Читать книгу Cut To The Chase - Julie Kistler, Julie Kistler - Страница 12

“GO AWAY,” ABRA said flatly.

The last thing she needed at this particular moment was some nosy stranger moving in on her and trying to interfere. He didn’t look dangerous, just way too cute for his own good, with light brown hair cut short and shoved carelessly to one side, and an intense, serious expression on his very fine face. Wearing a white T-shirt and faded blue jeans, with a backpack slung over one shoulder, he seemed like a regular guy. Or at least an extremely good-looking regular guy. Wide shoulders, nice muscles, lean hips… If he stripped off that shirt, she bet she’d find abs to die for. She had this thing about abs, a thing she had never admitted to anyone, not even herself, really. But she still had it.

She spared him another glance and immediately wished she hadn’t. He was adorable, whoever he was, standing there, looking all concerned. And he had blue eyes, too. She might’ve known. All the worst ones had blue eyes, just to torment her.

“A snoop is still a snoop, no matter how hunky the package,” she said under her breath.

He moved closer. “I’m sorry—what did you say?”

Abra groaned, hanging on tight to her friendly tree, wishing her stomach would stop this topsy-turvy stuff. She’d eaten every saltine in sight and she still felt absolutely miserable. But, hey, she was upright. Right now, that amounted to a major victory. Especially with this adorable guy with the fabulous blue eyes staring at her as if she were some exotic wild animal while she tried her darnedest not to barf. If she weren’t so sick, she would’ve considered dying of humiliation.

“I said, go away,” she repeated.

But he shook his head, still advancing on her. “I want to help,” he said kindly. “For one thing, I think we should get you out of that coat before you pass out from the heat.”

Before she could move away, he was right there, gently holding her steady as he unwound her from the heavy denim coat and folded it over his arm. Great. A chivalrous snoopy hunk.

“Better?” he asked in that same soothing, annoying tone, laying his palm on her forehead as if she were a three-year-old with a temperature, and she wanted to smack him. Actually, she wanted him to leave that cool hand there forever, or better yet, move it somewhere more fun. But she knew that was just the hormones talking way too loud.

And they needed to shut up. Now.

One hand on her forehead, one momentary physical connection, and all she could think about was how much she liked his long, elegant fingers, how amazing it felt to be touched, what a pretty color his eyes were, how steady his gaze, how hungry she was for a man’s hands and lips and…

Shut up. Now! she commanded her noisy hormones.

Still, his fingers felt so good, and those blue eyes, fringed with thick lashes, sparkling with intelligence and concern, were awfully tempting. She could so easily fall into that gaze and never even want to escape.

As a new wave of nausea swamped her, Abra cursed her luck. Just once in her life, it would’ve been nice to give in and trust somebody to take over, to swoon into his arms and let this sexy stranger carry her off.

Yeah, right. She straightened. Like she wasn’t in enough trouble already. All she needed was to add to it by drooling all over a man she didn’t even know, someone who could be a publicity hound or a crazed fan or just a garden-variety serial killer.

Starting to panic just a little for a whole new set of reasons, Abra edged away from his hand, mumbling, “Thank you, but…”

But I’m supposed to be in disguise, and now my hat and my sunglasses and even my nice, baggy coat are gone, and all that’s left is Abra Holloway, media star, with ugly dyed brown hair and a bad case of the heaves. And even if you aren’t a serial killer, you are way too gorgeous to be standing there staring at me while I toss my cookies!

“You still don’t look well,” he noted. He fished around in his backpack and pulled out a bottle of water. “Maybe you should let me take you somewhere cooler, where you can sit down. In the meantime, how about a drink of water?”

It looked untouched, but still… Did he really think she would drink out of his bottle? She considered. Well, yes, she would. Her mouth was dry, she was overheated, her stomach was unsettled, and that water sounded pretty good, whether there were Adorable Stranger germs on the bottle or not. Lifting her chin, pulling together every shred of composure she could muster, she found a thin smile for her sweet, misguided Galahad and reached for the water.

After wiping the top, she took two long swallows and then another one, greedily finishing it off. “I feel better now,” she whispered, awkwardly handing back the empty plastic bottle. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

Oh, dear. The smile was a killer. Her knees felt all wobbly, and it had nothing to do with the nausea.

