Читать книгу A Cinderella Story: Maid Under the Mistletoe / My Fair Billionaire / Second Chance with the CEO - Maureen Child - Страница 12

Four

Late at night, the big house was quiet, but not scary at all.

That thought made Joy smile to herself. She had assumed that a place this huge, with so many windows opening out onto darkness, would feel sort of like a horror movie. Intrepid heroine wandering the halls of spooky house, alone, with nothing but a flashlight—until the battery dies.

She shook her head and laughed at her own imagination. Instead of scary, the house felt like a safe haven against the night outside. Maybe it was the warmth of the honey-toned logs or maybe it was something else entirely. But one thing she was sure of was that she already loved it. Big, but not imposing, it was a happy house. Or would be if its owner wasn’t frowning constantly.

But he’d smiled with Holly, Joy reminded herself as she headed down the long hallway toward the great room. He might have wished to be anywhere else, but he had been patient and kind to her little girl, and for Joy, nothing could have touched her more.

Her steps were quiet, her thoughts less so. She hadn’t seen much of Sam since leaving him in the workshop. He’d deliberately kept his distance and Joy hadn’t pushed. He’d had dinner, alone, in the dining room, then he’d disappeared again, barricading himself in the great room. She hadn’t bothered him, had given him his space, and even now wouldn’t be sneaking around his house if she didn’t need something to read.

Holly was long since tucked in and Joy simply couldn’t concentrate on the television, so she wanted to lose herself in a book. Keep her brain too busy to think about Sam. Wondering what his secrets were. Wondering what it would be like to kiss him. Wondering what the heck she was doing.

She threw a glance at the staircase and the upper floor, where the bedrooms were—where Sam was—and told herself to not think about it. Joy had spent the day cleaning the upstairs, though she had to admit that the man was so tidy, there wasn’t much to straighten up.

But vacuuming and dusting gave her the chance to see where he slept, how he lived. His bedroom was huge, offering a wide view of the lake and the army of pine trees that surrounded it. His bed was big enough for a family of four to sleep comfortably, and the room was decorated in soothing shades of slate blue and forest green. The attached bath had had her sighing in imagined pleasure.

A sea of pale green marble, from the floors to the counters, to the gigantic shower and the soaker whirlpool tub that sat in front of a bay window with a view of the treetops. He lived well, but so solitarily it broke her heart. There were no pieces of him in the room. No photos, no art on the wall, nothing to point to this being his home. As beautiful as it all was, it was still impersonal, as if even after living there for five years he hadn’t left his own impression on the place.

He made her curious. Gorgeous recluse with a sexuality that made her want to drool whenever he was nearby. Of course, the logical explanation for her zip of reaction every time she saw the man was her self-imposed Man Fast. It had been so long since she’d been on a date, been kissed...heck, been touched, that her body was clearly having a breakdown. A shame that she seemed to be enjoying it so much.

Sighing a little, she turned, slipped into the great room, then came to a dead stop. Sam sat in one of the leather chairs in front of the stone fireplace, where flames danced across wood and tossed flickering shadows around the room.

Joy thought about leaving before he saw her. Yes, cowardly, but understandable, considering where her imaginings had been only a second or two ago. But even as she considered sneaking out, Sam turned his head and pinned her with a long, steady look.

“What do you need?”

Not exactly friendly, but not a snarl, either. Progress? She’d take it.

“A book.” With little choice, Joy walked into the room and took a quick look around. This room was gorgeous during the day, but at night, with flickering shadows floating around...amazing. Really, was there anything prettier than firelight? When she shifted her gaze back to him, she realized the glow from the fire shining in his dark brown eyes was nearly hypnotic. Which was a silly thought to have, so she pushed it away fast. “Would you mind if I borrow a book? TV is just so boring and—”

He held up one hand to cut her off. “Help yourself.”

“Ever gracious,” she said with a quick grin. When he didn’t return it, she said, “Okay, thanks.”

She walked closer, surreptitiously sliding her gaze over him. His booted feet were crossed at the ankle, propped on the stone edge of the hearth. He was staring into the fire as if looking for something. The flickering light danced across his features, and she recognized the scowl that she was beginning to think was etched into his bones. “Everything okay?”

“Fine.” He didn’t look at her. Never took his gaze from the wavering flames.

