Читать книгу An Officer and a Millionaire / Mr Strictly Business: An Officer and a Millionaire / Mr Strictly Business - Day Leclaire, Maureen Child - Страница 12

“Nonsense,” Simon said. “There’s no reason for you to leave, and I won’t accept your resignation.”

Margie sighed. She’d known that telling Simon she’d be leaving at the end of the month wouldn’t be easy. But after spending several hours in Springville with Hunter, she’d realized that she’d never be able to stay once her “marriage” was over. How could she?

Once Hunter left, every time she went into town, she’d have to see pity on the faces of her friends. They’d talk about her and speculate about what had gone wrong in her “wonderful” marriage.

She just couldn’t stand the thought of it. This place had been a refuge for her. A place where she’d found friends and a sense of belonging she’d never known before. She didn’t want any of that to change. So to protect herself and her memories of this place, she had no choice but to leave.

“You have to accept it, Simon.” Margie shook her head sadly.“ I’ll be leaving at the end of the month. I have to.”

“No, you don’t,” the old man said, lips pinched as if he’d bitten into a lemon. “Hunter’s not an idiot, you know. He’ll open his eyes. See you for who you are. Everything’s going to work out fine. You’ll see.”

If a part of her wished he were right, she wouldn’t admit to it. Because her rational mind just couldn’t believe it. She and Hunter hadn’t exactly gotten off to a smooth start. “Simon, he thinks I’m a gold digger.”

The old man barked out one short laugh. “He’ll get past that fast enough. I told him I had to force the money on you.”

“About that,” she said, wincing inwardly. Margie had never wanted the five million dollars, but Simon had been adamant about her accepting it. All she’d ever wanted was an honest job and to be able to support herself.

She hadn’t married Hunter for the money. She’d done it for Simon. And, she admitted silently, because she’d liked the idea of being married. Of being wanted.

Stupid, Margie, really stupid.

She should have known that she had been walking into a huge mistake.

“Don’t you worry about my grandson, you hear me?” Simon said, pushing up from the chair behind his desk. He walked slowly toward her, linked his arm through hers and headed toward the door. “I’ve known Hunter all his life, and I’m sure he’s going to do the right thing.”

“According to him, the right thing is to have me arrested.”

He laughed again and patted her arm. “Just trust me, Margie,” he told her, ushering her into the hallway. “Everything’s going to work out.”

“Simon—”

“Not another word, now,” he admonished, holding up one hand to still anything else she might have to say. “You just be yourself and let me worry about Hunter.”

Then he closed the study door, shutting Margie out and leaving her to wonder if he’d even heard a word she’d said. Probably not. She’d learned in the two years she’d worked for Simon that his head could be every bit as thick and stubborn as his grandson’s seemed to be.

For the next few days, Hunter suffered through oceans of gratitude. Stoically, silently, he accepted the thanks from people he’d known his whole life for things he hadn’t done.

Margie had been right, he knew. The people in Springville did need to know that their jobs, their lives, were safe. And around here, that meant having the Cabot family take an interest. Be involved.

And his “wife” was the Queen of Involved. She was on a half dozen committees, spent some of her day with Simon, taking care of business matters, and then what time she had left, she devoted to being the Lady of the Manor.

Hell. Hunter rubbed one hand across his face and told himself to knock it off. Yes, he resented all of the time and effort she was putting into Springville, but this was mainly because he still hadn’t figured out why she was doing it. And why was she giving him so much credit for everything she’d done? What the hell did she care if people in town hated or loved him? What did it matter to her if the Little League field had been replanted and new dugouts constructed for the kids who would play there this summer?

Why was she so damn determined to carve a place for herself in this little town? And why was she dragging him along with her?

It’s not about what you want, Hunter. It’s about what they need.

Those words of Margie’s kept repeating in his mind, and he didn’t much care for it. He’d never thought about the town and his attachment to it in those terms, and a part of him was ashamed to admit it, even to himself.

“But damn it, I don’t need a teacher. Don’t need this woman who’s not even my wife making me look good to a town I don’t even live in anymore.” He shook his head, glared out at the wide sweep of flowers spread out in front of him and muttered, “I didn’t ask her to do it, did I? I didn’t ask to be the damn town hero.”

