols that played softly in the large lobby of the hotel.

Excellent, he thought, looking down at a leatherbound registry. Once Ms. Andrea Cunningham arrived, Hamilton House would be booked solid through Christmas.

He couldn’t ask for better than that, especially since this was the first Christmas that he’d had the hotel up and running after the extensive renovations he’d put the charming old building through.

Brandon swept his gaze over the lobby, unable to curb the smile that formed on his lips.

Lookin’ good, he thought. The huge, decorated Christmas tree in the front window was spectacular, and the gleaming, baby grand in front of it sat ready to be played.

Three separate groupings of high-backed, Victorian-era easy chairs surrounded low, round tables. The carpeting was authentic, cabbage roses on a black background, worn in spots but holding its own, considering that it had been on the floor since the turn of the century.

It was all paying off, he thought with a nod of satisfaction. The months of stress, of sleepless, worryfilled nights, of spending nearly every penny he had, plus the funds from a hefty loan from the bank, to restore Hamilton House to the majestic hotel it had been, had definitely been worth it.

Now all he needed was for Andrea Cunningham to show up and take possession of her room to give him that final emotional rush of knowing that the hotel was filled to the brim with happy guests.

Brandon glanced at his watch.

Two fifty-two, he thought. Check-in time was three o’clock. Where are you, Ms. Cunningham? He glanced at the front door, anticipating the sight of her smiling, ready-for-the-holidays face. Any moment now she would enter the hotel, filled with Christmas cheer.

Andrea got out of her car in the designated parking lot across from the hotel. She read the sign mounted on a post and frowned.

According to the instructions, she was to leave her luggage in her vehicle, if she chose to do so, and a member of the staff of Hamilton House would deliver it safely to her room.

Not a chance, she thought, glaring up at the large flakes of falling snow for a second. She was not about to announce, for all to hear, the description of her flashy car. She was having enough trouble adjusting to the fact that she actually owned the silly thing, without telegraphing the news to the world.

A few minutes later Andrea began her trek out of the parking lot, tilting slightly to one side due to the weight of her heavy suitcase.

The wet snow was sticking to the ground, causing her to slip and slide on her two-inch heels. The snow was also soaking the dark blue business suit that she wore with a pale blue silk blouse.

She didn’t own a heavy coat, had no use for one in Phoenix. In her exhausted mental state, it just hadn’t occurred to her to investigate the possible difference in weather between the valley and this mountain town.

Prescott was only a hundred miles away, for heaven’s sake. That it was perched over five thousand feet up on a mountain was information she hadn’t known until she had been well under way to arrive here.

It wasn’t like her to be so disorganized, she thought, struggling to keep her footing as she crossed the street. But then, nothing about her life was in its proper order at the moment.

Andrea shuffled along the snowy sidewalk, shivering as she headed for the front door of the hotel, the suitcase feeling heavier with every treacherous step.

Her dark brown hair, which she kept in a blunt cut to just above her shoulders, was plastered to her head, creating icy-cold rivulets of water that dribbled inside her blouse collar and down her back.

She struggled with the stained-glass double doors to the hotel, pushed her slippery suitcase inside the building, then skidded in behind it, nearly toppling over the large piece of luggage.

She’d made it, she thought, and she could easily think of ten other places she’d rather be.

Brandon looked toward the front doors as the copper bell overhead tinkled that they had been opened. He did a double take as the incredible sight before him registered in his mind.

A woman, who was definitely teetering on her feet, was soaking wet and dotted with snowflakes. Her hair was streaming water, her suit appeared glued to her body, and she was not smiling with holiday cheer.

He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that this very wet and obviously freezing cold woman, who was becoming more furious with every passing second, was Ms. Andrea Cunningham.

“Oh, hell,” Brandon muttered.

He rushed from behind the registration desk and across the lobby, then came to an abrupt halt in front of the woman, frantically searching his mind for something brilliant to say.

“Ms. Cunningham?” he said, beaming. “I’m Brandon Hamilton. Welcome to Hamilton House.”

Before attempting to respond to the syrupy-sweet greeting, Andrea took a deep, much-needed breath, then another, then one more. As she exhaled for the third time, a strange buzzing noise hummed in her ears and black dots paraded in front of her eyes.

