Читать книгу Bedroom Diplomacy - Michelle Celmer, Michelle Celmer - Страница 9

The following day seemed to drag by, as if time were moving through a vat of molasses. Rowena tried to keep busy, ordering supplies, working on lesson plans and scouring the internet for craft ideas. Then right in the middle of a task, a vision of Colin, standing in the pool house, his chest bare, his arms thick with sinew, would pop into her head and she’d completely forget what she was doing.

Would he be at the pool again tonight, or when he said maybe, had he just been humoring her? Did he really mean no way lady? Maybe after they talked, he didn’t find her quite so attractive after all.

She felt nervous and distracted all afternoon, and during dinner, while Dylan chattered away about his day, she was only half listening. What if Colin really did show?

What then?

Even if he liked her, and she liked him, he was only here for a few weeks. It’s not as if they could ever have any kind of relationship.

She was a responsible adult. Someone’s mother. Her days of brief affairs and one-night stands had ended the day she found out she was pregnant. It was too… undignified.

It shouldn’t have mattered if Colin was at the pool or not. So why, when she went to take her swim and she found the chairs empty, was she so disappointed?

When she was done, as she was walking back to her suite, she thought about taking a quick detour to Colin’s suite. Only to tell him again that she had enjoyed their talk, and to let him know that if he needed anything, all he had to do was ask.

Rowena, she imagined him saying, all I need is you.

He would be shirtless, of course, and possibly just out of the shower, with droplets of water dotting his pecs. His hair would be wet and spiky. He would hold out his hand, and though she would hesitate for several seconds, she would take it. He would pull her into his room, closing the door behind them.…

At that point she made herself keep walking until she reached her own suite. As unlikely as it was that would ever really happen, it scared her to think what would happen if it did.

The following morning she managed not to think about him much at all, until she was walking up to the mansion and saw Colin and her father’s attorney sitting on the back patio.

“Hello, Colin,” she said with a smile, her heart lifting at the sight of him, only to flop back down and land with a sickening thud when he replied, “Hello, Miss Tate.”

He didn’t even crack a smile.

’Nuff said. She squared her shoulders and kept walking. She had no reason to be upset or feel slighted. They’d talked one time. It wasn’t as if he’d promised they would see each other again. To avoid seeing him again she left through the front door, taking a different route back, walking all the way down the driveway to the road, then up a quarter mile to the day-care center.

“Why did you go the long way?” Tricia asked.

“Good exercise,” Rowena told her, then hid in her office for the rest of the morning, refusing to feel sorry for herself. She was being silly, that’s all. All the time she spent cooped up on the estate must be taking its toll.

In the afternoon a feisty ten-year-old named Davis, whose mother worked for the senator soliciting donations, took a tumble off the monkey bars and Rowena sat with him, holding an ice pack on his bruised and swollen arm, until his mother arrived and rushed him off to the E.R. for X-rays.

She filled out an accident report and all the other appropriate documentation, then sat through a berating from her father—in front of Dylan, no less—because naturally it was her fault.

“Dabis godda owie taday,” Dylan said as she tucked him into bed that night.

She pulled the covers up to his chin. “Yes, Davis got an owie. But his mommy called and said it was just a small owie. Nothing broken.”

There was genuine relief in his big hazel eyes. Having been through so much himself, Dylan was exceptionally empathetic for a boy his age. And though he might have physically disabilities, he was smart as a whip and wise beyond his very short two and a half years.

“Papa mad at you,” he said.

“No, baby, he’s not mad,” she lied. “He was just worried about Davis. But Davis is fine, so everything is okay.” She got so tired of making excuses for her father’s behavior. Dylan adored him. He was the only grandparent Dylan had, but Dylan was exceptionally smart. It wouldn’t be long before he began to understand the kind of man his grandfather really was.

As she leaned down and kissed him good-night, Dylan asked the same question he had every night since he’d learned to talk.

“I gedda big bed?”

She sighed and tousled his curly red mop of hair. “Yes, sweetie, you’ll get a big-boy bed very soon.”

She felt guilty for depriving him of something he wanted so badly, but she just wasn’t ready to take the chance. In his crib she knew he was safe. In a regular bed, if he had a seizure or even just rolled too far to one side, he could fall out and hurt himself.

