Читать книгу The Cupcake Queen - Patricia Coughlin - Страница 12

W hen Rancourt explained that he expected her to live at his place as well as work there, Olivia’s response had been quick and succinct.

“In your dreams,” she told him.

She expected him to parry. Instead, in that irritatingly placid way he had, he informed her that he never dreamed, he wasn’t offering her a nine-to-five job, and she wasn’t the one giving the orders. His subtle emphasis on the last part ruffled her pride and she dug in her heels. It appeared they were at an impasse until Doc Allison intervened.

The vet attributed Olivia’s opposition to concern for her own safety. Belatedly it occurred to Olivia that it probably should be. Moving in with a man she barely knew, and who had reason to dislike her, qualified as one of the risks she had given her word not to take.

The other woman went on to say she understood her wariness and applauded it. She then offered her personal assurance, based on years of friendship, that Owen Rancourt was a man of honor and completely trustworthy.

Olivia wasn’t buying the honorable part. She also held that trusting a man enough to be his friend was one thing; trusting him enough to be alone with him, in an isolated camp located in the middle of the heavily wooded no-man’s-land between Danby and the rolling foothills several miles north, was quite another. None of which changed the fact that she needed the damn job. And now that she thought about it, free accommodations would be a bonus.

If he proved to be less honorable than Doc Allison claimed, well, she was able and willing to do whatever necessary to halt unwanted overtures…as Mr. Owen Rancourt well knew.

As she vacillated, the vet went on to explain that in addition to the main house, there were a number of cabins on the property, where handlers bunked when training camp was in session. The news that she wouldn’t actually be living under the same roof with Rancourt tipped the scales and Olivia grudgingly agreed to give the arrangement a shot.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be perfectly safe with Owen,” Doc Allison reassured her. “I wouldn’t lie to another woman about something like that.”

“Not even me?” she challenged, feeling as close to sheepish as she ever got. “The woman who threw this place into chaos in only two days?”

“Actually it was closer to one and a half,” the vet corrected. “And no, not even you. I like you, Olivia. You’re bright and funny. I just don’t think you were the right person for me.”

“And you think I am the right person for him?” Olivia gestured toward Rancourt.

Doc Allison’s forehead furrowed and she sputtered a bit before saying, “To be honest, Olivia, I’m not sure who you would be right for. But Owen is in a bind and he’s willing to take you on, so all I can say is…good luck to both of you.”

She urged them toward the door with an unmistakable air of relief. “I could have told you there was nothing to worry about,” Rancourt informed her when they were alone outside. “You’ll be working so hard all day, and so worn-out every night, you won’t have the time or energy to get yourself in trouble with me.”

“It’s not me I was worried about,” she retorted.

His silence left her guessing whether his comment had been intended to put her at ease, or tick her off. She had no patience for guessing games when she was the one doing the guessing. Fortunately, her dealings with men seldom involved guesswork. Among close friends, she boasted a nearly flawless track record for assessing and categorizing a man, any man, within minutes of meeting him. That was one more reason it annoyed her that this particular man refused to stay where she put him.

He succeeded in shifting her impression of him yet again by opening her car door for her. It wasn’t only that he did it; it was the way he did it…smoothly, effortlessly, as if the gesture were ingrained, rather than performed to impress. It wasn’t what she expected from a man who would paw a woman he’d never met to amuse his buddies.

To her chagrin, he insisted on accompanying her to the house where she was staying and waiting outside while she packed and settled her bill. That accomplished, she followed him the twelve miles from town to the road that accessed his land. A sign reading Canine Training Camp marked the private road in white block letters on a black background. No logo, no wasted words. Pretty much like the man himself, she mused.

The road they turned onto was paved but narrow, so narrow in places that tree branches scraped and slapped her car windows. Since it was late October, most of the leaves had already fallen, blanketing the ground with a patchwork of fiery red and gold. Here and there a tree clung defiantly to its last few leaves, refusing to surrender to nature.

Olivia was on the side of the rebel trees, even if theirs was a losing battle. How long could a solitary tree hold out against a force so much stronger and more relentless? A rueful smile curved her lips as she contemplated the man at the wheel of the truck hurtling down the road ahead of her and acknowledged an even more portentous question: How long could she?

“Six weeks…max,” she muttered to herself. Surely Dan what’s-his-name would recover and be back at work sooner than that. Maybe a lot sooner. Please give me the— She frowned. Give me whatever it takes to put up with Owen Rancourt for as long as I have to.

