Читать книгу Her Forever Man - Leanne Banks - Страница 10

He was big.

With the rain falling in sheets and her cab driver honking his horn, Felicity stood on the Logans’ front porch and met the unwelcome laser-blue gaze of a tall, muscular man. It was more than height; everything about him looked overwhelmingly strong—starting with his jaw. His shoulders were broad, his large hands rested on narrow denim-clad hips that emphasized his powerful thighs and long legs. He looked like a no-nonsense, hard-nosed man who wouldn’t put up with any foolishness, let alone a down-on-her-luck woman from New York.

Thunder cracked through the air, and Felicity flinched. She’d never liked thunderstorms. She took a careful breath and tried to smile. “Hello, I’m Felicity Chambeau.” She didn’t offer her hand. He might crush it. Ridiculous thought, but it was dark, she was tired, and he was just so big.

“You’re early,” he said, his gaze falling over her.

In her damp state, Felicity felt certain she came up short in his assessment. “I—I—” She clamped her mouth shut. She might have her share of shortcomings, but stuttering because a big man was giving her a hard glance wasn’t one of them. “My attorneys contacted your attorney several times during the last few weeks. It’s such a dreary evening. I don’t want to impose. If you could just direct me to my quarters…”

“My foreman, his wife, their two kids and one-week-old baby are in your quarters.”

Felicity blinked. “Oh.”

“I could ask them to move somewhere else,” he said.

“Oh, no,” Felicity said, at a loss. “You can’t do that.”

He nodded. “You’ll stay here.”

With him? Felicity swallowed. He appeared as pleased about the prospect as she felt. “And you are Mr. Logan?”

“Brock Logan,” he said, turning his head slightly.

She saw the scar on his cheek, a bold jagged stroke about an inch long that might upset an artist, but made Felicity curious. He whistled at the cab driver and firmly pointed toward the porch. Her driver swiftly unloaded her three suitcases, hanging bag and carryon bag.

Felicity paid the driver and glanced up to catch Brock Logan staring at her luggage in dismay, then rubbing his hand over his forehead.

He took a step forward, and she instinctively stepped backward. He took another step forward which she matched in the opposite direction. He narrowed his eyes, and she took one more step. But there was no ground beneath her foot.

“Oh, no!” She fell, silently cursing the clumsiness that had dogged her every year she’d been on this earth, but strong hands stopped her from hitting her knees. Her face mere inches from the apex of his thighs, she swallowed at the nearness of his masculinity encased in worn denim. He smelled of clean musk and leather. He was unabashedly male, and Felicity was accustomed to men who cloaked their gender in gentler, more ambiguous, contemporary ways. She closed her eyes to get her bearings. Heaven help her, this was not a good start.

His hands lifted her, pulling her up, almost skimming the length of his frame. Felicity’s heart pounded with apprehension and something else she couldn’t name. His hands were firm yet gentle. There would be no bruises from his touch.

For one sliver of a second, she felt the rare impact of controlled strength in his fingers and glimpsed something even more rare in his eyes. Honor. Felicity hadn’t thought that quality existed anymore. Her stomach took another dip.

“Thank you,” she managed in a whisper.

He shrugged and released her, then, grabbing the three suitcases, he swept through the door. “This way,” he said.

She forced her feet to move, climbing a curved wooden staircase with a brass banister. She moved quickly, catching blurred impressions of the house; space, soft light, polished wood, warmth. Photographs and portraits lined the walls of the stairway, and Felicity immediately absorbed the strong sense of family tradition.

“Breakfast at 6:00 a.m.,” Brock said, “dinner at 6:00 p.m., lunch on your own. If you make a meal in the kitchen, clean up after yourself. My housekeeper’s touchy about messes she doesn’t make.”

In other words, don’t expect chocolates on the pillow, she thought, following him into a small bedroom with an antique double bed, dresser, bureau and nightstand. He flicked on the bedside lamp. “The bathroom’s down the hall.”

“Your home is lovely.” She stroked the cherry wood of the dresser. “The furniture isn’t western.”

“My ancestors were from Virginia.”

Felicity nodded. “Your wife or decorator did a marvelous job with—”

“I don’t have a wife,” he said bluntly, his eyes turning hard. “I do have two kids, though. Bree and Jacob aren’t known for being quiet, but I’ll tell them to stay out of your way. My brother Tyler is a doctor, but he’s here as often as he is in town. My sister Martina is in Chicago working for a computer company, but she can stop in at any moment. Our housekeeper’s name is Addie. She keeps things running smoothly, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t upset her.”

