Читать книгу Callie, Get Your Groom - Julianna Morris, Julianna Morris - Страница 9

Enough?

What did she mean by that?

Remembering Callie’s old-as-Eve smile, Mike was afraid he knew. She hadn’t come to catch him as a husband; she’d come to spread her wings. It was natural, really. He’d never realized it before, but Callie was rather attractive. And thirty-odd years of living in Crockett as “the preacher’s daughter” would have been frustrating for anyone.

Swell. Now he’d have to spend his summer making sure she didn’t do something he knew she’d regret. It was instinctive to protect her. Even the toughest kids in Crockett had watched their mouths around Callie. He’d seen street toughs pummel their buddies for stepping out of line around Preacher Webster’s daughter.

Don’t say that. She’s holy, you jerk.

And there was Callie…looking utterly disgusted at being called holy.

Mike had to grin, remembering those days. He’d done it, too, cleaning up his language, making sure nobody stepped out of line with little Callie, and lumping her into the same category as kid sisters who were more trouble than they were necessarily worth.

He could strangle Elaine for doing this to him. He’d phoned her right after getting back to the house, and received an innocent “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Callie is doing us both a favor. And this way she gets to see part of Alaska.”

Favor?

Right. His baby sister was matchmaking and he didn’t want any part of her little plan. Of course…it was nice that Callie could have a trip. She probably didn’t get a chance to travel very much.

Sighing, Mike continued working. He’d been cutting the next winter’s supply of firewood before leaving to meet Elaine…and getting Callie instead. He would have flown to Anchorage himself, but Donovan had been returning from a hop to Fairbanks, so it hadn’t made sense to make an extra trip. Now he wished he’d gone. He could have turned Callie around and put her on a flight back to Seattle. But no, instead she was here, taking a nap in one of his bedrooms.

Mike positioned a section of log on the chopping block and lifted his ax. It took a lot of wood to get through an Alaskan winter, though the weather wasn’t as harsh in Kachelak as it was farther north.

Thwunk.

The piece split in two, one of which was still too large to fit into the woodstove. He took the larger half and positioned it again, wishing his other problems were so easily solved.

Sending Callie back to Seattle still seemed desirable, except there wasn’t much hope of replacing their office manager. Kachelak was a great location, but the population was small and already dedicated to their own pursuits; individuality flourished in the frozen north.

He’d jokingly suggested that one of his partners get married and solve their labor dilemma that way. They hadn’t been amused, since they felt the same about marriage that he did.

He swung the ax down.

Thwack.

The wood divided neatly and Mike tossed the two pieces onto a pile, then heaved another log to the block. He hammered a wedge into the grain and used a maul to do the initial split. The physical effort of cutting firewood usually helped focus his thoughts. Only, it wasn’t helping this afternoon.

Callie Webster in a tube top.

His mind still had trouble working around that one. It was blasted inconvenient having her stay in his house. A sister was one thing, an unrelated woman was another. He’d have to watch his mouth, put the lid down on the toilet and be pleasant in the morning.

Mike hated mornings.

He’d rather fly through an ice fog than get up and talk to anyone before 10:00 a.m. On the other hand, Callie probably made delicious coffee. She belonged to that incomprehensible species who rose at the crack of dawn and loved it. And from what Elaine had said, she was a terrific cook, one of her specialties being caramel pecan pancakes.

Caramel pecan pancakes sounded very tasty, and they’d be even better for dinner, than breakfast. Maybe having Callie stay at the house wouldn’t be so bad. Lately he’d gotten real tired of his own cooking.

Callie stepped onto the porch off her bedroom and took a deep breath. The air was fresh, redolent with the scent of the sea and whispering hemlock forests.

Soon after they’d arrived, Mike had gone outside to work, muttering something about her taking a nap. She’d watched him chopping wood from the kitchen window…all masculine grace and power, muscles working fluidly beneath skin slicked with sweat. She still heard the solid thunk and whack of the ax striking, and Callie moaned softly, a restless ache in her breasts and stomach.

Don’t think about it.

Right. Like it was possible to think about anything else. She ought to be asleep, but her mind was too active. And her body…She shivered.

Mike always did that…made her feel things, hot and fast, spinning inside like a whirling top. Inevitably Callie had compared every man to him. They’d always come up short.