“Okay. You’ve got a lot of books.” She looked through a short stack of hardbacks on the table closest to him. A mix of mysteries, sci-fi and thrillers, mostly. Her favorites, too.

“Yeah. Pick one.”

“I’m looking,” she assured him, but didn’t hurry as he clearly wanted her to. Funny, but the gruffer and shorter he became, the more intrigued she was.

Joy had seen him with Holly. She knew there were smiles inside him and a softness under the cold, hard facade. Yet he seemed determined to shut everyone out.

“Ew,” she said as she quickly set one book aside. “Don’t like horror. Too scary. I can’t even watch scary movies. I get too involved.”

“Yeah.”

She smiled to herself at the one-word answer. He hadn’t told her to get out, so she’d just keep talking and see what happened. “I tried, once. Went to the movies with a friend and got so scared and so tense I had to go sit in the lobby for a half hour.”

She caught him give her a quick look. Interest. It was a start.

“I didn’t go back into the theater until I convinced an usher to tell me who else died so I could relax.”

He snorted.

Joy smiled, but didn’t let him see it. “So I finally went back in to sit with my friend, and even though I knew how it would end, I still kept my hands over my eyes through the rest of the movie.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But,” she said, moving over to the next stack of books, “that doesn’t mean I’m just a romantic comedy kind of girl. I like adventure movies, too. Where lots of things blow up.”

“Is that right?”

Just a murmur, but he wasn’t ignoring her.

“And the Avengers movies? Love those. But maybe it’s just Robert Downey Jr. I like.” She paused. “What about you? Do you like those movies?”

“Haven’t seen them.”

“Seriously?” She picked up a mystery she’d never read but instead of leaving with the book, she sat down in the chair beside his. “I think you’re the first person I’ve ever met who hasn’t seen those movies.”

He spared her one long look. “I don’t get out much.”

“And isn’t that a shame?”

“If I thought so,” he told her, “I’d go out more.”

Joy laughed at the logic. “Okay, you’re right. Still. Heard of DVDs? Netflix?”

“You’re just going to keep talking, aren’t you?”

“Probably.” She settled into her chair as if getting comfy for a long visit.

He shook his head and shifted his gaze back to the fire as if that little discouragement would send her on her way.

“But back to movies,” she said, leaning toward him over the arm of her chair. “This time of year I like all the Christmas ones. The gushier the better.”

“Gushy.”

It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway. “You know, the happy cry ones. Heck, I even tear up when the Grinch’s heart grows at the end of that little cartoon.” She sighed. “But to be fair, I’ve been known to get teary at a heart-tugging commercial at Christmastime.”

“Yeah, I don’t do Christmas.”

“I noticed,” she said, tipping her head to one side to study him. If anything, his features had tightened, his eyes had grown darker. Just the mention of the holiday had been enough to close him up tight. And still, she couldn’t resist trying to reach him.

“When we’re at home,” she said, “Holly and I put up the Christmas decorations the day after Thanksgiving. You have to have a little restraint, don’t you think? I mean this year, I actually saw Christmas wreaths for sale in September. That’s going a little far for me and I love Christmas.”

He swiveled a look at her. “If you don’t mind, I don’t really feel like talking.”

“Oh, you don’t have to. I like talking.”

“No kidding.”

She smiled and thought she saw a flicker of a response in his eyes, but if she had, it wasn’t much of one because it faded away fast. “You can’t get to know people unless you talk to them.”

He scraped one hand across his face. “Yeah, maybe I don’t want to get to know people.”

“I think you do, you just don’t want to want it.”

“What?”

“I saw you today with Holly.”

He shifted in his chair and frowned into the fire. “A one-time thing.”

“So you said,” Joy agreed, getting more comfortable in the chair, letting him know she wasn’t going anywhere. “But I have to tell you how excited Holly was. She couldn’t stop talking about the fairy house she built with you.” A smile curved Joy’s mouth. “She fell asleep in the middle of telling me about the fairy family that will move into it.”

Surprisingly, the frown on his face deepened, as if hearing that he’d given a child happiness made him angry.

“It was a small thing, but it meant a lot to her. And to me. I wanted you to know that.”

“Fine. You told me.”