Even after the water, she wasn’t exactly capable of leaving her handy tree and walking away from him just yet, but she knew she had to get away from that amazing smile and out from under his penetrating gaze. How long before he recognized her, especially with her disguise reduced to a bad dye job and no makeup? She sent him a quick glance. What if he already did recognize her and that was the reason he’d stepped in?

“Thank you so much for your help,” she said as steadily as she could manage, stepping gingerly to the other side of the tree, away from Sir Galahad and his helpful hands. “I’m feeling lots better. Really. And I wouldn’t want to keep you from whatever it is you were up to when you decided to, you know, leap in and rescue me from my coat. Because I’m fine. Really.”

With the tree between them, she tried to laugh, holding out her free hand, signaling to him that he should return her coat. But he didn’t.

“I don’t think you’re fine,” he put in. “Actually, I think you should get out of the heat and sit down. In your condition, I mean.”

She paused, feeling her turbulent tummy take a dive. “My condition?”

“With the saltines and the nausea, it wasn’t hard to figure out,” he said softly.

“You’re wrong,” she rushed to assure him. “I mean, you were right the first time. I was overheated in the coat, that’s all. Or maybe it’s a touch of summer flu.”

“Nice try, but… Listen, this is a little weird, but I noticed you a few days ago and I’ve been, well, keeping an eye on you.” He studied her, wary, alert, way too smart behind those blue eyes. “I think I know who you are and what this is all about.”

It took a second for his words to reach her. “You know?” Full-fledged panic thumped under her heart, and she turned her whole body in toward the tree. Too late to hide now, especially since Galahad apparently had X-ray vision.

Oh, lord, lord, lord. Her worst nightmare. Both her worst nightmares. Discovered! Uncovered! Even without the coat, she was so hot she thought she might expire right there in front of him, which would, of course, make it all that much worse because she would be unconscious and unable to defend herself, leaving him free to cart her off to the ER and hit the speed-dial for CNN to tell them that Abra Holloway had just fainted in the middle of Illinois. Pregnant Abra Holloway.

Concepts like “CNN,” “Abra Holloway” and “pregnant” swirled around her head like bees. And it was all his fault! He was talking again, in that same level, soothing tone, the one that made her think of forest rangers trying to talk wild animals into cages, but she only caught the tail end of it. Not that it mattered. It still didn’t make any sense.

“It’s understandable,” he offered, “that you’d run away and not want to be noticed, I mean, having a baby under these circumstances.”

What? What did he know about her circumstances? “Who sent you?” she demanded, moving her hand to her head, refusing to keel over, refusing to fall down and die for one too-smart guy, no matter how spectacular his eyes or his smile. So she went on the offensive while her mind raced with choices. Try to buy him off? Threaten? First she’d better find out what she was dealing with. “Are you a P.I.? Is that it? Did Julian hire you to find me? Or Shelby?”

He narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“I didn’t think it would be either of them, but… Okay, then, so you’re a reporter. National Enquirer?”

“No.” He just kept staring at her, his gaze rapt and intense, as if he could see right under her clothes, all the way to the soul, as if every secret she’d ever had was easy pickings. He held that gaze—and his silence—till she wanted to throttle him. Or herself.

“Stop staring at me like that. It’s unnerving. And if you don’t tell me who you are right this minute, I’m going to scream for the cops,” she improvised. “You already said you’ve been stalking me.”

“I wasn’t stalking you.” He brushed that away with one impatient hand, as if the idea of her calling the police was nothing to him. “Listen, my name is Sean Calhoun.” He seemed to be watching her even more closely, to see if that name registered. Not as far as she knew. When she didn’t react, he said again, “I wasn’t stalking you. Just surveilling.”

“Surveilling isn’t even a word.” So he wasn’t from Julian or Shelby. Not from the Enquirer. Who else could it be? The Post wouldn’t send a reporter this far, would they? And no reporter worth his salt would use a word like “surveilling.”

Sean Calhoun, whoever he was, waited patiently, just watching her, not bothering to argue about the “surveilling” thing.