“You talking to yourself again, Hunter?”

His head snapped up, and his gaze locked on the estate gardener watching Hunter from behind a low bank of hydrangeas. How much had the man heard? How much did he know? This pretending to be something he wasn’t was driving him nuts. Just as being married to a curvy, luscious redhead he couldn’t touch was beginning to push him to the edge of his control.

Sleeping beside her every night, waking up every morning to find himself holding her close only to jump out of bed and rebuild her damn wall before she could wake up and discover his weakness.

Weakness.

Since when did he have a damn weakness?

Taking a breath, he told himself to play the game he’d agreed to play. To get through the rest of the month and reclaim his life. When the month was over, he’d find a woman. Any woman, and bury his memories of Margie in some anonymous sex. Then he could get back to the base and do what he knew best.

“Just what planet are you on, Hunter?”

The gardener’s voice came again and Hunter muttered a curse he hoped the older man couldn’t hear. “Didn’t see you there, Calvin.”

Not surprising, since the man was practically hidden behind the massive pink and blue blooms dotting the rich, dark green leaves of the bushes.

“Don’t see much of anything since you’ve been home, if you ask me,” Calvin said, dipping his head to wield his pruning shears. The delicate snip of the twin blades beat a counterpoint to the lazy drone of bees dancing through the garden.

Hunter shoved both hands into the pockets of his jeans and walked toward the old man who’d been in charge of the Cabot gardens for nearly forty years. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hmm?” Calvin lifted his head briefly, shot him a glance and shrugged. “Just seems to me a man who’s been apart from his wife for months on end would spend more time with her and less wandering around the estate talking to himself, that’s all.”

Hunter sighed. “That’s all?”

Calvin’s bristling gray hair wafted in the cool breeze, and his pale blue eyes narrowed on Hunter. “Well no, now that I think on it, maybe that’s not all.”

Hunter reached out, ran one finger along the pale pink petals of the closest blossom and slid a glance to the old man watching him. “Let’s have it, then.”

“You think I don’t notice things? I’m old, boy, not blind.”

“Notice what, Calvin?”

“How you watch that little girl of yours when she’s not looking. How when she is looking, your eyes go cold and you look away.”

Hunter scowled. Since when had Calvin become so damn perceptive? “You’re imagining things.”

“Now I’m senile, then? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“No,” Hunter said quickly, then shoved his hand back into his pocket. Tough to be a hard ass with a man who’d known you since you were a kid. “It’s just…complicated.”

Calvin snorted a laugh. “You always did make bigger mountains out of mountains, boy.”

“What?” Hunter laughed shortly as he tried to figure out what Calvin was talking about.

“No molehills for you. Nope. You look at something hard and make it impossible. Never could see what was right in front of you for staring out at the horizon. Always looking for something even though you wouldn’t know it if you stumbled on it.”

Hunter would have argued, but how could he? The old man was too damn insightful. Hunter had spent most of his life looking past the boundaries of this estate to the world beyond Springville. He’d wanted…more. He’d wanted to see other places, be someone else. Someone besides the latest member of the Cabot family dynasty.

And he’d done everything he’d wanted to, hadn’t he? He’d done important things with his life. He’d made a difference. Shifting his gaze across the garden and the wide stretch of neatly trimmed grass that ran down to the cliff’s edge and the sea beyond, he thought how small this place had once seemed to him. How confining. Strange that at the moment, it looked more welcoming than anything else. As if this place had simply lain here, waiting for him to come home.

Hunter frowned thoughtfully and wondered just why that notion all of a sudden felt comforting.

“Calvin?”

The sound of Margie’s voice shattered Hunter’s thoughts completely. He turned toward her and felt something inside him shift, like a bolt pushing free of a lock.

She stood in a slice of sunlight on the stone patio and Hunter’s breath caught in his throat. She wore a green silk shirt with an open collar and short sleeves, tucked into a pair of form-fitting linen slacks. Her incredible hair was lifting in the wind caressing her, and it danced around her head like a curly, auburn halo. Her grass-green eyes were fixed on him as he stared at her and Hunter couldn’t stamp out the hunger she was probably reading on his face.