“Open your eyes, Michael Fitzpatrick,” she breathed. “You never really came back, so I came to you.”

Finally.

Everything had finally come together like the pieces to a murder mystery—means, motive and opportunity. And a dash of courage, because she’d been raised with the traditional idea that a woman didn’t chase a man; she waited demurely until he noticed her.

Blying Sound glimmered in front of the house, which was perched high above the water out of sight from the town. It was a lovely place—the house old and solidly built, with at least five bedrooms.

Perfect for a family.

Callie smiled and leaned on the railing. Cool air brushed her arms and bare midriff, reminding her of Mike’s reaction to the provocative outfit.

“Serves him right,” she murmured.

It was about time he saw her as a woman, though the tube top might have been a little much. She’d shocked herself when she bought it. Maybe it wasn’t any more revealing than a bikini, but she’d never worn a bikini, either.

She’d expected to blush like crazy the first time she was seen in public, yet it hadn’t worked out that way. The unadulterated male attention had been worth every embarrassed prickle. Not that she wanted to dress like that all the time—just for special occasions.

It had taken her a long time to reach this point. Years of being the sweet-little-girl-next-door, of feeling guilty because she’d never loved Keith the way he deserved. She’d been cast in the role of a tragic, grieving not-quite-a-widow, returned home to care for her father because she had nothing else to live for. Her grief had been genuine, but not the shattering devastation her friends and family supposed.

Another yawn widened her mouth and she strolled inside to inspect the big, comfortable bed. Maybe she should try to sleep. She wanted to look her best for her date with Donovan. Mike mustn’t suspect she had anything on her mind but having a great time with his partners in Triple M Transit.

Besides, if nothing else, she was going to have a great time. They were terrific guys—Mike wouldn’t have gone into business with them if they weren’t.

Still, Mike was her reason for coming to Alaska, and she was gambling a lot on the plot she and Elaine had hatched—her heart most of all.

It was late in the afternoon when Mike sank his ax into the chopping block and decided to call it quits. Summer in Kachelak was pleasantly mild at best, yet perspiration had soaked his hair and body from the long hours of work.

Stopping at the refrigerator, he grabbed a bottle of iced tea and took a long swallow, then stuck his head under the faucet in the sink. Though chilly, it felt good. He scrubbed his upper body, sluicing water over his arms and chest.

“Mike?”

He jumped, bumping his head on the tap and swearing under his breath.

Jeez, he’d almost forgotten about his “houseguest.” A memory of round curves, faithfully outlined by fire-engine-red cotton, rose instantly before his eyes and he groaned. Well, he hadn’t exactly forgotten. But it was tough, reconciling his lifelong image of Callie with the woman who’d hugged him at the airport.

The clothes were a shock, yet the hug had been all Callie. Sweet, affectionate Callie, with the softest heart on the West coast, though as a kid he’d thought it was dumb and disgustingly mushy.

“Mike?” she called again. “Are you here?”

“In the kitchen.” He turned the water off and wiped his face with a dishcloth before turning around. Callie was standing in a pool of gold sunlight only a few feet away. “My God, what the hell are you wearing?” he demanded harshly, forgetting his earlier resolve to watch his mouth around her.

“A dress.”

“That isn’t a dress. It’s another tube top,” he snapped, slapping the towel onto the counter.

She ran the palms of her hand over the clinging black knit. Like the red top, it stayed in place with some kind of invisible magic—no straps, just a sheath of black that exposed her shoulders and a startling expanse of silky thigh encased in sheer black stockings.

“You’re exaggerating,” Callie said, undaunted by his frown. “This is a very stylish dress.”

“Take it off.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Donovan said I didn’t have to dress, but I’d rather have clothes on when he gets here. I don’t want him getting the wrong impression.”

“I…” To his amazement, heat crawled up Mike’s neck and he gritted his teeth. “That’s not what I meant. Go put on something else.”

“Why?”

Why?

What a dumb question.

His gaze traveled over the black “dress.” The fabric was so soft that anything beneath it would be outlined—like the lacy edge of a bra or panties. And except for a faint line about her waist, it was perfectly smooth, which meant she was only wearing those stockings. Mike broke out in another sweat.

No bra. No slip. No panties.