Accepting her empty promise with a hopeful smile, the way he always did, and with his favorite toy race car clutched in his hand, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. He was so tiny for his age. So small and defenseless. She wasn’t ready for him to grow up.

She leaned down, kissed him one last time and whispered, “I love you.”

“Wuboo, too,” he said sleepily.

She switched off his light, checked that the baby monitor was on, then slipped out of the room. As much as she needed a break by the end of the day, and a little time to herself, she hated leaving him alone. Until a year ago she’d kept him in bed with her, until the pediatrician warned that coddling him might only inhibit his progress. But it was so hard to let go, to relinquish control.

Rowena changed into her swimsuit, but she still had twenty minutes before Betty would be there to babysit, so she switched on the television. It was tuned to the American News Service—the cable network that had broken the presidential paternity scandal—and the anchor, Angelica Pierce, was reporting, as was often the case lately, on recent developments in the story. And Angelica seemed to take a sick sort of satisfaction in relaying the details.

Having been the target of rumors and speculation a time or two herself, Rowena could relate. Although in her case, the rumors usually were true. But she was never outed in front of hundreds of people.

Angelica Pierce was saying something about paternity and blood tests, and how both Ariella, the president’s alleged illegitimate daughter, and Eleanor, his high school sweetheart, were unavailable for comment. The devilish gleam in Angelica’s eyes said she was out for blood and thoroughly enjoying the scandal.

Rowena was about to switch the channel when she was struck by a sense of familiarity so intense it actually gave her goose bumps. Something about Angelica had always annoyed Rowena, but she had always attributed it to ANS’s sleazy reporting. She’d also thought that the woman looked vaguely familiar, and suddenly she realized why.

She reached for the phone and dialed her boarding school buddy Caroline Crenshaw. Until recently a public relations expert at the White House, Cara kept Rowena up to date on all the juicy D.C. gossip—confirming time after time that Rowena had made the right decision leaving Washington permanently. Only when Max, Cara’s fiancé, answered did Rowena remember the time difference and realize that it was nearly eleven-thirty there. “Sorry to be calling so late,” she said. “Is Cara still awake?”

“She’s right here,” Max said. There was a brief pause, and then Cara’s voice came on the line. Sounding worried, she asked, “Hey, Row, is everything okay?”

After receiving countless, random drunken midnight phone calls from Rowena, of course Cara would think the worst. “Everything is fine. I had a quick question for you and I completely forgot about the time difference.”

“That’s a relief. I thought maybe something had happened to Dylan.”

Or did she think that Rowena had backslidden and gotten herself in trouble again? And could Rowena blame her if she had? “Dylan is tucked away safe and sound in bed. Do you by any chance have the television on?”

“Actually, we do. We’re in bed watching the news.”

“NCN?”

“Of course.”

She’d assumed as much, since Max had made a name for himself as a hotshot political anchor and talk show host at National Cable News. “Can you switch on ANS for a minute?”

“Sure, why?”

“You’ve seen Angelica Pierce?”

“Sure. I’ve actually met her a couple of times. Now there’s a woman who knows what she wants and will do anything to get it. I pity the person who tries to stand in her way.”

“Does she look like anyone else to you?”

“I don’t know. There’s always been something about her that bugs me, but I think that has a lot to do with her working for ANS and their sleazy smear campaign against the president.”

“Take a really good look at her, and think back to boarding school.”

“Boarding school?”

“Think Madeline Burch.”

“Oh, my gosh, I forgot all about her. What a loon!”

Madeline had been an unstable, mousy plain Jane who insisted that she had a secret wealthy father and that her mother had been paid big hush-hush money not to talk about him. Which only led the students to believe that she was nuttier than a fruitcake, a label that seemed to push Madeline even further over the edge, until her behavior became so erratic and unpredictable she was eventually expelled. “So, look at Angelica, and think of Madeline.”

“Wow, you’re right. She does sort of look like her, but a hell of a lot prettier and more glamorous.”

“Do you think it could be her?”

“She would have had to change her looks and her name. Why would she do that?”

