Читать книгу Playboy Bachelors: Remodelling the Bachelor - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 15

Somewhere between the time his alarm sounded and he toweled himself dry from his shower, it hit Philippe like a bullet right between the eyes.

He was looking forward to seeing J.D. Looking forward to seeing her even with the accompanying wall of noise. The realization caught him off guard. He tried not to dwell on it, tried not to attach any sort of deep meaning to it. He didn’t, by definition, dislike people and she was a person. The woman had turned out to be a decent sort, that was all. No big deal.

If it was no big deal, why did he feel compelled to convince himself of that? It should have just been a given.

Making a disgusted noise that drew into service a mangled French phrase, one of the few things he had learned from his father, he focused his mind on what was important. His work.

Philippe had forced himself up early, showering and shaving a good ninety minutes before he usually left the confines of his bed. With a stale piece of toast and marginal coffee, he sat before his computer, pondering the merit of a particular equation on his screen when he heard the doorbell.

Or thought he did.

It turned out to be a false alarm. Just his ears playing tricks on him.

There was no one at the door.

Glancing around, seeing only a jogger in the distance, Philippe experienced a smattering of disappointment. He retreated. Somehow, this was all wrong, although he couldn’t begin to untangle the reasons why. He had work to do.

Maybe he was working too hard. Rather than take his time or kick back, as was his cousin Beau’s habit, Philippe was always doggedly at his desk, working every available moment he had. Because he believed that all work and no play not only made Jack a dull boy but also helped contribute to the death of his brain cells, he had gone out of his way to institute his weekly poker game, making sure never to miss one.

But maybe that wasn’t enough. Maybe, like his mother had said to him time and again, he needed to get out of his shell. Needed to go out. With someone of the opposite gender.

Philippe frowned.

The fact that he was even thinking like this was proof that he needed to let up a little. To let go.

Right after this baby’s packed up, he promised himself.

Famous last words, he mocked. He’d thought somewhere along the same lines when he’d worked on the last program—and all he’d done was jump right into this one.

Just before he reached his office threshold, Philippe stopped abruptly. Cocking his head to the right, he listened intently.

No, this time the doorbell wasn’t his imagination. Retracing his steps back to the front door, he swung it open.

And smiled.

Kelli was clearly the one who had rung his doorbell. She was standing on her toes, stretching as far as she could, about to press her small finger to the white button again. When the door opened, she offered him a smile that he imagined angels looked to as a standard by which to measure their own smiles.

“I’m here,” she announced brightly.

He exchanged looks with J.D. who was standing beside her. A man in jeans and a T-shirt was behind them. His wheat-colored hair and fair complexion fairly shouted that he was related to both.

“So I see,” Philippe said, turning his attention back to Kelli. He hadn’t really intended to take the girl’s hand, but Kelli had other ideas. She slipped her small hand into his and then tugged him back into his house.

“I brought stuff to do,” she informed him. “So I won’t get in your way.”

How could someone so young sound so adult? He nodded in response. “Very thoughtful of you.”

She beamed. Then suddenly, as if she’d forgotten her manners, she turned around to look at the man behind her. “This is my Uncle Gordon. Mama says you want your house done faster.” A little pint-sized feminine pride slipped into her narrative. “Uncle Gordon is fast, but not as fast as Mama.”

Philippe caught himself wondering just how fast Mama was. Reining in his thoughts, he slanted a glance toward J.D.

Damn, but worn T-shirts never looked so good to him before. “I’ll bet,” he acknowledged.

Something in his tone had Janice struggling to tamp down a wave of warmth. She raised her chin a little, not certain if she should be defensive or not.

But she could be polite. She nodded at her daughter, her eyes on Philippe’s. “Thanks for letting me do this.”

“No problem.” He glanced at the man standing behind the little stick of dynamite who still had his hand. “I’m Philippe Zabelle.” He extended his other hand to Kelli’s uncle. “Nice to meet you.”

Gordon was nothing if not friendly. Grinning broadly, he shook the hand that was offered to him. “Yeah, likewise.” Walking toward the kitchen, he looked around as he passed. “Nice place you have here.”