Why the hell had he bought her new clothes?

Margie’s heartbeat thundered in her chest, and her mouth went dry under Hunter’s steady stare. Even from a distance, she saw him clench his square jaw as if fighting an inner battle for control. And somewhere inside her, she preened a little, knowing that just looking at her was in some small way torturing him.

At first she’d been uncomfortable wearing clothes that defined her too-voluptuous—in her opinion—figure. As if she were walking around naked or something. She wasn’t used to people—men—looking at her the way Hunter was now. Always before, she’d sort of blended into the crowd. She’d never stood out, never been the kind of woman to get noticed.

For the first time in her life, Margie actually felt pretty. It was a powerful sensation. And a little frightening. Especially since Hunter didn’t look too happy with whatever he was thinking.

Well, she reminded herself, it was his own fault. He was the one who’d insisted on buying out half of Carla’s Dress Shop. He was the one who’d approved or vetoed everything she’d tried on. Which had really annoyed her until she’d gotten into the spirit of the thing and had pleased herself by watching his eyes darken and flash with hunger every time she appeared in a new outfit.

The arrogant, bossy man had, it seemed, painted himself into a corner of his own design.

“Did you need something, Margie?”

“What?” The voice seemed to come from nowhere. Hunter’s gaze was still locked on her, and he hadn’t spoken—she was sure of it. Tearing her gaze from the man who was her temporary husband, she saw the estate gardener giving her a knowing smile.

“Calvin. Yes. I mean, I did want to ask you something. I was wondering if you’d mind providing a few bouquets for the dance tomorrow night. No one’s flowers are prettier.”

“Happy to,” the older man said. “Anything in particular?”

She shook her head. At the moment, she couldn’t have discerned the difference between a rose and a weed anyway. “No, I’ll leave that up to you.”

“You’re in charge of flowers, too?” Hunter grumbled.

“I’m helping.” And why did she say that as if she were apologizing? She didn’t owe him an explanation, and why did he care what she did anyway? In the few days he’d been home, he’d gone into town only that one day when they’d had their shopping expedition. The rest of the time, he remained here, at the house, as if he were…hiding?

Even as she considered that, she discounted it. Why would Hunter Cabot want to hide from the very town in which he’d grown up? He wasn’t the kind of man to avoid confrontation or uncomfortable situations.

“Sure seem to do a lot of ‘helping,’” he commented dryly.

“And it seems that you don’t do enough,” she countered, enjoying the quick spark of irritation she spotted in his eyes.

But she wondered why he was so determined to keep himself separate from the town and the people here. He would only be here another few weeks; then he’d be gone back to the Naval base, back to the danger and adventure he seemed to want more than anything. So why, then, wouldn’t he want to spend what little time he had here seeing old friends?

She knew she’d be leaving at the end of the month, so Margie wanted to do as much as she could for the town she’d come to love.

So why didn’t he love this place? He’d been raised here. He’d had family to love. A spot in the world to call his own. And he’d given it all up for the chance at adventure.

“Now,” Calvin announced, interrupting her thoughts again, “I’ve got weeding to do.” But before he left, he gave Hunter a quick look and said, “You remember what we talked about.”

Then Calvin wandered off and Margie watched his progress through the lush, cottage-style garden. When the older man rounded the corner of the big house, she shifted a look to Hunter. “What did he mean by that?”

“Nothing.” He muttered the one word in a deep, dark grumble. “It was nothing.”

“Okay,” she said, while wondering what the two men had been talking about before she’d stepped onto the patio. But one look at Hunter’s shuttered expression told her that he wouldn’t be clearing up that little mystery for her. So she said, “He probably thinks he’s giving us a chance to be romantic in the garden.”

“Probably,” Hunter agreed and didn’t look like he appreciated it.

“Calvin never stops to chat for long anyway,” Margie said, coming down the stone steps to the edge of the garden.

“Yeah, I know. He’s always preferred his flowers to people.”