“That’s the real question, I guess. News anchors are supposed to be objective, but she takes an awful lot of satisfaction in smearing President Morrow. You know she wants to take him down.”

“Maybe she’s just a bitch,” Cara suggested.

“And if she is Madeline Burch?”

“I’m still not sure why she would go through all that trouble, but it couldn’t hurt to look into it. I’ll see what I can dig up from my old contacts.”

“I’ll try the internet.”

“Give me a couple of days and I’ll get back to you.”

After they hung up, Rowena logged on to Google to see what she could find about Madeline, but there was virtually no information about her after the incident at Woodlawn Academy, when she had attacked a student who called her a liar and a freak. When Rowena did a similar search on Angelica Pierce, the woman didn’t seem to exist before her college days.

When Betty knocked on the door at nine, Rowena still hadn’t found anything useful.

She shot a quick email to Cara explaining what she had—or more specifically hadn’t—found, then headed down to the pool. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts, she almost didn’t notice the faint outline of someone sitting in a chaise—Colin’s chaise. It was unlikely that anyone but him would be out there, and even more unlikely that someone else would pick that exact same chair to sit in. And despite his chilly greeting that morning, it would be rude not to go over and say hello.

As she drew closer, she could see that his head had lolled slightly to one side and his eyes were closed, his breathing slow and deep. Cupped in his hands and resting in his lap was a large mug of what looked like brewed tea. Not the smartest place to hold a hot drink. Suppose when she dove in, the splash startled him and it spilled? He could do some serious damage.

“Colin?” she said softly so she wouldn’t alarm him, but he didn’t budge. He looked so peaceful. Maybe she didn’t have to wake him; maybe if she just took the cup and set it on the table…

She reached down, never imagining that she would have her hands quite this close to his crotch tonight. Or any night.

Very gently, using the tips of her fingers, she clutched the cup by the rim and began to gingerly lift it from his lap. She’d lifted about six inches when she glanced up to his face. His eyes were open and looking at her.

As cold tea soaked his trousers, Colin belatedly realized that until Rowena had gotten the cup a safe distance from his crotch, he should have kept his eyes closed. But when a man dreamed he was with a woman, then opened his eyes to find her hand an inch from his fly, it was tough not to watch the action. And for several tense seconds, it wasn’t the cup he thought she was reaching for.

“Oh, my God. I am so sorry,” Rowena said, looking as though she wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry. “I can’t believe I just did that. Please tell me that wasn’t hot.”

He set the cup on the ground beside him. “It was rather cold, actually.”

She winced, “I didn’t… damage anything down there, did I?”

He’d managed to catch the cup just in time. “Everything down there is fine.”

She handed him her towel. “I don’t know how much help this will be.”

He pushed himself out of the chair, leaning over to inspect the front of his pants, then handed the towel back. “I think it’s pretty hopeless at this point.”

“For the record, I was moving it because I thought it might spill. And yes, I get the irony.”

What tea hadn’t soaked into the linen went straight through to his Skivvies. “The staff is going to think I’m off my rocker. Walking in one night in dripping-wet clothes, the next looking as if I soiled myself.”

She bit her lip, probably to keep from laughing, then said, “I could run up to your room and get you clean pants. Or you could borrow some swim trunks. There are always extras in the pool house. There’s bound to be something that fits.”

The last thing he needed was her father possibly seeing her walking in or out of his suite. At least here, by the pool, no one could see them. Not without leaving the mansion, which no one seemed to do after dark. “Swim trunks will be fine.”

“Let’s go look.”

She rushed to the pool house, opened the door and switched on the lights. In the dark it had looked as if she was wearing a dress. Now he realized it was a cover-up, and underneath she wore… well, hello there, bikini. He wondered if she had worn that purposely, in case he happened to be at the pool again. Didn’t matter either way. She was off-limits.

“There’s a shelf in the bathroom with extra suits,” she told him. “Take whatever you need.”

Colin found a pair of trunks close to his size and pulled them off the shelf. He peeled off his wet slacks and boxer briefs, noticing, as the cold wet fabric touched the top of his legs, that the tails of his shirt hadn’t been spared, either. He took that off, too, and pulled the suit on. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Rowena was standing in the kitchen, bent over, looking in the refrigerator with her back to him. The cover-up was hiked up to reveal the very smooth curve of her behind and the backs of her creamy thighs.