Outside, the wind kicked up, sliding beneath the eaves of the house with a sighing moan that sounded otherworldly. She glanced toward the front window at the night beyond, then turned back to the man with darkness in his eyes. She wondered what he was thinking, what he was seeing as he stared into the flames. Leaning toward him, she locked her hands around her up-drawn knees and said, “That wide front window is a perfect place for a Christmas tree, you know. The glass would reflect all the lights...”

His gaze shot to hers. “I already told you, I don’t do Christmas.”

“Sure, I get it,” she said, though she really didn’t. “But if you don’t want to, Holly and I will take care of decorating and—”

He stood up, grabbed a fireplace poker and determinedly stabbed at the logs, causing sparks to fly and sizzle on their wild flight up the chimney. When he was finished, he turned a cold look on her and said, “No tree. No decorations. No Christmas.”

“Wow. Speak of the Grinch.”

He blew out a breath and glared at her, but it just didn’t work. It was too late for him to try to convince her that he was an ogre or something. Joy had seen him with Holly. His patience. His kindness. Even though he hadn’t wanted to be around the girl, he’d given her the gift of his time. Joy’d had a glimpse of the man behind the mask now and wouldn’t be fooled again. Crabby? Yes. Mean? No.

“You’re not here to celebrate the holidays,” he reminded her in a voice just short of a growl. “You’re here to take care of the house.”

“I know. But, if you change your mind, I’m an excellent multitasker.” She got to her feet and held on to the book she’d chosen from the stack. Staring up into his eyes, she said, “I’ll do my job, but just so you know? You don’t scare me, Sam, so you might as well quit trying so hard.”

* * *

Every night, she came to the great room. Every night, Sam told himself not to be there. And every night, he was sitting by the fire, waiting for her.

Not like he was talking to her. But apparently nothing stopped her from talking. Not even his seeming disinterest in her presence. He’d heard about her business, about the house fire that had brought her to his place and about every moment of Holly’s life up until this point. Her voice in the dark was both frustrating and seductive. Firelight created a cocoon of shadows and light, making it seem as if the two of them were alone in the world. Sam’s days stretched out interminably, but the nights with Joy flew past, ending long before he wanted them to.

And that was an irritation, as well. Sam had been here for five years and in that time he hadn’t wanted company. Hadn’t wanted anyone around. Hell, he put up with Kaye because the woman kept his house running and meals on the table—but she also kept her distance. Usually. Now, here he was, sitting in the dark, waiting, hoping Joy would show up in the great room and shatter the solitude he’d fought so hard for.

But the days were different. During the day, Joy stayed out of his way and made sure her daughter did the same. They were like ghosts in the house. Once in a while, he would catch a little girl’s laughter, quickly silenced. Everything was clean, sheets on his bed changed, meals appeared in the dining room, but Joy herself was not to be seen. How she managed it, he wasn’t sure.

Why it bothered him was even more of a mystery.

Hell, he hadn’t wanted them to stay in the first place. Yet now that he wasn’t being bothered, wasn’t seeing either of them, he found himself always on guard. Expecting one or both of them to jump out from behind a door every time he walked through a room. Which was stupid, but kept him on edge. Something he didn’t like.

Hell, he hadn’t even managed to get started on his next project yet because thoughts of Joy and Holly kept him from concentrating on anything else. Today, he had the place to himself because Joy and Holly had gone into Franklin. He knew that because there’d been a sticky note on the table beside his blueberry muffin and travel mug of coffee that Joy routinely left out in the dining room every morning.

Strange. The first morning they were here, it was him avoiding having breakfast with them. Now, it seemed that Joy was perfectly happy shuffling him off without even seeing him. Why that bothered him, Sam didn’t even ask himself. There was no damn answer anyway.

So now, instead of working, he found himself glancing out the window repeatedly, watching for Joy’s beat-up car to pull into the drive. All right, fine, it wasn’t a broken-down heap, but her car was too old and, he thought, too unreliable for driving in the kind of snow they could get this high up the mountain. Frowning, he noted the fitful flurries of snowflakes drifting from the sky. Hardly a storm, more like the skies were teasing them with just enough snow to make things cold and slick.