Felicity digested the information and nodded. “I’ll try not to get in the way,” she said.

His gaze, full of doubt, fell over her. “If you decide to go for a walk, stay away from the bull pen.” He paused a half beat. “And the men’s quarters.”

Felicity nodded and glanced around the room. Was there anywhere she could go? She smiled. “I’m glad I’ve got a window in my room.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Yeah.”

The man clearly did not have a Texas-sized sense of humor. She felt an odd flutter in her stomach at the intensity in his blue eyes.

“How long are you staying?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It depends on my lawyers’ recommendation and what I decide. I had thought the quarters would provide some needed solitude, but…” She shrugged.

He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Your lawyers’ recommendation?”

“Yes.” She thought of the mess she’d left behind in New York and felt suddenly tired. “Too complicated for this hour. Thank you for your hospitality. You’ve truly extended yourself this evening.”

He watched her for a long uncomfortable moment. “Do you have any family at all?”

Felicity felt the all-encompassing aloneness close in on her again. She stiffened herself against it. “No, but I’ll be okay,” she said. “I’m okay.” If she kept saying it, it would one day be true.

He nodded, but didn’t looked convinced. That was fine, she told herself. It was far more important that she convince herself.

She met his gaze and felt a strange undertow of recognition, as if something inside her recognized something inside him. She would almost swear she saw that same recognition in his eyes. Her heart shifted.

“Just a minute,” he said, breaking the moment and stepping into the hallway. A moment later, he returned and set bath towels and washcloths on the dresser. “If you want to take a shower, you can. The kids are asleep.”

Felicity smiled and finished his thought. “So don’t sing in the shower.”

His lips twitched almost to a grin. “Yeah.” He looked at her again, and she wondered what he saw; wondered, but wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

Restless, she clasped her hands together. “Thank you for opening your home to me at such short notice.”

He dipped his head. “Good night, Felicity Chambeau.”

“Good night, Brock Logan.”

He closed the door behind him, and she was alone again, an all-too-familiar feeling. She glanced at the bed and promised herself to sleep for twenty-four hours. She vowed not to dream about anything that would disturb her, such as a disapproving financial attorney, a cockroach former financial advisor, or a tall rancher with sexy eyes and a humor deficit.

Brock still smelled her perfume after he’d showered in the master bathroom and drunk a shot of bourbon. She wasn’t exactly what he’d pictured. With a name like Felicity, he’d expected a more frivolous-looking female. Instead, her black pantsuit had whispered over her slim curves with understated ease. Her straight blond hair was pulled back into a clip at the nape of her neck. Her makeup was minimal, and he hadn’t noticed any rocks on her fingers.

She’d looked like a woman who was deliberately playing down her attributes. He frowned, wondering why. She’d almost appeared to be grieving. That wasn’t possible, Brock thought, since her parents had died a few years ago. The sadness in her green eyes had tugged at him. It still did. The erotic sight of her parted lips inches away from him when she’d fallen stirred long-buried needs. Needs best denied, he thought, feeling too aware of how long he’d been without a woman.

Damn, he didn’t need this. He poured another bourbon. He shouldn’t have asked that last question. He’d seen the glint of pain in her gaze and her brave attempt to cover it, and in that one strange moment, he’d sensed a kindred spirit. That was impossible.

Felicity slept soundly until she heard heavy footsteps outside her door. Glancing at the clock, she winced at the afternoon hour and pulled her pillow over her head. Way too early. Not twenty-four hours. She willed herself to return to sleep.

“Sheep,” she muttered, counting fluffy white animals as they jumped over a fence. She heard more heavy footsteps and pictured Brock Logan’s boots. Following the image of his boots up his long legs and muscular thighs to the rest of his impressive physique, she moaned and kicked off the sheet. She tried to think of sheep, but they morphed into cows and reality began to sink in. She was not in Manhattan. She was on a cattle ranch.

“And why are you here?” she wryly asked herself. “Because you said you wanted to think about it when your financial advisor asked you to marry him.”

The knowledge rubbed over her like a wire brush. Unable to remain still one second longer, she tossed her pillow against the wall and rolled out of bed onto the floor. Her nightgown, hair and limbs in disarray, Felicity shook her head. She’d always had a little problem with her coordination.

“A robe,” she murmured. Shoving her hair from her face, she scrambled to her feet and opened one suitcase, then another. She rustled through the contents until her hand encountered something hard, a picture frame. Her heart caught. Her housekeeper Anna had packed the treasured last picture taken of her and her parents.

Felicity pulled out the picture and stared instead into the weasel face of her former financial advisor, who had almost been her fiancé Doug.