Though she still seemed to be waiting for an answer, Callie opened the refrigerator and bent over, examining its contents. Mike’s lungs froze as he imagined what he’d see if the skirt inched up another two inches. Or what Donovan might see…and touch.

Damn. He was losing his mind and it was all Callie’s fault. He’d been handed a stick of dynamite to protect. Why weren’t her brothers here, guarding her virtue? It wasn’t his job, yet he was stuck with it just the same.

“Do you mind if I have some milk?” she asked, straightening and holding up a carton.

“Sure. After you put on something decent.”

“This is decent,” she said coolly.

“It’s trashy,” Mike shouted furiously.

“Why you narrow-minded chauvinist jerk,” Callie hissed. “You’d think it was perfect if your date wore a dress like this, but it’s unacceptable for me. What a stupid double standard. I won’t be ordered around, not by you or anyone else.”

Mike already regretted his rash words. He knew better than to insult a woman’s clothes. And Callie didn’t look trashy; that was the problem. With her rich abundance of chestnut hair and that creamy complexion she looked like a dream. Classy and sultry at the same time—a combination unsettling to his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean that. But your father—”

“I’m thirty-one, Mike,” Callie said curtly. “Not a child. My father wouldn’t think of telling me what clothes to wear.”

“Yeah, but…”

Callie’s high heels clicked on the floor as she walked to the cupboard she’d examined earlier. She took down a glass and tried to control her temper. At the moment she was reconsidering the plot she’d hatched with Elaine.

Get married to Michael Fitzpatrick?

Right now she didn’t care if he dropped off the face of the earth, never to be seen again.

Trashy.

Ugh.

He had a lot of nerve. Was he forgetting she’d seen the type of girl he’d dated in high school? Granted, teenage boys weren’t usually attracted to “good” girls—and by all accounts his tastes had improved since then—but that wasn’t the point. If she went stark naked, it wouldn’t make her trashy. That came from the type of person you were.

“For your information,” she said, pouring the milk, “Elaine has practically this same dress, only it’s royal blue. She wore it to your parents’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary party two years ago. I don’t recall you throwing a fit over her looking trashy.”

“I don’t remember.”

From the expression on Mike’s face, she knew he was lying.

“Really?” Callie prompted. “You said she looked great. And my dad thought she looked charming. You seem to be more judgmental than he is.”

“I said I was sorry,” he muttered. “You don’t have to rub it in.”

Callie had every intention of rubbing it all over him. He wanted to keep seeing her as the prim preacher’s daughter, not as a woman. But she was unmistakably dressed like a woman, so she didn’t fit into the neat little role he’d cast for her to play…just like everyone else in Crockett. It was hard enough exploring the real Callie without him fighting her every step of the way.

She took a swallow of milk. “I just want things to be clear between us.”

“How clear would you like them to be?”

Mike crossed his arms over his stomach and stared at her grimly. His shoulders were broad, tanned and intimidating. A dark whorl of hair descended down his chest, narrowing until it was a thin line, disappearing beneath the top button on his jeans. Abruptly the muscles in Callie’s throat had trouble working, so she set the glass on the counter.

“You’re not my brother, Mike. And I stopped needing a guardian a long time ago.”

From the flicker of his eyes she knew she’d hit pay dirt. As long as he could object to her clothing like a brother, he was safe. He didn’t have to see her as anything but his sister’s friend—the preacher’s daughter who was expected to act and dress in a certain fashion.

Criminy. Mike had moved away from Crockett sixteen years ago to attend college and he still had the same ideas as the ninety-year-old widow who always sat in the same pew every Sunday. This was going to be even tougher than she’d thought, and a flutter of uncertainty hit her, stronger than before.

The sound of a vehicle driving up the hill only increased the tension in the air.

Callie drew a deep breath. “That must be Donovan. I’d better go out to meet him.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t wait up for me.”

A bleak, frustrated anger filled his eyes. “Not a chance, doll.”

“Well…I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Whatever.”

Mike watched Callie leave, feeling like the ground had been ripped from under his feet. He didn’t know the woman who had just walked out of his house. She was a stranger in a black dress, high heels, and scented with the seductive fragrance of an expensive perfume.

Her legs couldn’t be as long as they looked—her head didn’t even reach the top of his shoulder. She had a body that wouldn’t quit, fiery green eyes and a set of wonderfully kissable lips.