“Just tell me,” she snapped. “Who sent you?”

“Well, if you must know, my mother,” he said finally.

Maybe that would’ve made sense under better circumstances. Did he just say his mother? “Are you kidding? Why? Is she a fan?”

“Uh, no. Definitely not,” he responded with an edge of sarcasm that didn’t add up any more than the rest of it.

What, he was stalking her because she’d given advice his mom didn’t like on The Shelby Show? “I don’t need this right now,” she told him, pressing one hand into her tummy and waving the other one at him. “I’m sick as a dog, I don’t know who you are, and… And I’m not coping very well!”

“Okay, okay.” He advanced on her again, holding up his hands—with her baseball cap in one and her coat draped over the other—as if to show he didn’t have a weapon. “I’m not going to hurt you in any way, okay? You need to just calm down.”

“I hate it when people tell me to calm down!” Abra returned hotly. “Not that anyone ever needed to before this whole mess, because I was always perfectly calm. Not that they need to now, either, for that matter. It’s none of your business whether I’m calm or not!”

After that outburst, which sounded irrational even to her own ears, he muttered an oath, turned away, and then spun back around, his expression dark and brooding. “Look, I just need to know one thing and then I won’t bother you anymore. The baby…”

She kept her mouth shut, staring at the ground, refusing to confirm or acknowledge anything.

Finally, he came out with it. “Is it my father’s?”

She swung back around to look at him, utterly and completely mystified. His father? She didn’t know him or his father. Why on earth would he think her baby had anything to do with his father? “Who is your father?”

“Michael Calhoun.”

“But I’ve never met…”

“Park benches? Chicago?” he prompted.

“No!” she returned quickly. What in the world was this all about? “Me? Park benches? Chicago? No!”

He kept up the interrogation. “Were you at O’Hare a few days ago? Asking about buses to Champaign?”

“Yes, I came though O’Hare. But I don’t under—” Until all at once, gazing at him and his suspicious expression, it sunk in.

He thinks I’m someone else.

Could she be that lucky? Abra scrutinized him, adding up the clues. He didn’t appear to be delusional, so the logical conclusion was that it was a simple mistake.

He wanted to know if his father was the father of her baby. And hadn’t he said his mother had sent him? Of course she did, if she thought her husband was cheating and making babies. But not with Abra Holloway, because no one would be looking for Abra here. With some other woman. So Mom had sent him to find the woman her husband was cheating with, and for some reason, he’d gotten his signals crossed and thought that woman was her.

Which meant he had no idea that he’d stumbled over Abra Holloway, missing celebrity. None at all.

Filled with relief and a strange sense of euphoria, Abra began to laugh. Considering the circumstances, it was a little weird to be hooting with laughter, but she couldn’t help it. She could tell by Sean’s expression that her reaction had taken him by surprise, too.

He thought she was someone else. Phew.

“I’m sorry,” she managed, finally getting herself under control. “I’m sorry you’re going through whatever it is you’re going through with your parents. I’m sure it’s not easy being sent to stalk your dad’s illicit girlfriend.”

“Wait a minute—”

But Abra kept on talking. “You have my sympathies. Really. But I can promise you that I am not in any way involved in your family’s domestic drama.”

“You’re sure?” he persisted. “Because you look like—”

“I don’t care who I look like. I’m not her.” Now she was starting to get mad. “I’ve never met you, I’ve never met your father, and I can’t think of even one Calhoun in my acquaintance.”

“Maybe he used a different name,” he tried.

“Not under any name. It may surprise you, but I do actually know with whom I have been, um, intimate.” She leaned over far enough to grab her baseball cap out of his hand and secure it on her head, and then she reached for her coat, but he held it away. “My fiancé is thirty years old and he lives in New York. What are you, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”

He nodded.

“So even if I did think that Julian had a double life and a secret family in Chicago, which is absurd, he’s not old enough to be your father. Satisfied?”

He seemed to consider the issue, which only made her angrier.

“It’s not me!” she repeated, more forcefully this time. “And that’s far more of my personal business than you need to know.”

He didn’t say anything, just looked pensive.