Standing in the upstairs hallway with his daughter Bree, Brock heard a scream followed by a thump and shattering glass. He narrowed his gaze at the guest-bedroom door. “Go on to your room, honey,” he said to Bree, nudging her down the hall.

“But something broke,” she said, wide-eyed and curious despite her low-grade fever.

“I’ll take care of it. You get to bed,” he told her.

Brock waited until Bree went into her room then slowly opened the guest-bedroom door. “Miss Chambeau?” he began, then stopped abruptly at the sight that greeted him.

Felicity stood in the middle of the bedroom floor, her hair tousled over her shoulders and her slim curves covered by a soft satin nightie that plunged low enough to hint at the shadow of her cleavage and was short enough to reveal most of her shapely legs.

All it would take to lose the nightie would be to push the tiny straps over her shoulders. He could see the outline of her nipples. He wondered if she was totally naked beneath the garment. His mouth went dry.

Impatient with his response, he forced his gaze upward to her flushed face. Her green eyes sparked with temper, but her expression held a tinge of guilt that made him curious. He glanced at the busted picture frame.

“Miss Chambeau?” he repeated.

Felicity shrugged, drawing his gaze to her breasts. She was too feminine for his system at the moment, he thought, with resentment. Locking his gaze on her eyes, he stared at her expectantly.

“It’s a picture,” she said.

“Of my former financial advisor,” she continued when he remained silent. “I—uh dropped—” She broke off. “I didn’t expect to find him in my suitcase! The dirty sleazebag left the country with my money. And it’s not the money. I have enough money, but I trusted him. I trusted him. I almost—” She broke off. “I can only hope he’ll be eaten by a giant cockroach in the South American country where he’s hiding with Chi Chi the exotic dancer and die a horrible, painful death.” She finally took a breath and visibly composed herself. “But this probably isn’t the best time to discuss it. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

Brock blinked at the change. There was obviously more to this story. More than he wanted to know, he emphasized to himself. “Don’t move. You might cut your feet. I’ll get a broom and dustpan from the linen closet.” He stepped into the hallway and shook his head in disgust. This was all he needed. A kooky rich lady with a body designed to whip every male in west Texas into a state of frenzy.

Grabbing the broom and pan, he returned to find her gingerly putting shards of glass into the wastebasket. “I told you not to move.”

She briefly met his gaze, then returned to her task. “My tantrum. My mess. My clean-up.”

Irritation burned through him. “Listen, I’ve got a sick kid, and a cow ready to drop her first calf. I don’t have time to take you into town for stitches.”

She glanced at him with her head cocked to one side. “Oh. Who is sick?”

Brock knelt down beside her and quickly swept the glass into the dustpan. He tried not to inhale her subtle feminine scent. “My daughter Bree. I just picked her up from school. Do you want the picture?” he asked, looking at the photo of a smoothly handsome man with a weak chin.

“To burn it,” she said, reaching for it.

Brock snatched it back. “Not in this room,” he said, visions of a house fire filling his head. “I’ll take care of it for you. More than friends, huh?”

“No, but I thought we were at least friends.”

The loneliness and betrayal in her voice and eyes grabbed his gut. Brock brushed the response aside. He had no time or space for this. “I need to get my daughter to bed and get back to work.”

“Thank you,” she said. “How sick is she?”

“Probably just a virus, but my pediatrician brother is in Blackstone. I keep waiting for the time I reap the benefit from his medical school tuition. My housekeeper’s off today, too. That calf’s ready to drop. You look okay, so I’ll leave,” he muttered, and headed out the door, his mind on the three hundred pressing issues facing him.

Halfway down the hall, he heard her footsteps behind him. “Excuse me,” she said.

Fighting impatience, he looked over his shoulder at her. “Yeah?”

She laced her fingers together, her prim stance at odds with her skimpy attire. “How old is your daughter?”

“Seven. Why?” he demanded, unable to keep the irritation from his voice

“I could stay with her,” she offered, “if you think that would help. I would like to help.”

Stunned, he stared at her warily. “Wearing that?”

Felicity’s cheeks bloomed with color. “No. I’ll change my clothes.” His expression must have revealed his doubt. “I can pour juice and water,” she told him. “I can read books.”

Bree would like the reading part even though she could read circles around most kids her age. For that matter, Bree might like Felicity. Brock wasn’t sure that was a good idea especially since he was hoping his silent partner would be packing her impressive rear end back to New York where it belonged as soon as possible.