A white house came into view on her right. The main house, she decided. Olivia wasn’t sure what she had expected, a log cabin maybe, or a crumbling old farmhouse. Definitely not this. For one thing, the sprawling one level home wasn’t that old. It also wasn’t crumbling. Not even close. With its brick front, glossy black trim and freshly mowed lawn, it appeared fresh and well tended. A front porch with several wooden rockers at one end added a welcoming, almost old-fashioned touch that an architect might decree was at odds with the style of the house itself, but somehow it worked. But then, why should Rancourt’s home be any easier to pigeonhole than he was?

The house was situated on a small rise. She parked where he indicated, and as she got out of the car, she was able to make out the shapes of a group of smaller structures a short distance away. What she didn’t see in the fading light was what she feared most, marauding packs of dogs. Maybe her luck was changing. Rancourt had said he needed help getting ready for the next training session. Maybe there wouldn’t be any dogs around till then. Except Romeo, that is.

A slight shudder rippled through her as she recalled her up-close-and-personal view of his teeth earlier. Then she remembered what followed and groaned inwardly. Was it possible for a dog to bear a grudge, she fretted? Maybe she would never have to find out. If her luck truly was changing, perhaps Romeo wouldn’t be feeling up to coming home until she’d done her time and was out of there. A sudden bark, echoed by another and another put a quick end to her delusions of changing fortune.

She glanced around to pinpoint the direction of the barking and caught Rancourt watching her. The knowing arch of her brows did not deter him. He wasn’t smiling or frowning, but it would be a mistake to describe his expression as vacant. On the contrary, he appeared alert and interested, intensely so. Owen Rancourt made no secret that he was thinking, she realized, only of what he was thinking about.

The barking persisted.

“Dogs,” she said simply. Idiotically.

“What were you expecting?”

She shrugged. “Dogs.”

“Good. I’d have hated to disappoint you right out of the gate.”

He turned, lowered the rear of the truck and grabbed a thick coil of cable. Looping it over his shoulder, he reached for another. Next he rummaged through a box of what looked to Olivia like metal clamps and similar junk. Guy stuff, and slightly below dust on the list of things she found interesting. The rear view of the guy himself was a different matter.

It was with considerable interest that she took advantage of his preoccupation to check him out. Her gaze roamed over his broad shoulders and long legs. She liked the way his faded jeans rode low on his hips. As much as she would prefer to disdain every last thing about the man, she was forced to admit he had a nice butt. And great thighs. But then, Neanderthals often did. It was somehow linked to the excess of testosterone pumping through their veins, and other places. A private theory, but one she fully expected science to someday confirm. As a rule she wasn’t much attracted to Neanderthals. But for some reason, tonight she was…

Losing it. She must be if she was secretly ogling Rancourt and enjoying it. It was simply because she’d been away from civilization too long, she assured herself, turning away and shifting her attention to the shadowy terrain below. It was nowhere near as captivating a sight, and she felt suddenly restless. What she wouldn’t give for a glass of chilled chardonnay. And a cigarette. Which was telling, since her last smoke had been in the girl’s lav her junior year at Covington Prep.

Behind her, the sounds of clinking metal persisted. She was about to tell him to hurry it up. Her feet hurt. If she’d known when she was dressing that morning that she would be chasing a renegade cat through bushes, she would have worn boots with a low heel. She hoped Izzy had turned up safe and sound. Not wanting to dwell on the other possibility, she wiggled her toes and heaved an impatient sigh that evolved into a yawn.

Not only did her feet hurt; she was exhausted. And grimy. She closed her eyes and could almost feel herself sliding into a deep tub of hot water, almost smell the fragrance of the soapy bubbles caressing her from shoulders to toes. She couldn’t wait to get to her cabin and collapse.

The slamming of the truck’s tailgate made her jump.

She turned to tell him it was about time, but his nasty expression stopped her.

“Don’t worry about lending a hand,” Rancourt said, biting out the words. “It took a while, but I’ve got it all under control now.”

The sight of him weighted down with cables, more bulky stuff clamped under both arms, made her even more glad she’d bitten her tongue.

“Sorry,” she said. “Do you want me to take something?”

She reached out. He took a step back.

“No. It’s been a long day and I’d rather just leave well enough alone.”

“I probably should at least carry my own bag.”

“You definitely should carry your own bag,” he retorted. “But you can get it later, when I show you your cabin…and when I’m not standing around holding an extra hundred pounds.”

“Sorry,” she said again. “I guess I just got lost in…the view.”

She gestured in the direction of the foothills in the distance.

“Figures. It’s really something, isn’t it?”

Olivia turned to take another look, just to make sure he wasn’t still being sarcastic. He couldn’t possibly be. The rolling silhouette of the foothills, backlit by the sun setting in an ink-blue sky, was truly mesmerizing.