Philippe’s laugh was dismissive. “For a bomb shelter.”

Gordon turned around. “No, I mean it. You’ve got a really great exterior.” He jerked his thumb toward the front of the house. “It gives the place a ritzy look.”

Philippe supposed so, but that had never been the draw for him. The fact that he and his brothers could all lead separate lives but still be in close proximity to one another was what had sold him on the house.

That, and that the fact that the outside was painted Wedgwood blue with white trim. Most of the other houses in the immediate vicinity were painted either in shades of rust or in some drab, strange color never to be found in nature. Blue had always been his favorite color.

The clock was ticking, Janice thought. Both for her and, probably more importantly, for Philippe. She broke up the impromptu meeting.

“C’mon, Kel, let’s get you settled in,” she said, taking the little girl’s free hand. In her other hand, Janice was carrying a large portfolio filled with several drawings and a painting that Kelli was currently working on. Pausing, she eyed Philippe hesitantly. “It is all right that we use your dining room table, isn’t it?” she asked, quickly adding, “I brought this tablecloth so that it doesn’t accidentally get dirty.”

“Actually,” Philippe cut in, “I’ve got a much better idea.”

Kelli watched him eagerly, a kernel of corn about to pop. Janice, hearing the same sentence, felt very protective of Kelli’s feelings. She didn’t want anything to diminish the girl’s zest. “Such as?”

He led the way to an alcove just off the living room. Yesterday, there had been a refrigerator shoved into the space. He’d moved it last night to the already overflowing family room. He had something different in mind for the space.

“I thought Kelli might like to use something else instead of just a flat surface.” Walking past the living room, he gestured over to the alcove. It was empty now—except for the small easel that stood in the center.

Kelli’s eyes became huge. “Look, Mama, it’s kid size,” she exclaimed, running over to it. She touched the easel reverently, as if afraid it would disappear once her fingers came in contact with it. And then she looked at him over her shoulder, joy tinged with a hint of hesitation. “This is for me?”

He came up to join her. It had taken him several hours to hunt this up. “This used to be mine,” he told her. “But it’s a little too small for me now and it’s been rather sad, sitting all alone in storage. So I’d take it as a personal favor if you used it.”

Excited, the girl shifted from foot to foot as if about to break into an impromptu game of hopscotch. “Where’s your new one?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t have one.”

“You don’t paint anymore?” Surprise was imprinted on every inch of the small heart-shaped face.

It was a long story, built on rebellion and not one to tell a child, even a child as stunningly intelligent as Kelli. The easel had never really been put to use and he was surprised he’d saved it. But to keep things simple, he merely said, “No.”

Surprise was replaced with sympathy. It was obvious Kelli felt that everyone should experience the joy of painting. Reclaiming her hand from her mother, she patted his. “Bet you could ask your mom to get you one and to give you lessons,” she told him.

It was an effort to retain a straight face. She was darling as well as intelligent and gifted. “She’s a very busy lady.”

Kelli nodded slowly, absorbing the excuse and its ramifications. And then suddenly, her head bobbed up, her eyes shining as she looked at him. “I could teach you.” Saying it out loud reinforced her enthusiasm and she clapped her hands together. “I could. It’d be fun.”

He thought of all the years in his past that he’d actively turned down every attempt his mother made to mate him with a paintbrush and a canvas. He had staunchly refused to enter her world, wanting one of his own to colonize and leave his mark on.

But with this small, eager little face looking up at him, all that melted away. “Maybe it would be,” he allowed. “I’ll see if I can find another easel for tomorrow.”

Kelli’s smile grew even wider. “Good.”

God, she sounded more adult that half the people he knew, Philippe thought, completely charmed. He noted that J.D. had placed all of her daughter’s jars of paint along the easel’s edge and mounted the painting against it.

“Call if you need me,” she instructed Kelli, then stepped away from the child. The slanted glance that came his way indicated that she wanted him to follow. When he did, she asked, “How much do I owe you?”

He’d followed her literally, but now she’d lost him. “For what?”

Her voice low, she was all but whispering. “The easel.”