A stranger.

“God, I’m losing it,” Mike muttered and grabbed his tea, draining the bottle. For the first time in his life he really needed a drink. He tried to remember if there was any alcohol in the house. Not being much of a drinker, he couldn’t remember.

None in the pantry.

And none in the refrigerator—not even beer. Mike slammed the door shut and scowled. A vision of Callie bending over and searching the interior made him choke. He backed away from the appliance.

Wait a minute.

He still had the bottle of Glenfiddich Scotch Ross had given him for his birthday. It was a shame to use fine whiskey for the sole purpose of getting smashed, but what the hell—it was medicinal.

The last time he’d gotten drunk was the traditional blowout after college finals. His last finals. Graduation. Freedom from cracking the books. Sometime in the middle of that evening he’d kissed the hottest girl on the face of the earth. He couldn’t remember her name, her face or where she’d come from, but he remembered that kiss.

That’s why he hadn’t gotten drunk since. Too many questions. Too much wondering if she was as hot as he’d thought, or if it was an alcohol-induced fantasy. A fantasy lady for a fantastic kiss.

Mike dropped onto the couch in his living room and poured himself a shot of the Scotch. He wasn’t “waiting up” for Callie, he was just enjoying a pleasant drink as he watched the view. He’d paid a lot for that view and was entitled to watch it anytime he wanted. For that matter, Callie had been awfully impressed with the entire house.

His eyes narrowed. She’d made it clear she didn’t want his protection, but if she came in crying, he’d make Donovan pay.

Hours later Mike was still “not waiting up.” The sun had set shortly after 10:00 p.m. They hadn’t reached the summer solstice yet, but it wouldn’t be long. A wide yawn split his mouth and he realized he was dead tired. They’d been pulling double shifts lately, trying to cover the office and fly and run the business at the same time.

“Mike, why are you sitting in the dark?” Callie asked from behind him.

The question made him jerk upright. He’d fallen asleep and hadn’t heard her come in. Mike lifted the bottle and blinked at it. Almost full. That’s right, he’d only had two drinks. Unfortunately the alcohol had gone straight from an empty stomach to his weary head.

“Just watching the view, doll.”

“In the dark?”

He tried to shake himself wider awake, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate. “I’ll do it my way, and you do whatever you want. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

“Actually…I said we should keep out of each other’s way.” Callie switched a table lamp on and he sighed. While it was dim, the extra light hurt his head, and he wasn’t too tired to ignore the exhilaration in her eyes, or the mussed condition of her hair.

She certainly wasn’t crying, so he wouldn’t have to kill Donovan after all.

Even if he wanted to.

Callie had certainly flung him into a highly illogical state. Of course, women had been doing that to men for thousands of years; why should anything be different now?

“Turn that off,” he ordered. And to his complete astonishment, she complied.

“Have a little to drink?” she asked.

“Just a little, and it’s quality Scotch, not a bender,” he said defensively, though she didn’t seem offended. “I’m just tired.”

“I know. Elaine says you hardly drink at all.”

Had his sister volunteered that information, or had Callie asked? For some reason Mike liked the idea of Callie keeping tabs on him. She’d always been a nice person.

Nice…? Wrong. His brows drew together. She didn’t want to be called nice. “Did you have a good time?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral.

“The best.” Callie sat on the end of the couch and tucked her feet beneath her. “The northern lights were really wild. Donovan said it was unusual this time of year, so he took me up in his plane to see them better. We opened the windows up and the wind blew in…. It was incredible.” She laughed and shook her hair across her shoulders. “I’m all tangled, but it was worth every minute.”

Hmm. Mike felt better. At least Donovan had kept his hands to himself for that part of their date—even Donovan had never mastered the art of flying a Cessna with his feet.

“I hope you wore a coat. It gets pretty cold up there.” He yawned again and his eyelids drooped.

“Don’t worry—I won’t get pneumonia and deprive you of an office manager.” The slight edge in her voice hinted she was still angry over their earlier “discussion.”

“I’m not worried. You’re a pal to help out.”

Callie glared at Mike, getting provoked all over again. He’d been dopey and endearing, and she’d been almost ready to forgive being called trashy—almost. And now he was calling her a pal. She wasn’t his pal. Why couldn’t he simply see her as a desirable woman?