She looked up into the dark eyes of Brandon Hamilton, blinked, then without having managed to speak one word...she fainted.

“Oh, Lord,” Brandon said, his eyes widening.

As the woman he assumed was Andrea Cunningham began to crumple forward, Brandon’s arms shot out instinctively. He scooped her up before she reached the highly polished tile floor of the entryway.

Brandon stood perfectly still for a moment, staring at the soggy bundle now nestled in his arms.

If this really was Andrea Cunningham, he thought, she was lovely, absolutely beautiful, in a wholesome way. Her eyes, which were now closed, were big and dark, her features were delicate, and her lips were made for kissing.

She was as light as a feather, even with soakingwet clothes. She was fairly tall, maybe five-six, but she was exactly right for his six-foot frame.

How old was she? Maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. The only thing that marred her pretty face were purple smudges of fatigue, or illness, beneath her eyes. She was—

“Cripe, Hamilton,” he said aloud, snapping back to attention. “Don’t just stand here. Do something.”

He turned and saw the dining room hostess crossing the lobby.

“Jennifer,” he called. “I need help.”

The attractive woman hurried to where Brandon stood.

“My gosh, Brandon,” she said. “What happened? Who is that? What’s wrong with her?”

“I think she’s our guest, Andrea Cunningham,” he said. “Please get on the phone and call Ben Rizzoli. Tell him we need a doctor over here...quick. Then have Mickey take that suitcase behind the counter, and find someone to cover the front desk.”

“Got it,” Jennifer said, then hurried away.

Andrea stirred in Brandon’s arms as he strode across the lobby and into his office. He kicked the door closed behind him and settled his precious cargo on a soft, beige leather sofa that was placed against one wall.

“Hello?” he said, hunkering next to the sofa. “Ms. Cunningham? Andrea?”

My, my, Andrea thought foggily, what a marvelously masculine voice that was calling her name. She was in the middle of the nicest dream, featuring one of the most ruggedly good-looking men she’d ever seen. He was “tall, dark and handsome” personified. The kind of man who appeared only in dreams or on the movie screen, but never walked around loose in real life.

He was holding her in strong arms against his rockhard chest. He had broad shoulders, thick dark hair, and eyes so dark they appeared obsidian.

The timbre of his voice was perfect; deep, rich and nimbly. He’d said his name. Oh, what was it? Brandon. Yes, that was it. It suited him.

“Andrea?” Brandon said. “Can you hear me? Open your eyes. Please?”

Her name had never sounded so lovely, so feminine, Andrea thought. Brandon’s voice floated over her, caressing her like plush velvet.

Oh, my, yes, this was a fantastic dream. But like all dreams, it had to end. She had to get up, go to work. She had so much that was waiting for her attention at the office.

Besides, she was terribly cold, chilled to the bone, in fact. The blankets on her bed felt clammy, as though she’d forgotten to put them in the dryer after removing them from the washing machine.

She wouldn’t have made up her bed with wet linens, would she? No, of course not. Handsome man named Brandon or not, she’d had enough of this.

Andrea’s lashes fluttered, then she opened her eyes slowly, taking a steadying breath in the process. In the next instant she gasped as she found herself staring at obsidian-eyed Brandon, the man from her dream.

“What are you doing here?” she said, attempting to sit up. “Don’t you know the rules about dreams? I’m awake now, so get out of my bedroom.”

“Easy; easy,” Brandon said, pressing gently on her shoulders to keep her prone. “Are you Ms. Andrea Cunningham?”

“Yes, I am, but—”

“I’m Brandon Hamilton. Do you know where you are?” he said. Was she beautiful, but nuttier than a fruitcake? Rules about dreams? She thought she was in her own bedroom? “Just think for a second.”

“You’re Brandon?” Andrea said, frowning. “This doesn’t make sense. The man in my dream said his name was—” Her eyes widened in horror. “Oh, my gracious, it wasn’t a dream. I’m in Prescott. This is Hamilton House, and—”

“And you fainted right after you arrived,” Brandon finished for her.