Bloody hell.

“Found a pair,” he said.

She straightened and turned, a can of soda in her hand. She looked briefly at the trunks, then her eyes drifted upward.

Knowing what she was thinking, he said, “My shirt was wet, too.”

“They’re big,” she said. “The trunks, I mean.”

“Well, it was these or a Speedo.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then shook her head as if she’d decided that whatever it was was probably best left unsaid. “Want to split a soda, or would you like something stronger?”

What he wanted, he couldn’t have. What he needed was a cold shower. And what he had to do was leave.

And he would leave, just as soon as he finished his drink. “Soda is fine.”

She pulled two glasses from the cupboard, poured the soda, then added ice.

She handed him his glass and as their fingertips brushed, he could swear he saw her shiver.

Okay, enough, he told himself. He shouldn’t even be here. He should have stayed in his room and watched television.

Do what you came to do.

“I did a Google search on you,” she said.

“You did?”

“I saw your back and I was curious. When my dad said you’re a war hero, I thought he was exaggerating, but you actually are a hero.”

He shrugged. “That’s a matter of opinion.”

“With a broken leg, you dragged a man from a burning helicopter. That’s pretty brave, Colin.”

“The truth is, I don’t recall much of what happened. I remember getting caught in the sandstorm, the chopper going down. I recall being thrown and then looking back at the wreckage. I knew that William was probably still inside. I wasn’t able to stand but being so jacked up on adrenaline, I didn’t even know my leg was mangled. I dragged myself back to the chopper, felt around until I found him.”

“There was smoke?”

He nodded. “Yeah, thick black smoke. And dust. Couldn’t see a damn thing. I could hardly breathe. The explosion didn’t happen until I had dragged him about twenty feet away. Then I passed out, but luckily William regained consciousness. He put out the fire on my back and then dragged me a safe distance away. When I woke up, I was in the hospital.”

“And if you hadn’t pulled him from the helicopter?”

“He would have burned to death. I was the only chance he had. He would have done the same for me. Easy choice. No choice, really.”

“I read that he walked away with some burns and a broken arm.”

“The burns were mostly on his hands and arms, from putting out the fire on me.”

“He has a wife and four kids.”

Colin nodded, acknowledging the unstated sentiment. “I know that people have labeled me a hero, but I don’t see it that way. What I did for him, any other soldier would have done for me. It’s just part of the job description.”

“That doesn’t make it any less heroic.”

Not in his mind.

“Will you ever go back into active duty?”

“Never. With the damage to my leg I would be useless in combat. They gave me a choice. Take a desk job or retire. But I can’t be an outsider looking in. I’m a warrior. Warriors don’t sit behind desks.”

“So what will you do now?”

“I have a friend in private security who offered me a job. The only thing holding me back is my leg.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“Sometimes.” Almost all the time, but not like before. Right after the surgery it was excruciating. He hadn’t taken anything stronger than ibuprofen in a month.

“And your back?” she said.

“It’s sensitive, but not painful.”

“Can I… touch it?”

She was playing with fire. And who was more foolish—the fool who started the fire, or the fool who gave her the matches?

His gaze drifted down to her mouth, her lips full and pink and practically begging to be kissed. Then her tongue darted out to wet them.…

Bloody hell. He had to stop this now.

“Rowena.” He set his glass down. “We need to talk.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I need to apologize for the other night. And this morning.”

“Okay.”

“I was very… forward the other night. I’m afraid I may have given you the wrong impression.”

“Maybe a little,” she admitted.

“And today… well, there’s no excuse for my behavior. I was very rude to you. I’m sorry for that.”

“But?”

“I like you, Rowena, but I can’t like you.”

“Is it my reputation? Are you worried it will tarnish your good name?”

“No! God no. Nothing like that. This is because of your father.”

She frowned. “What about him?”

“After he introduced us, he and I had a talk. About you.

And he warned me, in no uncertain terms, that I am to consider you off-limits.”