What kind of a person did she think he was, pretending to give a child a gift only to have her mother pay for it under the table? Maybe she was used to strings being attached to things. So he set her straight. “What I told your daughter was true. That used to be my easel. There is no charge,” he informed her firmly.

She wasn’t comfortable about this, didn’t want him getting the wrong idea even though instinctively, part of her did like him for the gesture. Maybe that was the part that scared her. More than a little. “I know, but—”

“Just consider it a gift from me to Kelli.” His eyes met hers. He saw the wariness. “No strings attached.”

She took a breath, wondering if she was making a mistake, believing him. She had to work at keeping their relationship strictly professional.

Good luck with that, a voice in her head mocked. She’d already brought him food yesterday and brought her daughter along to work today. Not exactly proceeding according to strict professional guidelines here, are we, J.D?

She forced a smile to her lips, trying to quell the nervous feeling in her stomach. “That was a very nice thing you did.”

“I like seeing her smile,” Philippe told her honestly. He watched her mouth curve and could have sworn something tightened inside of him. “You have the same smile,” he observed.

Urges began to form, swarming over him out of nowhere. Or maybe, out of a somewhere he had no business visiting. Because something told him that J. D. Wyatt wasn’t just a casual date. J.D. was the kind of woman you made plans with. Solid plans. And there was nothing in his world to suggest he had a solid plan. Look at the examples he had to follow, the parents he’d had. The norm when he was growing up was here today, gone tomorrow.

He shoved his hands into his back pockets, curbing the very strong desire to touch her face, to trace his fingers along the curve of her mouth and commit it to memory.

Damn, where was this coming from?

He cleared his throat. “I guess I’d better get back to work.”

“Yeah.” The words tasted like powdered spackle. “Me, too,” she murmured.

Gordon reentered the room, bringing along his own set of long neglected tools. He glanced from his sister to Philippe, then watched as the latter left the room. Setting the toolbox down, Gordon crossed over to his sister. “Something going on between you two?” he asked mildly, in the same tone he might have used if he was asking about that day’s temperature projection.

The question startled Janice, throwing cold water on what might have been a moment’s worth of revelry. Groundless revelry, she insisted. Trust Gordon to be blunt.

“No.” She went into the kitchen. “What makes you think that?”

He laughed dryly. “Looked like a lot of chemistry and heat flashing back and forth from where I was standing.”

She looked down at his shoes. “Must be some loose wiring running under your feet,” she decided innocently. “Maybe you’d better examine it later just to be safe. Wouldn’t want this place going up, especially after all the work we’re going to put into it.”

“Guy doesn’t give a woman’s little girl an easel because there’s loose wiring in the floor,” he observed.

Janice sighed, refusing to entertain the thought of what Gordon was suggesting. Philippe was her client. If he liked the job she did for him, she had no doubt he would refer other people to her. There was nothing more to their relationship. Besides, she was not about to get involved with anyone. She’d never been able to get through to her father, never had that magical moment she’d waited for where he saw how much she loved him, how much she wanted him to be proud of her. And as for her husband, well that had never had a chance to go anywhere, so she would never know. She had been a wife and a widow within six months. That had had its own set of pain attached. She didn’t need to seek out more.

Besides, she had enough to keep her busy. She had Kelli and her work. There wasn’t space for more than that, certainly not for another pass at having her heart broken.

“Make yourself useful, Gordon.”

He grinned at her. “I thought I already was, since you can’t seem to see the forest for the trees—” He scratched his head. “Or is it the trees for the forest? I always get that confused.”

That wasn’t the only thing he got confused, she thought. “It’s the floor for the debris,” she declared, pointing to the very large pile of splintered wood veneer and plasterboard, the end results of her swinging her sledgehammer at the kitchen cabinets yesterday. Philippe had sent her home before she’d had a chance to remove the debris. “Clean it up.”

He could have taken exception to her tone. Once, when his father’s company had been his, he’d been her boss. And even when they’d worked with their father, he had supposedly always been the one in charge. It was only after the company went bankrupt and Janice began getting jobs on her own and throwing some of the business his way that she started issuing orders.

Gordon saluted her, his expression suddenly somber. “I’m on it.”