Cancel nuts, he thought. Andrea was hitting on all cylinders and was none too pleased with her reality. He had to keep her calm before she became hysterical or did something else that would disturb the tranquility of the hotel.

“There’s a doctor on the way to see you,” he said. “Everything is under control, Ms. Cunningham. Andrea. May I call you Andrea? We’re not exactly strangers, you know. You fainted right into my arms, just like in the movies.”

“I don’t believe this,” Andrea said, pressing one hand to her forehead. “I’ve never fainted in my life. I’m mortified, absolutely mortified. I’m going home.”

“No, no,” Brandon said quickly. “There’s no need to be embarrassed.” He produced his best hundredwatt smile. “You can’t leave. You’re my lucky charm—the guest who filled Hamilton House to capacity for the holidays. Lucky charms have responsibilities, you know.”

“That,” Andrea said, glaring at him, “is some of the corniest bunch of malarkey I’ve ever heard.”

Brandon’s smile slid off his chin. “Oh.” He paused. “I have to admit, you scared the socks off me by fainting the way you did. I’ve never had that experience before here at Hamilton House.”

Andrea closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at Brandon again.

“It’s a first for me, too,” she said.

A woman could drown in the depths of those fathomless dark eyes, she thought. A strange heat, which was far greater than the cold consuming her, was beginning to pulse low in her body. There was a blatant, masculine sexuality emanating from Brandon that was nearly overwhelming in its intensity.

“No one faints without a reason,” Brandon said, pulling Andrea from her sensuous thoughts. “Maybe I should take you to the hospital if you’re...well, if you’re pregnant and something is definitely not as it should be.”

“No,” Andrea said, then sighed. “I’m not pregnant. I have no dread disease, nor mysterious ailment. I’m just tired.”

“Very tired, then,” Brandon said. “Let me guess. Your doctor has ordered you to rest, so you came up to Prescott from Phoenix.”

“How did you know I’m from-oh, my registration information. I gave you my address.”

Brandon nodded. “Where’s your coat?”

“I don’t own a heavy winter coat. I didn’t investigate the weather up here. My doctor suggested Prescott and I came. This trip was not a good idea.”

“Sure it was,” Brandon said, smiling. “Prescott is a great place to get away from the rat race in Phoenix. What do you do for a living down in the valley?”

“I’m the vice president of Challenge Advertising.” And she was also a beautiful woman, Brandon thought. Was there a special man in Phoenix, who would be extremely distressed to learn that his lady had fainted into the arms of a complete stranger?

Well, if there was a guy, where was he when Andrea needed him, the louse? Forget the jerk. He, Brandon Hamilton, had been right on the spot to scoop Andrea into his arms. And, oh, man, how fantastic she’d felt nestled against him.

“Advertising.” Brandon cleared his throat as a bolt of heat rocketed through his body at the remembrance of holding Andrea in his arms. “That’s heavy stuff. Competitive. Pretty stressful, I imagine.”

Andrea lifted her chin. “I enjoy my work and I’m very good at what I do.”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute, but you’ve apparently enjoyed your occupation right into total exhaustion. That, combined with suddenly being at a much higher altitude than you’re accustomed to, is probably what caused you to faint.

“Your body is talking to you, Andrea, sending signals loud and clear. I’ve been down that road, and I suggest you listen to the message you’re getting from yourself.”

“Mmm,” she said, frowning.

“You’re registered to stay at Hamilton House for two weeks, so sit back and enjoy them.”

“Right,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “I won’t have to worry about being exhausted. I will die of boredom.”

Brandon chuckled. “No, you won’t. Prescott has a lot to offer. I’m a single man and I find plenty to do, and the people are warm and friendly.”

“Who are you?” she said. “A representative for the chamber of commerce?”

Brandon shrugged. “Just stating the facts, ma’am.” He paused. “I’m glad there’s nothing seriously wrong with you, Andrea,” he went on, looking directly into her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

The seconds ticked by and neither moved nor hardly breathed as they continued to gaze into each other’s eyes. A swirling heat seemed to weave around and through them, pulling them closer together, closer and closer....