So naturally, Sam’s mind went to the road into town and the possible ice patches that dotted it. If Joy hit one of them, lost control of the car...his hands fisted. He should have driven them. But he hadn’t really known they were going anywhere until it was too late. And that was because he wasn’t spending any time with her except for those late-night sessions in the library.

Maybe if he’d opened his mouth the night before, she might have told him about this trip into town and he could have offered to drive them. Or at the very least, she could have driven his truck. Then he wouldn’t be standing here wondering if her damn car had spun out.

Why the hell was he watching? Why did he care if she was safe or not? Why did he even bother to ask himself why? He knew damn well that his own past was feeding the sense of disquiet that clung to him. So despite resenting his own need to do it, he stayed where he was, watching. Waiting.

Which was why he was in place to see Ken Taylor when he arrived. Taylor and his wife, Emma, ran the gallery/gift shop in Franklin that mostly catered to tourists who came up the mountain for snow skiing in winter and boating on the lake in summer. Their shop, Crafty, sold local artisans’ work—everything from paintings to jewelry to candles to the hand-made furniture and decor that Sam made.

Grateful for the distraction, Sam shrugged into his black leather jacket and headed out of the workshop into the cold bite of the wind and swirl of snowflakes. Tugging the collar up around his neck, Sam squinted into the wind and walked over to meet the man as he climbed out of his truck.

“Hey, Sam.” Ken held out one hand and Sam shook it.

“Thanks for coming out to get the table,” Sam said. “Appreciate it.”

“Hey, you keep building them, I’ll drive up the mountain to pick them up.” Ken grinned. About forty, he had pulled his black hair into a ponytail at the base of his neck. He wore a heavy brown coat over a flannel shirt, blue jeans and black work boots. He opened the gate at the back of his truck, then grinned at Sam. “One of these times, though, you should come into town yourself so you can see the reactions of the people who buy your stuff.” Shaking his head, he mused, “I mean, they all but applaud when we bring in new stock.”

“Good to know,” Sam said. It was odd, he thought, that he’d taken what had once been a hobby—woodworking—and turned it into an outlet for the creativity that had been choked off years ago. He liked knowing that his work was appreciated.

Once upon a time, he’d been lauded in magazines and newspapers. Reporters had badgered him for interviews, and one or two of his paintings actually hung in European palaces. He’d been the darling of the art world, and he’d enjoyed it all. He’d poured his heart and soul into his work and drank in the adulation as his due. Sam had so loved his work, he’d buried himself in it to the detriment of everything else. His life outside the art world had drifted past without him even realizing it.

Sam hadn’t paid attention to what should have been most important, and before he could learn his lesson and make changes, he’d lost it and all he had left was the art. The paintings. The name he’d carved for himself. Left alone, it was only when he had been broken that he realized how empty it all was. How much he’d sacrificed for the glory.

So he wasn’t interested in applause. Not anymore.

“No thanks,” he said, forcing a smile in spite of his dark thoughts. He couldn’t explain why he didn’t want to meet prospective customers, why he didn’t care about hearing praise, so he said, “I figure being the hermit on the mountain probably adds to the mystique. Why ruin that by showing up in town?”

Ken looked at him, as if he were trying to figure him out, but a second later, shook his head. “Up to you, man. But anytime you change your mind, Emma would love to have you as the star of our next Meet the Artist night.”

Sam laughed shortly. “Well, that sounds hideous.”

Ken laughed, too. “I’ll admit that it really is. Emma drives me nuts planning the snacks to get from Nibbles, putting out press releases, and the last time, she even bought some radio ads in Boise...” He trailed off and sighed. “And the artist managed to insult almost everyone in town. Don’t understand these artsy types, but I’m happy enough to sell their stuff.” He stopped, winced. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Sam assured him. “Believe me.” He’d known plenty of the kind of artists Ken was describing. Those who so believed in their own press no one could stand to be around them.

“But, Emma loves doing it, of course, and I have to give it to her, we do big business on those nights.”

Imagining being in the center of a crowd hungering to be close to an artist, to ask him questions, hang on everything he said, talk about the “art”... It all gave Sam cold chills and he realized just how far he’d come from the man he’d once been. “Yeah, like I said, awful.”

“I even have to wear a suit. What’s up with that?” Ken shook his head glumly and followed after Sam when he headed for the workshop door. “The only thing I like about it is the food, really. Nibbles has so many great things. My favorite’s those tiny grilled cheese sandwiches. I can eat a dozen of ’em and still come back for more...”

