Читать книгу The Third Kiss - Leanna Wilson - Страница 10

“Do you ever think how much easier life would be if you could find Prince Charming?” Peggy mused, scuffing the sole of her boot on the sidewalk.

“No,” Brooke Watson answered without hesitation. “But I could use a fairy godmother and a little of her magic.” Not to look for a husband, but to find a miracle for one of her troubled young clients. Men, she’d decided many years ago, only complicated her life.

She’d seen too many dysfunctional marriages during her tenure as a child psychologist. Not to mention her own mother’s penchant for collecting husbands the way her young clients collected and traded Pokémon cards.

“I could use some magic to pay off my credit card bills. Ohh, look! Another sale!” Peggy passed a streetlamp and steered Brooke toward Cutter’s Western Wear.

It was the oldest department store in San Antonio, situated along the winding, scenic River Walk. The Cutter family history went all the way back to the Alamo. They graced both the business and society sections of the paper weekly. At least the handsome heir and CEO did. What was his name? Brooke couldn’t recall, nor did she want to remember. She had no use for spoiled rich men. She had better things to do with her time.

“Last stop,” she said, following her friend through the door shaped like a chuck wagon’s tailgate. “Then I need to get back home.”

“And work?” Peggy complained.

It wasn’t just work. She was committed to helping the children placed in her care.

A woman sped past her, knocking into her with a sharp elbow. Brooke shook her head with consternation. Must be some sale, Brooke thought to herself.

Peggy looked over her shoulder, “Maybe you can find some new jeans.”

“What’s wrong with mine?” Brooke asked, glancing down at her faded Wrangler jeans. Some of her patients didn’t even have clothes to call their own. “Took me a few years just to break these in.”

Brooke walked beneath a banner, and a storm of commotion erupted around her. Sirens wailed. A mariachi band kicked into high gear, the trumpets blaring, a drum’s rhythm vibrating in her ears. A band? What the heck was happening?

Brooke faltered but kept moving forward with the surging crowd behind her. A chorus of cheers erupted from the customers packing into the store like sardines. Clapping thundered in her ears, echoing the beat of her heart. She glanced around and noticed vibrant red and yellow balloons clustered together. A wave of balloons tumbled over her with ribbons and tiny bits of paper twirling in the air conditioner’s breeze. Bright crepe paper decorations were strung along the windows and across the ceiling. She blinked against the waterfall of confetti.

What was this, a party? A surprise party? Had the guest of honor arrived behind her? Must be someone famous. Maybe even the head of Cutter Enterprises.

Turning, Brooke searched the crowd but saw no one she recognized. But then, she didn’t keep track of celebrities. Deciding it was time to go home, she searched for Peggy.

Her friend stood a few feet in front of her. She’d dropped her packages at her feet. Her features brightened with surprise and delight. “You did it. You’re the one, Brooke!”

“Did what?” Had she set off some weird shoplifting alarm? She wasn’t carrying any merchandise. Heck, she hadn’t even made it to the rows of boots, Stetsons and jeans. “What’d I do?”

Like the Red Sea parting, the wall of people in front of Brooke opened up. A tall man, wearing a black Stetson that shaded his deep-set, midnight-blue eyes, stepped forward. Instantly she recognized the famous Cutter.

She’d seen his picture prominently displayed on television and in the papers ever since he’d taken over his family’s company. He was the Cutter family’s pride and CEO, San Antonio’s Prince Charming, every woman’s fantasy.

Every woman except her.

She had to admit he was even sexier and more virile in person than any of the photos she’d ever seen. An energy seemed to radiate off him like heat shimmers off asphalt. He drew everyone’s attention, including Brooke’s.

Then Brooke noticed that his penetrating, unnerving gaze was aimed at her. He moved toward her, gave her a knock-your-boots-off smile, doffed his cowboy hat, revealing thick, wavy black hair, and held out his hand. To her!

“Welcome to Cutter’s.” His voice sounded as deep and rich as his wealthy pockets. “I’m Matt Cutter.”

Numbed by the shrill music and chaos, her brain clicked into autopilot. She shook his hand. But there was nothing mechanical or common about his warm palm pressed against hers, the strength in his fingers engulfing her hand or the electric shock that jarred her out of her trance.

Every nerve ending in her body vibrated. Her senses sharpened, blocking out the confusion and noise around her. Confident and bold, he took center stage, similar to the way he’d taken over his family’s company a few years back. His gaze was as intense and focused as a spotlight.

Brooke’s pulse skittered crazily in response. She noticed the way his Western shirt and jeans accented his broad shoulders, trim torso, slim hips and long, well-muscled legs. For an instant her brain registered that his starched jeans were slightly faded and the seam along his fly frayed. Awareness, red-hot and shocking, rocked through her.