“This is insulting,” she muttered. “Do I really look like the sort of person who would sleep with a married man twice her age? And have assignations on park benches? It’s so trashy!”

Now that she had worked through panic, relief and hysteria, a new emotion was starting to set in. Ever since she’d figured out she was pregnant, it had been like this, tripping from one emotional quagmire into the next.

So here she was, Abra Holloway, media star, beginning to feel a little aggravated that her gorgeous rescuer, so concerned, holding her coat, feeling her forehead, didn’t recognize the real her.

Of course, if he did recognize her, it would’ve been a disaster beyond disasters. But now that he didn’t, she was free to feel insulted.

But not insulted enough to stick around long enough for him to figure it out. Collecting herself, she snatched her coat away from him. She couldn’t bear to put it back on, but she crumpled it into her arms as she began to look around for her missing sunglasses. “Where are they? My sunglasses fell off when I started to…”

“I think you stepped on them,” Sean offered. “They’re in three pieces. Over there.”

Ah well. It was too late for sunglasses or any other disguise. Sean Calhoun had already seen way too much of her.

“Okay, well, never mind. Thank you for your help. Good luck with your, uh, situation. With your father, I mean.” Abra swept away from the tree, past Sean Calhoun, her head held high. But she couldn’t help turning back.

“What?” he asked. “What is it?”

She really shouldn’t. But she did. Quickly, she offered, “My suggestion is that you open up lines of communication within the family, maybe even go in for family counseling with both your parents. Instead of sneaking around following women you think might be the one, just ask your father if he has a girlfriend. And then take it from there. That’s my advice.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Thanks. I think,” he said after a moment. Was that a smile playing around his lips again?

“You’re, uh, welcome,” she murmured.

Nice mouth, she noted, letting her eyes linger there longer than she should’ve. Excellent mouth, actually. It wasn’t her fault that it had been way too long since she’d been kissed and she was really hungry for it. It wasn’t her fault there were enzymes running through her veins that made her think constantly about hot sex and sweat-slick skin and moist lips and clever hands and strong arms and… Other parts. Was it?

She touched her tongue to her own lip, still gazing at his. His mouth was a bit quirky where it turned up on the edges, with adorable little peaks in the center of his top lip, but with just enough softness to his bottom lip to make her think he would be a majorly good kisser.

She shook it off. Why would she think that? He might be a terrible kisser. Just because his lips looked good didn’t mean they would feel good or taste good…

Uh-oh. The idea of feeling and tasting his mouth was too overwhelming, too complicated, too altogether luscious. As she actually entertained the concept of grabbing him and kissing him just to find out, she realized she was feeling disappointed that she might never see him again and never find out if her theory about his kissable mouth was right or not.

Insanity. True insanity.

Grimly pressing her lips together, Abra did her best to damp down her crazy feelings. She spun back around and got away from there—and away from him—before she noticed anything else about him she wanted to touch or feel or taste. Yikes! Hormones were driving her around the bend.

That was her story and she was sticking to it. Blame it all on hormones. It couldn’t be that Sean Calhoun was an extraordinarily attractive man and she was feeling vulnerable and needy. Heavens, no. And certainly not that he was exuding sex appeal all over the place from his moody blue eyes and hot body, making her mouth water with the possibilities.

Nope. Just hormones.

She remembered at the last moment to scoop back across the Quad to pick up her tote bag, the scattered cracker packets, and the rumpled copy of Great Expectations: Managing Your Pregnancy that she’d ripped the cover off of. It was a miracle her things were still there. But after the day she’d had, she deserved one little miracle.

Were Sean Calhoun’s eyes still following her? How long had he been out there, watching her every move? And how could she not have noticed?

She didn’t dare look back to where she’d left him. But she could feel him there, still connected to her in some bizarre way, his gaze touching her, his thoughts wrapping around her.

Oh, yeah. Abra shivered. She could definitely feel him. But not enough. Not nearly enough.

As she paused there on the Quad, desperate to run, desperate to stay, all she could think about was all the ways she wanted to feel him. His hands and his mouth on her bare skin, her hands and her mouth on his. All of him, hard around her, tangled with her, doing terrible, wicked and exciting things.

Feel him? Oh, yeah. She could really get into that.