“My God, it is beautiful,” she said softly. “It almost takes my breath away.”

“Yeah. Mine, too. Night after night.”

The barking had stopped, now it started up again.

“Let’s move it. Sounds like the welcoming committee is getting restless.” There was brusque affection in his tone now. Even his impossibly square jaw seemed to have softened slightly.

“Are they tied up?” she inquired, endeavoring to sound merely curious, rather than hair-trigger nervous. If she ever decided to take on the responsibility of being a pet owner, she would choose one of those fluffy little dogs you could carry around in your purse. If the barking was any indication, the members of the “welcoming committee” were neither fluffy nor little.

“Tied? You mean chained?” He sounded offended. “My dogs are never chained.”

Her stomach seesawed. “Never?”

“No need. If you’ve got control of a dog, a word or a hand signal is as good as a chain.”

“And if you don’t have control?”

“Then you’re a damn fool. I wouldn’t keep a dog around I couldn’t control with my voice alone.”

“What would you do with him?”

“Shoot him,” he said matter-of-factly, and started walking toward the house.

Olivia hurried to catch up. “Shoot him? You mean with a gun?”

He slowed enough to eye her dubiously. “Yeah, Olivia, I mean with a gun.”

“Isn’t that rather drastic?” she asked, falling into step with him again.

“No. It’s smart.”

“But what if that particular dog just didn’t click with you? As an individual, I mean. Maybe another—”

“‘Click’?” He sounded appalled. “I’m not running a dating service, for God’s sake. I’m turning dogs into lethal weapons. And I’m the best there is at doing it. If I can’t bring a dog to heel, that’s a dog the world is better off without.”

They walked a few yards before she said, “What makes you think you’re the best?”

“I don’t think it. I know it.” He slanted her a self-satisfied smile and cocked his head toward the barking, which sounded louder and nearer with each step they took. “Of course, if you want a second opinion, you can ask them.”

“Why are they barking that way?”

“They’re glad I’m home. And they’re hungry. They heard my truck and they want to know what’s taking me so long. Then, too, they might’ve picked up on you.”

“Me? Why me?”

“A woman’s voice is pretty much a novelty around here.”

“I see. I guess that means you’re not married.” Another dumb remark. But not, she realized, as dumb as not even considering the possibility he might be married until that moment. There was just something about him, that classic lone wolf demeanor of his, that said—no, screamed—that he was a man who made his way through the world alone and liked it that way.

“No, I’m not married,” Rancourt replied with a faint, knowing smile. “Thanks for being interested.”

The man had a real talent for being irksome.

“Trust me, I’m not. I was making conversation.”

“Okay. Let’s make conversation. You shouldn’t have needed to ask if I was married.”

“How?”

“If I did, there’d be a light in that front window for me when I got home. And you wouldn’t have needed Doc’s word that you’d be safe here.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

He took the porch steps in one stride and started to set his load down a short distance from the front door, piece by piece.

“Care to explain?” he asked without looking up.

“It just seems to me that a man who’d put his hands on another woman when he has a wife at home, could be capable of other indiscretions, as well.”

“Makes sense.” He straightened and met her gaze. “Hypothetically at least, since I don’t have a wife.”

“Right. Hypothetically.”

“Come on,” he said, pulling open the door. “I’ll introduce you to the family I do have.”

He reached inside to turn on the light.

Olivia hesitated. “Maybe you should go in first.”

“You can tell your teeth to stop chattering,” he advised, humor lurking in his deep voice. “They’re in the yard out back. It’s fenced.”

“How is a fence any different from a chain?”

“A fence is a necessity when I have to leave them here alone. They still have plenty of freedom to move around, choose whether they want to be in the shade or sun, run, sleep.”

“And a chain?”

His expression took on a note of contempt. “There are no good options with a chain. And listing the drawbacks would take too long. It amounts to this—a long chain risks a dog getting tangled around something and hurting himself trying to get free. A short chain will eventually break his spirit.”

“I see.” It was good that she lacked the energy to challenge his opinion, because she couldn’t find anything in it to disagree with. She had to settle for a disgruntled “And my teeth were not chattering” as she stepped past him on her way inside.

The interior was as much a surprise as the house itself. But it shouldn’t be, she realized, after looking around. She’d heard somewhere that a perfectly decorated home reflects the unique personality of those who live there. If that was so, this place qualified for Decorator’s Dream Home of the Year.