Giving herself a mental shake, she blinked and withdrew her hand. Brooke cloaked herself in a professional demeanor, the one she used when a client shocked her with some intimate or appalling fact.

“Do you welcome all your customers with this much fanfare?” she asked, her voice lifting above the racket from the band and crowd.

His eyes brightened with humor, making them magnetic, and the corners crinkled. He grinned, throwing her off balance again. She had to get her reaction to him under control. What was wrong with her? Maybe the heat of the summer day had gotten to her. Or maybe it was the noise surrounding them, crowding her.

“Not usually,” he said. His words were laced with laughter, making his voice rich, vibrant, irresistible. “But we’ve made an exception. Just for you.”

The way his voice dropped, emphasizing the last word, made the statement intimate and caused her stomach to dip crazily. She could almost believe him, almost imagine him waiting for her. Just her.

You’ve lost it, Brooke. Really lost it!

She shook loose the strange effect he had on her and held her hand against her jumpy stomach. He was resistible. Just like every man she’d ever met. Prince Charming was a fairy tale, a feminine fantasy created to compensate for the helplessness women often felt. Well, she was not powerless.

Besides, Prince Charming had never worn a Stetson.

“You’re our one millionth customer,” he said, his eyes glittering as flashes of cameras went off around them like fireworks. “Congratulations.”

“But I didn’t buy anything.” She protested, wishing her fairy godmother would suddenly appear, wave her magic wand and make her vanish into thin air. The sudden attention made her squirm inside. Or maybe the odd sensation was Matt Cutter’s fault. No, she wouldn’t accept that possibility.

“You didn’t have to purchase anything. You’re the millionth customer to visit our original store.”

Her face burned with the same self-consciousness she’d experienced as a teen when her mother had forced her to attend all those debutante balls. She’d resisted, rebelled against the spectacle. She much preferred her quiet, uncomplicated life to this chaos.

The crowd seemed to be staring right at her. Or envying her, she thought, as she noticed women jostling each other to get a closer look at the CEO of Cutter Enterprises. She tried to ignore her own reaction to his charismatic eyes and chiseled features.

“But customer,” she argued, “implies I bought something. I didn’t intend to—”

He closed the gap between them and cut off her remark. “You didn’t have to.”

His nearness frayed her carefully controlled nerves. “Why don’t you pick someone else?”

Hands shot into the air, vying for Matt’s attention. Brooke’s ears rang as the women surrounding them called out to Matt, “Pick me! Me! Me!”

Matt shook his head. “You’re the one.”

“I don’t want to be the one.” His one. Anyone’s one!

“Neither of us has a choice.” His gaze sharpened, and she had a keen sense that he would have liked to have chosen someone else. Anyone else. She wasn’t headline material. She wasn’t the type of woman to grace covers of magazines. She was ordinary…plain. And difficult.

Peggy jostled her arm. “Your mother is going to flip!”

Brooke shuddered to think of her mother’s reaction. “The only thing that would make my mother happy is if I showed up with a husband. You’re not selling any of those, are you, Matt Cutter?”

“Maybe she’ll be impressed with a few other prizes,” Matt said, looping her arm through his. When he tucked her close to his side she felt as hot as a Texas heat wave.

Pressed against his well-honed frame, Brooke heard alarms go off in her head. He made her feel weak, fragile and incredibly feminine. She bucked against that assessment. But she couldn’t move away from him, no matter how much she wanted to. He held her firmly against his side.

“Don’t argue,” he whispered, his voice compelling. He gave a smiling nod toward the cameras while moving her toward a platform and up the steps. “You’re the winner.”

But she didn’t want to win. She didn’t need anything. Not when so many others needed so much more. Faces of children she’d worked with through the years filed through her mind.

“Come on.” He allowed no other arguments. He faced the audience and kept his hand on her arm as if she might bolt at any second. And she might have. If he’d given her the chance.

Irritation nettled her. She decided in that instant that Matt Cutter might be handsome, even sexy, but he was arrogant, domineering and overbearing.

“Good afternoon!” He spoke into a microphone, his voice resounding through the store and reverberating through her entire body. “Cutter’s Western Wear is proud to announce we have now welcomed our one millionth customer.”

Another cheer went up, and more flashes went off in front of Brooke’s eyes, making her see spots.

“Tell us your name, Miss…” His focus, as well as the crowd’s, shifted toward her.

She considered giving another name. Maybe even Peggy’s. She couldn’t imagine how this would look to her clients. Their psychologist making the headlines. But if nothing else she was honest, and so she spoke into the microphone. “Brooke,” she said, “Brooke Watson.”