“You sounded busy. If you’d rather I leave her alone…”

“No,” he said, flexing his fist in frustration. “Thank you,” he said, the words sounding grudging to his own ears.

She met his gaze, looking as surprised with herself as he was. The corners of her mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. “You’re welcome. I’ll change my clothes and be right out.”

Did he really want his daughter influenced by such a woman? Brock frowned. It was just for a few hours, he told himself. The housekeeper would be back soon. Deep in his gut, however, he had a strong feeling about Felicity Chambeau. And it wasn’t good. It would be easier if he could say his discomfort was due to something about her character, but he suspected it had more to do with his libido.

He swore under his breath and walked down the long hallway to Bree’s room. He told his daughter Felicity would stay with her and was immediately bombarded with questions.

“Where’s she from?”

“New York City,” Brock said, adjusting Bree’s pillow. “She’s no cowgirl, but she can read to you.”

“Is she old?”

“No.”

“Is she pretty?”

Brock tugged at his collar. “I’ll let you decide.”

“But what do you think?”

Thankfully, Felicity appeared outside Bree’s open door, her face scrubbed clean and her hair pulled back. She wore black jeans and a white silk shirt, but he couldn’t banish the image of her in the skimpy nightie with her hair in sexy disarray.

He inhaled and drew in her teasing elusive scent. Grinding his teeth at his susceptibility, he introduced the two females, then turned to Bree. “You know my cell phone number and my pager,” he told his daughter. “Call me if there’s any problem.”

“Cell phone, pager,” Felicity echoed. “I didn’t know there was cell coverage in Texas.”

Brock’s lips twitched, but he didn’t quite smile. “We may talk slowly, but we have a few modern conveniences like running water and cell phones. What were you expecting?”

Felicity shrugged. “A bell?” she suggested.

“We have one of those, too. The cell’s faster and doesn’t upset everyone on the ranch.” He adjusted his hat, feeling an odd twinge of discomfort at the look of curious fascination on Bree’s face. “Call me if you need me, baby.”

Brock left the room, and Felicity felt his departure like a physical force. Odd, she thought, that a man’s absence could be so strong when his presence was so imposing. Shaking off her strange sensations, she glanced at Bree and found Brock’s daughter staring back at her. Felicity felt another little twist of inadequacy. She didn’t have much experience with children. She’d offered to help Brock because she could see as a single father and head of the ranch he had too much to do, and she’d added to the list by arriving last night. If she’d told him that, however, she suspected he would have died before he would ask for help, especially from her.

Okay, she might not have much experience caring for a child, but she had experience being one. Felicity returned Brock’s daughter’s gaze. The little girl’s cheeks were slightly flushed with fever, but her blue eyes were curious and assessing.

Felicity smiled. “You have your father’s eyes.”

Bree smiled and nodded. “I’ve got his hair, too,” she said, tugging at her long ponytail, “but you can’t tell because he won’t grow his long like mine.”

“And you smile a little more often?” Felicity asked.

Bree nodded again. “Uncle Tyler is always telling Daddy to lighten up and he takes himself too seriously.” She rolled her eyes. “My brother does that, too.”

“Your brother, Jacob,” Felicity clarified, immediately liking this warm, outspoken child.

“Yes ma’am. Jacob. We’re twins.” She cocked her head to one side thoughtfully. “You talk funny.”

“It’s because I’m from New York City,” Felicity said.

“Oh, well you can’t help it that you’re not from Texas,” Bree said sympathetically. “You’ll be much happier now that you’re here.”

Felicity couldn’t help chuckling. “What makes you so sure?”

“Texas is the best place in the world to live,” Bree said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Everybody wants to live here,” she said, then her face turned thoughtful and she rubbed her fingers over her quilt, “except my mom. She moved to California because she wants to be in the movies.” She lifted her chin, another gesture that reminded Felicity of Brock. “My dad says me and Jacob are more fun than movies.”

The mixture of pride and vulnerability in Bree’s eyes scored her heart, reminding Felicity of the dozens of times her own mother had sought a more exciting party or exotic trip in lieu of spending time with Felicity. She thought again of Brock. An honorable man? She’d believed that species was extinct.

She met Bree’s proud gaze. “You and Jacob are more fun than movies? I bet your dad is right.”

“He’s the best dad in the world,” she said, again in the matter-of-fact voice and gave Felicity an assessing glance. “Aunt Martina says all he needs is a good woman to drive him crazy on a regular basis. We don’t get many women around the Triple L. You wanna do it?”

Felicity blinked. Absolutely not, she thought, but managed a smile. “What an interesting idea. I’ll have to think about it. For now, let’s read a book.”