Sam was hardly listening. He’d done so many of those “artist meets the public” nights years ago that he had zero interest in hearing about them now. His life, his world, had changed so much since then, he couldn’t even imagine being a part of that scene anymore.

Ken was still talking. “Speaking of food, I saw Joy and Holly at the restaurant as I was leaving town.”

Sam turned to look at him.

Ken shrugged. “Deb Casey and her husband, Sean, own Nibbles, and Deb and Joy are tight. She was probably in there visiting since they haven’t seen each other in a while. How’s it going with the two of them living here?”

“It’s fine.” What the hell else could he say? That Joy was driving him crazy? That he missed Holly coming into the workshop? That as much as he didn’t want them there, he didn’t want them gone even more? Made him sound like a lunatic. Hell, maybe he was.

Sam walked up to the table and drew off the heavy tarp he’d had protecting the finished table. Watery gray light washed through the windows and seemed to make the tabletop shine.

“Whoa.” Ken’s voice went soft and awe-filled. “Man, you’ve got some kind of talent. This piece is amazing. We’re going to have customers outbidding each other trying to get it.” He bent down, examined the twisted, gnarled branch pedestal, then stood again to admire the flash of the wood grain beneath the layers of varnish. “Dude, you could be in an art gallery with this kind of work.”

Sam stiffened. He’d been in enough art galleries for a lifetime, he thought, and had no desire to do it again. That life had ultimately brought him nothing but pain, and it was best left buried in the past.

“Your shop works for me,” he finally said.

Ken glanced at him. The steady look in his eyes told Sam that he was wondering about him. But that was nothing new. Everyone in the town of Franklin had no doubt been wondering about him since he first arrived and holed up in this house on the mountain. He had no answers to give any of them, because the man he used to be was a man even Sam didn’t know anymore. And that’s just the way he liked it.

“Well, maybe one day you’ll explain to me what’s behind you hiding out up here.” Ken gave him a slap on the back. “Until then, though, I’d be a fool to complain when you’re creating things like this for me to sell—and I’m no fool.”

Sam liked Ken. The man was the closest thing to a friend Sam had had in years. And still, he couldn’t bring himself to tell Ken about the past. About the mess he’d made of his life before finding this house on the mountain. So Sam concentrated instead on securing a tarp over the table and making sure it was tied down against the wind and dampness of the snow and rain. Ken helped him cover that with another tarp, wrapping this one all the way down and under the foot of the pedestal. Double protection since Sam really hated the idea of having the finish on the table ruined before it even made it into the shop. It took both of them to carry the table to the truck and secure it with bungee cords in the bed. Once it was done, Sam stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and nodded to Ken as the man climbed behind the wheel.

“Y’know, I’m going to say this—just like I do every time I come out here—even knowing you’ll say ‘no, thanks.’”

Sam gave him a half smile, because he was ready for what was coming next. How could he not be? As Ken said, he made the suggestion every time he was here.

“Why don’t you come into town some night?” the other man asked, forearm braced on the car door. “We’ll get a couple beers, tell some lies...”

“No, thanks,” Sam said and almost laughed at the knowing smile creasing Ken’s face. If, for the first time, he was almost tempted to take the man up on it, he’d keep that to himself.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Ken nodded and gave him a rueful smile. “But if you change your mind...”

“I’ll let you know. Thanks for coming out to pick up the table.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as we sell it.”

“I trust you,” Sam said.

“Yeah, I wish that was true,” Ken told him with another long, thoughtful look.

“It is.”

“About the work, sure, I get that,” Ken said. “But I want you to know, you can trust me beyond that, too. Whether you actually do or not.”

Sam had known Ken and Emma for four years, and if he was looking for friendships, he couldn’t do any better and he knew it. But getting close to people—be it Ken or Joy—meant allowing them close enough to know about his past. And the fewer people who knew, the less pity he had to deal with. So he’d be alone.

“Appreciate it.” He slapped the side of the truck and took a step back.

“I’ll see you, then.”

Ken drove off and when the roar of his engine died away, Sam was left in the cold with only the sigh of the wind through the trees for company. Just the way he liked it.

Right?