“Well, Brooke,” Matt Cutter said, slipping his arm around her waist, holding her close, making her skin tingle, “today is your lucky day.”

Brooke wondered then if maybe she did have a fairy godmother, who’d gone overboard with the magic.

Matt Cutter had never met a more exasperating woman!

He admitted Brooke Watson had warm-brown eyes and a body that could make any red-blooded American male break out in a hormone-overloaded sweat. But what kind of woman resisted all he had to offer…er, all his store had to offer? He’d expected the millionth customer to gush, blush, maybe even throw herself at him. But he hadn’t expected this woman’s chilly reluctance and stubborn resistance.

He sure hadn’t expected to be attracted to her, either.

“I really can’t accept this,” Brooke repeated, stepping back from the microphone and him.

He frowned. Maybe she hadn’t understood. “It’s a lifetime supply of jeans.”

“I don’t need any jeans. I like the ones I have.”

He admitted her jeans looked sexy, the way they hugged her like an intimate embrace, caressing every feminine curve she had. His appreciative gaze swept over the tall, willowy brunette. “Those won’t last forever.”

She shrugged. “They’ll last longer than some things.”

What the hell did she mean by that?

“Look,” she offered, “if you have to give away a lifetime supply of jeans, then I’ll choose who they go to.”

She scanned the crowd. Everyone went berserk, screaming and hollering, waving and jumping, trying to get Brooke’s attention. Then she smiled, really smiled, for the first time since he’d met her. And it gave his stomach a strange sensation.

“The lifetime supply of jeans goes to—” she grinned while he gritted his teeth “—this woman in front. Peggy Simmons.”

The redhead raised her arms like Rocky, after winning the championship fight, and turned in a tight circle.

Now what was he going to do? Brooke gave away prizes as if she was cleaning out her closet of the past year’s clothes. What was wrong with her? What woman didn’t want clothes? Maybe she simply didn’t wear jeans often enough to justify a lifetime supply. Fine. But she wouldn’t be able to resist the next prize.

“That was very generous of you,” he said into the mike, well aware of the cameras aimed at him and of the wall of reporters taping every word. Maybe the circus atmosphere Brooke had generated would create bigger headlines. Definitely a plus for Cutter’s. “Now, for this next gift you’ll have to sit here.”

“But I don’t—”

“Sit.” He barked the command as if to his black Lab, Dodger, and jerked the microphone behind his back.

Brooke snapped her mouth closed and glared at him.

Maybe that wasn’t the right approach for this woman. He touched her arm gently, even though he wanted to grab her. This woman brought out a Neanderthal side of him. “Look, it won’t take long. I won’t hurt you,” he said softly so only she could hear. “Promise.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

He ground his teeth and edged closer to her, challenging her, daring her not to step back toward the chair. In spite of her height, she still didn’t meet his chin and had to crane her neck to glower at him. “That’s right, Miss Watson. Right over there.”

“Doctor. It’s Dr. Watson,” she corrected him in a clipped tone that set his nerves on edge.

A doctor, eh? He could see that. He could see a lot of things in this woman, some of which he didn’t particularly like. But he saw many things he did appreciate, like the deep-rose of her lips, the way the tip of her nose tilted up, the challenge in her toffee-colored eyes. He especially liked the way she didn’t back down. She stood her ground, never retreating, like so many women he’d known who would have bent over backward to please him. Maybe that’s what attracted him. But that was absurd! Because this spitfire of a woman annoyed the hell out of him.

She stood toe-to-toe with him. Actually, her breasts brushed against his chest and tied his insides into knots. Trying to ignore the way she affected him, he pushed on. She gave an inch, then another. They inched their way across the platform until she backed into the chair and plopped into the seat with a thud.

“Perfect.” He took a deeper breath, now that he couldn’t feel her against him or imagine what she’d be like wrapped within his embrace. But he couldn’t let her escape. Not until he’d finished with her. Finished giving her all she deserved. All the presents for being the millionth customer, that is. Keeping his hand on her arm, he glanced over his shoulder for his assistant to bring the next gift.

“This is a coveted prize, Dr. Watson,” he said, giving her a subtle warning that he wouldn’t tolerate her giving this one away. Lifting the mike, he announced, “The next prize for our valued millionth customer is a pair of custom boots made exclusively here at Cutter’s!”

A satisfactory ah-h-h went through the crowd. Feeling confident, he knelt beside her chair, gave her a wink and pulled Brooke’s tennis shoe off. He tossed it over his shoulder, and it landed with a dull thud on the platform.