Maybe she could throw herself at him. Kiss him senseless. But that would be rather obvious. And it might ruin things altogether.

What if she got up and slipped on her high heels…? She could fall across him and see what happened.

Yeah, it was a possibility.

Callie stretched. “It’s late. I’d better get some sleep so I can start work early. Donovan says the office is a horrible mess.”

“Uh-huh.”

Mike sounded awfully sleepy, so Callie put her hand on his leg to help herself upright. His eyes shot open.

“Yikes…” She laughed. “Sorry about that. I didn’t realize how deep the couch was.”

Trying to make her “fall” look good, Callie twisted her ankle as she tumbled over Mike, letting out a genuine yelp of pain.

That hurt, she informed herself. I hope it was worth it.

The bottle he’d been clutching clunked to the floor. “Are you okay?”

“Sure. I love bruising my dignity.”

His chest rumbled with a chuckle and waves of heat rolled through Callie. Brother, this was disgusting. She got close to the man and her body went crazy. She hated acting like a spinster stereotype, but she did feel rapacious and love starved, especially sprawled all over him.

Mike’s hands slid over her waist and Callie held her breath. He was going to push her away, do the gentlemanly thing and help her up.

Dammit.

Callie ruefully acknowledged her level of frustration with the mute curse. She didn’t often swear, but when she did, it was for a good reason…or at least a strong reason.

But she gulped when Mike’s hands closed over her bottom, hard and sensuous at the same time. She didn’t say anything. Talking might bring him to his senses, and that was the last thing she wanted at the moment.

The unmistakable outline of Mike’s arousal pressed into her abdomen, making her dizzy.

His hands seemed to be urging her up his body. She was glad to comply, especially when one of those hands reached up to stroke her face—strong fingers, combing through her hair, pulling her into a kiss.

Dear heaven…the moan from Callie’s throat was lost in his mouth, drowned in the unique flavor of Mike and Scotch. This is what she’d been craving. Even when she’d succeeded in pushing him from her mind—sometimes for months at a time—she’d craved the excitement and passion of his embrace.

She straddled Mike’s waist and stroked her tongue over his lips, an erotic invitation to deepen the kiss. It was instinctive, a knowledge born of hope and longing and feminine intuition.

He rewarded her urgency, his fingers rhythmically squeezing and releasing her bottom, intensifying the tremor spinning through her core. His tongue delved into the humid warmth inside her mouth, tracing the even edge of her teeth. Velvet on velvet, infusing their lungs with the other’s breath.

Shaking violently, Callie finally tore away and collapsed on Mike’s chest. She couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel and taste him.

Taste and feel…

Callie moaned again, unable to resist exploring the muscled contours beneath her cheek. She tasted the saltiness of his skin, tracing the hard points of his flat nipples with her fingernails, and sensed a deep shudder rising from him. This wasn’t her need alone, it was the mutual desire of two people who were surely meant to be together.

And then…she heard a quiet snore in her ear.

What?

She wanted to hit him. Passion was zinging through her veins and the dope was sound asleep.

Rat.

Louse.

Cretin. How could he fall asleep on her?

When she’d finally called him every insult available, Callie slid to the ground and drew her knees against her chest. She’d be glad in the morning that nothing happened, but it wasn’t morning and she was hurting. Unrequited love was bad enough, but unrequited passion was physical torture…not that she should complain. More than one boyfriend had pointed out the discomforts of such a condition.

She wished she’d been more sympathetic.

Mike probably wouldn’t remember this kiss, either. He’d been kissed by so many women, what was one more?

Callie scowled.

The northern lights still danced across the sky, spinning pink ribbons of light that eclipsed the stars. No wonder Mike loved Alaska so much. She’d love it, too, if she got the chance.

Right. Callie nodded. She hadn’t grown up managing her family for nothing. Those skills must be good for something…like winding Mike around her little finger.

At the same time a sigh welled out of her chest. Mike wasn’t easily convinced. By tomorrow he would have shored his defenses and she’d have to tumble them down again.

Well, too bad.

The trick was not letting him affect her so easily.

The ghostly lights continued to dance as Callie repaired her resolve. She might not succeed, but Michael Fitzpatrick was about to take one heck of a ride. Maybe along the way he’d discover his heart…and the girl he’d left behind.