If she’d been asked to conjure up a decorating scheme to convey Rancourt’s personality, this would be it. No frills, no extras, no nonsense. Apparently the man was no more enamored of excess “stuff” than he was unnecessary words. She might not be able to literally count the pieces of furniture he owned on the fingers of one hand, but that was the impression. Add that to the bare wood floors, windows clad only in white wooden blinds and the total absence of tchotchkes and you could sum up in a single word, austere.

“What’s the verdict?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

He’d shut the door and was leaning against it. “You were looking around as if you’re thinking of buying the place. I’m curious what you think of it?”

“The truth?”

“Nothing but.”

Olivia shrugged. “You asked for it. I think a monk’s cell would have more charm.” Taking a peek around the corner into the white and stainless steel kitchen, she added, “More pizzazz too, for that matter.”

Rancourt nodded with satisfaction. “That’s exactly the look I was going for, boring and monkish. You might as well get it straight right now—charm and pizzazz aren’t on my list of priorities.”

“How about comfort? What kind of man puts only one comfortable…” She strolled across the room to press her palm to a seat cushion. “Make that one semi-comfortable chair in front of the TV? And a thirteen-inch TV, at that.”

“A man who doesn’t entertain much…or watch much TV. Which, for the record, is a nineteen-inch.”

She glanced from him to the TV and back. “But there’s no DVD player, not even a VCR and not a single remote in sight. An American male without a remote suggests gender issues, if you ask me.”

“Then I’ll be sure not to. Come on out back and I’ll introduce you.”

It wasn’t fair, Olivia groused silently, that he should be so impervious to her baiting when almost everything about him irritated her. It wasn’t until they reached the screened porch, which opened off the kitchen, igniting an even more spirited round of barking, that she remembered to be scared.

“Maybe you should feed them first,” she suggested. “I know how much I hate socializing on an empty stomach.”

“No.” He turned on a small table lamp and un-latched the porch door, then glanced over his shoulder at her before opening it. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

She badly wanted to scoff at the very notion, but something about the size of the shadows circling on the other side of the thin screening compelled her to tell the truth. “As a matter of fact, I am,” she confessed. “Very afraid.”

“Good. You don’t need to be, but it would be foolish for you to assume that on your own.”

He opened the door and stepped outside. Instantly the dogs were all over him, leaping up and yipping for his attention, which he managed to dole out equally. At first she was unable to tell how many there were. A dozen, it seemed. As they settled down she was surprised to count only three dogs, two as big as Romeo and one even bigger.

He shoved the door wide with his shoulder and invited her to join them.

She hesitated. “You’re really sure you can control them?”

With an indignant glance her way, he issued a single curt order to sit, and the dogs lined up before him like seasoned soldiers.

Olivia stepped just outside, but no further. Even if he could control them, she wasn’t taking any chances.

“The big guy here is Radar, because that’s what he’s like when he’s on a scent,” he explained, reaching down to scratch around the ears of the largest of the three—a massive dog with a sleek, brown coat and woebegone expression. “He’s 100 percent bloodhound, from the breed’s premiere bloodline.” In a clipped, slightly louder tone, he ordered, “Radar, make nice.”

The dog got to his feet and approached Olivia, who promptly stiffened and hid her hands behind her back.

“Olivia, make nice,” he drawled, his tone dry. “He only wants to smell your hand.”

Cautiously she stretched out one hand. Radar’s wet nose and tongue made contact simultaneously. She gave a little gasp of surprise, but managed to hold her hand steady. “I thought he only wanted to smell me.”

“And maybe slobber over you a little bit,” he added, shrugging when she took her eyes off the dog long enough to shoot him a withering look. He spoke the dog’s name in that same clipped tone, and Radar’s head came up, his velvet-brown eyes riveted on Rancourt, eager anticipation in his stance. Rancourt made a simple movement of his right hand, and the big dog returned to his place in line. A second hand movement had him stretched out on the floor, gazing up at his owner with the undivided attention she’d expect him to reserve for a raw T-bone steak.

“Good, Radar. Mac, make nice,” he ordered.

This time she didn’t have to be prodded to offer the tan-and-black dog the same hand she had just wiped dry on her slacks, and she flinched only slightly when she felt his rough tongue. “This breed I recognize,” she said. “He’s a German shepherd, right?”

“To the core,” he confirmed. “Mac is short for Mac Cool, for obvious reasons. Mac’s a real character.”

She laughed. “He does have a certain roguish quality.”

He called for the dog’s attention and repeated the same hand motions to get him to retreat and lie down.

“And finally, in defiance of the ‘ladies first’ rule, since it’s rank that matters most in the dog world, this is Jez, short for Jezebel.” Bending to stroke the dog’s side, he added, “Also, for obvious reasons, if you equate the name Jezebel with being cocky and shameless.”