“Hey! Give me back my shoe.” She reached for it, and he grabbed her hand.

It was a battle of wills that he hadn’t played with a woman in a long time. If ever. And he was determined to win.

“I’m going to give you something better than that old tennis shoe.” He placed the mike on the floor behind him so their voices wouldn’t carry. Then he trapped her foot against his thigh.

Her eyes widened. His insides burned. A staggering heat seemed to fuse them together. Or maybe it was his imagination. Maybe it was the flashes from the cameras. Maybe the crowd was pressing too close.

Touching Brooke was definitely a mistake.

Her toes curled in protest and made his skin tighten with need. Blood pumped hot and fierce through him. What was she doing to him?

“I like my tennis shoe,” she said through gritted teeth. “Let go of my foot.”

“I’m only going to measure it.”

“Measure someone else’s. Let me choose another—”

“No.” His temper snapped.

Why couldn’t someone else have been the millionth customer? She tried to pull her foot away, but he held firm. Until she winced. Guilt shot through him. Quickly he closed both hands over her foot and soothed the place he’d injured. He kneaded her instep. Beneath the thick sports sock, he felt her fine bones, her warmth. Slowly she relaxed. The center of her eyes dilated with awareness. Keep your hands to yourself, Cutter!

“I’m sorry.” He forced himself to quit massaging her foot and get through with this procedure. “Now be still. This will only take a minute.”

Her shoulders stiffened at his instructions. He slid the foot-measuring plate between her foot and his thigh. The cold metal chilled his overactive libido.

“A perfect six,” he said, “but very narrow.” Then he measured the length from her ankle to her knee, sliding the measuring tape along the curve of her calf. He felt her tremble. She tried to pull away from him, but he held firm. “Your boots will be ready in six weeks, Miss…Doctor. What color would you like? White to go with your doctor coat?”

“I’m not that kind of doc.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A professor then?”

“A psychologist.”

Definite trouble. “How about black for troubled souls?”

“Or for your black eye if you don’t let go of my foot.”

She was one feisty filly. He laughed, taking more pleasure in the anger sparking in her eyes. Abruptly he released her foot and stood.

Though he dreaded bringing out the grand prize, he had no choice. Everything had all been staged, and it was too late to turn the tide. Seeing it move toward them like a float in the Rose Parade, he reached for the microphone.

“Now, ladies and gentleman and doctors, too.” His eyes darted toward Brooke. She was reaching for her wayward tennis shoe. “Here’s the grand prize.” Matt reached into his pocket for the keys. “Your very own convertible!”

The crowd went wild as the tiny roadster was wheeled to the front of the platform. Brooke dropped her shoe, her mouth gaping before she recovered, her gaze slicing toward Matt for confirmation.

“You don’t want that!” someone yelled. “Give it to me!”

“How ’bout me, honey?” a man from the back hollered. “I could sure use a date magnet like that.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed with irritation. He took Brooke’s hand and closed her fingers around the keys. “The car is yours. Understand?”

She locked gazes with him. He felt an electric shock right in the middle of his chest, as if she’d zapped him with a cattle prod.

“Could I have a van instead?” she asked.

Her question stunned him. Now, after all this time, she was going to get greedy? “What?”

“A van. You know with sliding doors on both sides.”

He knew he would regret asking, but he couldn’t stop himself, “Why?”

This time, she leaned toward the microphone. “I’m going to donate this car…well, van…to an orphanage here in town.”

The crowd fell silent. It felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room and every greedy hand waver chastised.

“An orphanage?” Matt repeated.

She nodded. “They really need a vehicle to transport the children for doctor appointments and special events. So if you don’t mind…?”

She pushed the keys back toward him, putting the ball in his court. How could he say no?

Slowly light applause trickled through the crowd, and Matt’s attitude toward Brooke suddenly changed. An orphanage. How many people would do something like that? Not many. He gave her a nod of approval.

“Cutter’s would be glad to trade this car in for a vehicle that will help the orphanage.”

Finally Brooke gave him a smile that melted the cynicism surrounding his heart. This woman amazed, confounded and confused him. And that spelled trouble.

“What else do I get?” Brooke asked. Luckily her voice didn’t carry to the mike.

What else? Maybe he’d been wrong about her. Maybe he’d wanted to believe there was someone out there who wasn’t interested in money or what he could give them.

“What more do you want?” he asked.

“Isn’t there a sign over in the window saying something about a million pennies?”

He’d forgotten. This woman distracted him, jumbled his thoughts, discombobulated him. “Are you going to keep this one?”

She lifted her chin with a challenge. “Why don’t you find out?”