Читать книгу Her Husband-To-Be - Leigh Michaels, Leigh Michaels - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

DANIELLE was used to waking to sunshine streaming through the wide windows of her father’s bungalow. Even on overcast days when there wasn’t enough light to rouse her, her internal alarm clock always kicked in, making sure she didn’t oversleep.

But on her first morning at the Merry Widow, nothing worked right. There was no sunshine, the Jablonskis had not only selected the darkest attic corner for their bedroom, but they’d angled the privacy wall to close out direct light from the tower windows, the only ones near enough to make a difference. And Danielle’s internal clock seemed to be on strike, as well, she felt almost hungover, as if she’d slept far too long—or not nearly long enough.

She must have fallen asleep the moment her head hit the pillow. In fact, Danielle thought wryly as she forced her eyes open, she wasn’t so sure her head had hit the pillow; all she’d been able to see in the dark room was the corner of the bed, and she’d simply flopped across it and closed her eyes. She felt stiff and lethargic as if she hadn’t moved all night Or perhaps it was still the middle of the night and she’d been jolted into consciousness long before she was ready.

Without even raising her head, she squinted hopefully at the clock on the bedside table and groaned. No such luck—it was morning all right She’d meant to be awake a couple of hours ago By now she should have been well on her way to having the Merry Widow organized. Instead.

Something was jabbing at her, poking her in the side. She tugged a book out from under her. It was a hardcover, its jacket wrapped in plastic—no doubt on loan from the local library In the dim light she could hardly make out the title, but from the design of the cover it was apparently some kind of bloody murder mystery. She wondered if it was Joe or Kate who had the interesting taste in bedtime reading.

She pushed herself up to sit on the edge of the bed. The room was the gloomiest she’d ever known. She was no psychologist, but she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the Jablonskis’ fights had something to do with waking up every morning in the dark.

“The first thing I’d do,” she muttered, “is knock some skylights into the roof.” She tossed the book over her shoulder toward the opposite side of the bed.

It landed with a thump, instantly followed by a growl that sounded to Danielle like a bear with the breath knocked out of him.

The mattress shifted under her, and from the corner of her eye Danielle saw movement to her left, almost behind her. She turned her head so quickly that a muscle in her neck felt as if it had pulled loose completely, and for a moment tears of pain blurred her vision.

“What are you trying to do, knock me unconscious?” Deke asked There was a faint rasp in his voice this morning. He sounded like warm honey on sandpaper. “And you’re on your own with the skylights. Don’t send me half of the bill.”

Shock turned Danielle’s throat as rigid as an icicle. She stared as Deke pushed pillows into a pile against the wall that served as a headboard She’d never seen him before with the shadow of stubble along his jaw, his eyes dark and still heavy with sleep. The sight sent an almost painful jolt through her, and she hastily looked away from his face, only to see that the soft blanket draping his body had slid to his waist as he leaned back against the pile of pillows, stretching his arms above his head.

Danielle watched the easy ripple of muscle in his bare chest and tried not to remember the last time she’d seen so much of Deke Oliver—at the lake that day after their visit to Miss Fischer. The visit that had seemed so innocent, so casual. The visit that had led directly to this moment.

Though she was damned if she could understand why he was here. He had a perfectly good apartment, and she’d have sworn the last thing he’d intended when they parted yesterday was to get further involved with the Merry Widow.

“All the persuasive energy I exerted trying to get you into bed went for nothing,” Deke mused. “And now, with no effort at all, here we are. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Fury melted the icicle in Danielle’s throat. “So that’s it. You saw your chance—”

“And rushed right over so I could experience the dubious pleasure of waking up beside you?” Deke said, frowning. “Hardly.”

Danielle gulped. It did sound pretty stupid, phrased that way.

“And your salacious scenario has another small problem, too,” Deke continued relentlessly. “I could hardly have planned this—exciting though it is to sit here in bed and argue with you—because I had no idea you were actually planning to move in. What are you doing here anyway?”

Danielle tried to think through the conversation they’d had yesterday. Had she said anything then about her intentions of staying at the Merry Widow? She couldn’t remember, so she went on the attack instead. “It looks to me as if you’re the one who’s taken up residence.”

“But you brought a suitcase.” Deke pointed to her luggage, where she’d dumped it at the foot of the bed. “I have only the clothes on my back. Figuratively speaking.”

With all the self-control in her command, Danielle couldn’t stop her gaze from drifting down the length of his body. The soft blanket draped intimately around him, making it obvious that the only thing he was wearing was a wristwatch.

Feeling herself grow warm, she forced her gaze away from him and her attention back to the problem. “So why are you here?”

A voice echoed up the stairwell “Hello up there’ Anybody home?”