She stopped, bent down and sniffed at a rose before straightening again. When Margie saw Hunter’s gaze lock briefly on her breasts, she felt a rush of something completely female and had to hide a small smile. Really, she was in serious trouble. She was beginning to enjoy the way Hunter looked at her, and that road would only lead to disappointment.

He didn’t trust her. He made that plain enough every time they were together. But he did want her. That much she knew. Every morning, she woke up to the feel of his heavy leg lying across hers, his strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulling her tightly against his warm, naked body. And every morning, she lay there, quietly, enjoying the feel of him surrounding her, until he woke up, shifted carefully to one side of her and replaced the pillow wall between them.

Margie knew he didn’t realize she was awake for those few brief, incredible moments every morning. And she had no intention of telling him, because he’d find a way to end them and she liked waking up to the feel of his body on hers. To that sense of safety she felt lying next to him.

Oh, God. She looked up at him saw those blue eyes go cool and distant and knew she was only making things more difficult for herself. There was no future here for her at all. Pretending otherwise was only going to make leaving that much harder.

“Why’d you come out here?” he asked, his voice low, his features strained. “Did you really want to talk to Calvin, or were you just following me?”

So much for daydreams. “Were you born crabby, or do I just bring it out in you?”

“What?” He scowled at her.

He probably thought he looked ferociously intimidating. But Margie had seen that look often enough that it hardly bothered her anymore.

“Crabby. You. Why?”

“I’m not crabby,” he said and blew out a breath. “Hell, I don’t know what I am.” Shaking his head, he glanced across the garden and Margie followed his gaze.

The back of the house was beautiful. Late-spring daffodils crowded the walkways in shades from butter-yellow to the softest cream. Roses sent their perfume into the air, and columbine and larkspur dipped and swayed brilliantly colored heads in the soft wind off the ocean. It was a magical place, and Margie had always loved it.

“You really like it here, don’t you?” he asked.

“I love it.”

“I did too for a while.” He turned and started along the snaking path of stepping-stones that meandered through the garden. Margie walked right behind him, pleased that he was finally talking to her.

“When I was a kid,” he mused, “it was all good. Coming here. Being with Simon.”

“Your parents died when you were twelve. Simon told me. That must have been terrible for you.” She didn’t even remember her parents, but she’d been told they’d died in a car accident when she was three. She’d give anything to have the few short years of memories of being loved that Hunter no doubt had.

“Yeah, they did.” He tipped his head back to glance at the clouds scuttling across the sky before continuing on through the garden. “And I came here to live, and it was a good place to grow up,” he admitted, now idly dragging the palm of his hand across a cluster of early larkspur. A few of the delicate, pastel blossoms dropped to the ground as they walked on. “The place is huge, so there was plenty of room for a kid to run and play.”

“I can imagine.” Though she really couldn’t. Growing up in a series of foster homes, Margie had never even dreamed of a place like this. She wouldn’t have known how.

As if he’d guessed where her thoughts had gone, he stopped, looked over his shoulder and asked, “Where are you from?”

“Los Angeles,” she answered and hoped he’d leave it at that. Thankfully, he did.

Nodding, he said, “Coming from a city that size, you can understand how small Springville started to look to me.”

“That’s exactly what drew me in when I first moved here. When I answered the ad to become Simon’s assistant, I took one look at Springville and fell in love.” It was the kind of small town that lonely people always dreamed of. A place where people looked out for each other. A place where one person could make a difference. Be counted. But she didn’t tell him all of that.

“I like that it’s small. Big cities are anonymous.”

“That’s one of the best parts,” Hunter said and gave her a quick, brief smile that never touched his eyes. “There’s a sense of freedom in anonymity. Nobody gives a damn what you do or who your family is.”

“Nobody gives a damn, period,” she said quietly.

“Makes life simple,” he agreed.

“Running off to join the SEALs wasn’t exactly an attempt at simple and uncomplicated.”

He laughed shortly. “No, I guess it wasn’t.”

“So, what were you looking for?”

“Why do you care?” He stopped, turned to look down at her and in his eyes there were so many shifting emotions that Margie couldn’t tell one from the next. Then he spoke again, and she was too angry to worry about what he was feeling.