“Good to know,” she murmured. She didn’t want to repay Philippe’s kindness by appearing to take advantage of him.

Stooping down, she filled her arms with splintered plasterboard and got started.

He wasn’t in his office.

Janice glanced at her watch to check the time. It was close to eleven and she’d assumed that he’d be busy at his work. She’d deliberately gone out of her way to pass his office to talk to him.

Can’t talk to an empty chair.

Had he gone out and she’d missed hearing him leave? She’d begun work on gutting the downstairs powder room and wanted to have all her ducks in a row. Or at least swimming in the right direction.

She’d brought a color chart so that Philippe could decide what color he wanted her to paint the walls.

Shrugging, she tucked the chart under her arm and went back out again. It was getting close to lunchtime anyway. She might as well collect Kelli and her brother and get something to eat. Because this was their first day on a job together, she thought she’d take them both out to celebrate the occasion instead of just bringing lunch from home.

Janice moved around the corner. She didn’t have to look to know that Kelli would be completely captivated with her work. Painting always summoned this font of joy from within her, even when it wasn’t going well. With her sunny disposition, Kelli always managed to see the bright side of everything.

“Kelli, honey,” she called out, “we’re going to break for lunch. Would you like to be the one to pick the restaurant?”

It always made her daughter feel so grown up when she could choose where they would all go to eat. And then she laughed to herself. Before she knew it, Kelli would be an adult. God knew the little girl was growing up much too fast, doing ten years for every candle she blew out.

When she received no response, Janice quickened her pace and made her way through the dining room toward the alcove. The moment she came near the threshold, she could feel her heart thudding in her chest.

Could, unaccountably, feel a sting in her eyes.

Allergies, she told herself.

Philippe was standing behind Kelli, guiding her hand, giving her instructions in a low, patient voice. It was a father-daughter scene worthy of a holiday card.

Except that they weren’t a father and daughter.

So what? she demanded silently. Her own father had never been that patient on the rare occasions he explained something to her. Most of the time, he’d waved her back with that trite, archaic sentiment that “girls don’t need to know that.” She’d learned her trade by watching, by sneaking behind her father’s back to observe him in action.

Never once had he put a hammer or a screwdriver into her hand and shown her how to use it. No tips or secrets were passed to her the way they had been to Gordon. Except that Gordon wanted no part of it. He remained, pretending to listen, because he was afraid not to. But his mind was always preoccupied with the current flavor of the month he was squiring. He’d been there in body, but not in spirit.

She would have killed for a moment like this in her own life. And Kelli was obviously lapping it all up, she thought, watching the way her daughter beamed up at Philippe.

Greeting-card moment or not, she had to break this up. “Kel, we’re going out to lunch.”

But Kelli was completely focused on the images she was creating on the canvas and the technique Philippe was showing her. “In a minute, Mama.”

She knew better than to let herself be ignored. “Now, honey.”

Philippe removed his hand from Kelli’s and stepped back. “You’d better listen to your mother, Kelli.”

The resigned sigh was filled with disappointment. Kelli retired her brush. “Okay.” And then she looked at her mother hopefully. “Can Philippe come, too?”

She had to nip this in the bud, too. “His name is Mr. Zabelle, Kelli,” she reminded her daughter. “And I’m sure Mr. Zabelle has better things to do than come to eat with us.”

He was about to take the excuse she tendered. He’d already spent way too much time not doing his work. So no one was more surprised than he was to hear himself say, “Actually, I don’t.” He was looking at J.D. rather than the little girl. “Unless of course, you’d rather I didn’t come along.”

Her mouth felt like she’d been snacking on sandpaper since morning. Janice knew she should be blunt and say something about lunch being a family affair. The truth was she didn’t want him around her because he made her uncomfortable—but he only made her uncomfortable because she wanted to be around him. It was a conundrum, as her father had been fond of saying.

The simplest way to avoid all that, to avoid any explanations that would probably result in her turning redder than the color of the shoes that Kelli had insisted on wearing this morning, was to say, “No, by all means, the more the merrier. Of course you can join us for lunch.”

So, she did.