Danielle’s eyes widened. “You’re entertaining here instead of in your own apartment? If I’d known I’d walked into a rendezvous—”

“This is not a rendezvous,” Deke said mildly. “And that is Mrs. Winslow. Otherwise known—along with her husband—as my reason for being here.” He glanced at his watch, a gold slash against his tanned skin. “And she’s looking for breakfast.”

“I don’t get it. You mean they’re guests? But there wasn’t anything in the reservations book.”

“Certain of that, are you?” Deke pushed the blanket back.

Danielle averted her eyes and tried to remember what she’d read in the reservations book. Was she certain? She could see the calendar in her mind—but it was open to the strawberry festival, not the current week. “Not absolutely,” she admitted.

“Well, you’re right. Their reservation is for today—but they arrived a full twenty-four hours early, just as I was leaving the house yesterday And since I had no idea how you planned to handle the details—whether, for instance, you intended to pass out keys so guests can come and go as they please or just leave the place standing wide open...”

Danielle flung herself against the pillows and started to chuckle. “So you’ve been held hostage overnight? Poor Deke! Serves you right for laughing at me. If you hadn’t, I’d probably still have been here when they arrived and you could have ducked out.”

The cheerful voice called again, and an instant later a head topped with frizzy gray hair popped around the end of the privacy wall. The woman’s gaze slid from Deke, who was just starting to zip his trousers, to Danielle—still sprawled across the bed—and back.

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Winslow said faintly. “No wonder you weren’t answering earlier. I do beg your pardon.” She disappeared, and footsteps retreated hastily toward the stairs.

All Danielle’s desire to laugh had abruptly evaporated.

Deke put on his shirt. “Well, since you’re here, you can take on the breakfast detail.”

“Nice try.” Danielle pushed herself up from the bed. “You could have warned me last night, you know. So, since you didn’t, make their breakfast yourself.”

“And have them sue over the cooking? Besides, I tried to warn you. I called the Willows twice last night. Once I got cut off, and the other time I was on hold till my ear was black and blue.”

“We had a lot of parties last night,” Danielle admitted. “Nobody had time to answer phones and carry notes.”

“That was apparent. Then I left a message on the machine at your father’s house, but obviously you didn’t get it.”

“I came straight here after work. And since Dad knew where I was going...”

Deke nodded. “He probably thought there was no point in calling since I said I’d wait here for you.”

Danielle pounced. “So you did expect that I’d come and you set up a booby trap for me.”

Deke turned slowly to face her. Very deliberately, he fastened the last button on his shirt, folded the cuffs back halfway to his elbows and tucked the tail neatly into the waistband of his trousers. “If by a booby trap, you mean you think I plotted some sort of seduction scene, Danielle ...”

She’d spoken without thinking, and now an almost painful flush rose from throat to forehead.

“If I’d had any such intention, I’d certainly have stayed awake for the payoff.” His voice was dry. “As it happens, I got tired of waiting and of Joe’s taste in literature, and decided to get some sleep. I didn’t even hear you come in.”

And since she hadn’t turned on a light ...

“Good thing I didn’t choose the other side of the bed,” Danielle said wryly.

“Isn’t it, though?”

Danielle stared at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Look, if you think I saw you here and climbed in just for the sheer joy of sleeping with you... I’ve met some egos in my day, Oliver, but you take the—”

“The possibility never occurred to me.”

She was relieved, though still a bit wary. “That’s something, I suppose.”

“Because if that was what you wanted, you’d have made sure I woke up.” The last of the sandpaper roughness was gone from his voice, it was pure honey now. Warm honey, which seemed to ooze through her skin and trickle into her veins... “Which makes us even, doesn’t it?”

You can’t win, she told herself. And you’re an idiot to keep trying.

She turned on her heel, circled the end of the privacy wall and descended the stairs all the way to the kitchen. She knew perfectly well Deke was right behind her, almost in perfect step, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of any further reactions.

At the bottom of the stairs, he murmured, “You wouldn’t like to walk up again, would you? I’ll bet your skirt’s even more attractive from that angle.”

She tried to ignore him; Deke was chuckling as she opened the kitchen door.

The room smelled of coffee and frying ham. At the stove, Mrs. Winslow was carefully forking thick slices of meat from a skillet onto a couple of plates. Nearby, a bald man with thick glasses was buttering toast.

Mrs. Winslow grinned over her shoulder at Danielle and Deke. “I thought—under the circumstances—that you wouldn’t mind us helping ourselves. Want some ham and eggs?”

Danielle, absolutely speechless, shook her head.

Deke said, “Sounds wonderful to me. Can I pour you some coffee, my dear?”

Mrs. Winslow gave him an approving nod. “That’s the style. Take good care of her. Hand me the basket of eggs, Bill.”