A brisk knock sounded at the door, causing both Andrea and Brandon to jerk in surprise at the sudden noise. A man entered the room in the next instant.

“Rizzoli to the rescue,” he said cheerfully, crossing the room to stand by the sofa.

My stars, Andrea thought. Prescott, Arizona, had cornered the market on handsome men. This one was obviously Italian, indicated by his name and olivetoned skin. He, too, was tall, dark and handsome, his rough-hewed features boasting a nose that had obviously been broken at some point in his apparent thirty-odd years.

There was a subtle difference between the men, though. Brandon Hamilton was wearing what was obviously a custom-tailored suit. He had an aura of class and money, and his features were a tad more refined, smooth.

She would consider Mr. Rizzoli a diamond in the rough, in his faded jeans, plaid flannel shirt and fleece-lined, tan bomber jacket. His dark hair was also badly in need of a trim.

But they were a dynamic duo. Talk about mortifying. She now had two handsome men gawking at her. She wanted to crawl into a very deep hole and never come out.

“I’m definitely going home,” she said, starting to sit up again.

“Whoa,” Ben Rizzoli said, raising one hand. “I haven’t done my rescue bit yet. I’m Dr. Benjamin Rizzoli, at your service. Call me Ben. Doctors have a terrible need to be needed, so you have to allow me to check you over or I’ll pout. And you are?”

“Leaving,” Andrea said again.

“She’s Ms. Andrea Cunningham,” Brandon told Ben. “She walked in the front door and fainted. There’s nothing wrong with her that a good rest won’t cure. A rest she will definitely get by staying two weeks here at Hamilton House.”

Ben nodded. “Well, Andrea—I’ll call you Andrea and you call me Ben. We’re very laid-back, friendly folks here in Prescott. I already know a great deal about you.”

“Do tell,” Andrea said dryly.

“Okay, I will,” he said, grinning. “You’re very organized and efficient. I mean, hey, you might have fainted before you came into the hotel and clunked your head on the snowy sidewalk. The fact that you waited to blink out after you entered this fine establishment proves my point. As for the rest of the diagnosis, it sounds as though Brandon has been doing my job for me. You’re majorly tuckered out.”

“There you go,” Brandon said, smiling.

“Do you two practice this routine?” Andrea said, glowering at the pair. “This is ridiculous. I’m going home.”

“Let’s get serious here,” Ben said, his expression now matching his statement. “As a doctor, I have a few more questions for you, Andrea. Brandon, hit the road. I want to talk to Andrea alone.”

Brandon planted his hands on his thighs and pushed himself up to stand eye-to-eye with Ben.

“I’ll be right outside the door,” Brandon said.

“Holler if you need me.”

“Yep,” Ben said. “Go away.”

Brandon hesitated, looking at Andrea for a long moment, then left the room. He closed the door behind him and immediately began to pace back and forth in front of it.

What other questions did Ben want to ask Andrea? he thought. Did Ben suspect there was something seriously wrong with her? No. No way. That was not acceptable.

Andrea. Pretty name. Pretty lady.

She had felt just so... so right in his arms, as though she belonged there, close to him, protected and cared for by him.

“Hell, Hamilton,” he muttered. “Where is your mind going? You’re sounding like the fruitcake you thought Andrea was.”

But there was no denying the feelings of protectiveness and possessiveness he’d registered as he scooped Andrea into his arms and carried her into his office. She was so delicate, had become so pale, which had only accentuated the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

Brandon halted his trek and stared at the door.

Come on, Rizzoli, he mentally ordered. What in the hell was going on in there? He didn’t want a major problem to have caused Andrea to faint.

No, she was fine, just fine. She had to be.

Brandon frowned and dragged one hand through his hair.

He was overreacting. Big-time. He didn’t even know Andrea Cunningham. The cold fist of fear in his gut that she might be seriously ill didn’t make one bit of sense, nor did the desire for her that had exploded throughout him.

Well, yes, maybe it did. He was a decent man, a nice human being. It wasn’t Andrea, the woman, he was tied up in knots over, it was simply one person hoping that another person was all right. And it was simply a normal, healthy man’s libido reacting to an attractive woman.

Anyone would feel as he did.

Wouldn’t they?