Читать книгу Bridegroom On Her Doorstep - Renee Roszel - Страница 9

COLE had lots of time to reflect on the frustrating and fascinating Miss Sancroft as he cut and stacked limbs he’d pruned from the live oak the day before. The metal rack where he piled the wood was around the back of the house. Even so, he could hear cars come and go all day. Every time another set of tires crunched over the gravel and pulled to a stop in front of the beach house, his anger heightened a notch.

Old memories of his youth, sneaking off to the movies to see his mother on the huge screen, smiling, faking sweet vulnerability, added fuel to the fire. Adrianne Bourne, the queen of grasping females, had become the Hollywood star she’d schemed and clawed to be. Now, in her mid-fifties, she was still a beauty and occasionally played character roles. Married to her fifth boy-toy, she may have been a beloved Hollywood icon, but to Cole, his mother was a cold-hearted, calculating woman who’d never once contacted her only son.

By the time six o’clock rolled around, Cole was hot, tired and thoroughly incensed—mainly at himself—for letting the woman interviewing for husbands in his beach house get under his skin. Let her do whatever she wanted. What was it to him?

Even after counseling with himself, when she came out of the back door onto the deck to gaze out to sea, he stopped work, leaned against the warm brick wall and observed her over the woodpile. He scanned her as she walked to a chair and sat down. To his surprise, she removed her leather shoes, setting them aside. Then she slid her hands up one leg and began to slip off a stocking.

The unobstructed glimpse of pale thigh startled him. Apparently she was so preoccupied with her thoughts she didn’t even consider someone might be nearby. After slipping the stocking off, she carefully folded it. After placing it in a shoe she went about removing the other stocking. As she did, her navy skirt remained high on her legs. Nice legs. He’d observed that on the beach when she’d been much more self-conscious about taking the garments off. He felt like he should make himself known, or turn away, but he did neither.

She deposited the second stocking neatly in the other shoe. Standing, she straightened her skirt and gazed out to sea. In the shapeless navy skirt and mannish, short-sleeve Oxford-cloth shirt, she looked like a repressed schoolmarm, even barefoot.

After another moment of silently staring, she turned in his direction and padded to the steps that led to the lawn. Her features were pensive, her forehead creased in what looked like unhappy thoughts. Unfortunately for Cole, her solemn expression didn’t diminish the effect her pouty lips had on him—siren-like in their sensuality—consuming his attention. Even with her hair swept back in that unbecoming style she was beautiful. A truth he didn’t enjoy admitting.

As she walked down the steps, he stepped into view. Lifting a log, he purposely dropped it on the stack to make noise. She started, green eyes shooting in his direction.

“Evening.” He nodded without smiling.

“Have you been there all along!” she asked.

He stripped off his work gloves and tossed them onto the rick of wood. “I wasn’t born here, but I’ve been here most of the day.”

Her features grew pinched. “You could have made yourself known!”

He allowed himself a scornful smile. “If you’re talking about the stocking strip show, honey, I’ve seen lewder sights at G-rated movies.”

“Maybe you should keep your eyes on the screen!”

He laughed. She had a quick wit; he had to give her that. “Bad day?” he asked.

She blinked, shifting her attention to the Gulf. “Perfect day.” Stepping onto the grass, she pivoting toward the water. “Goodbye.”

He almost smiled at her brush-off. Did she really think it would be that easy? He cleared his throat and followed after her. “Perfect? I gather you’ve found a number of hot prospects in your husband hunt?” He caught up with her as she reached the gate. Releasing the latch, he motioned for her to precede him.

With her nose in the air and a muttered “Thank you” on her lips, she did. She’d scurried five feet away by the time he secured the gate. Broadening his pace, he reached her side in a half dozen strides. “You don’t say? That many?” He slid his hands into his back pockets, keeping his demeanor more carelessly curious than rankled.

She gave him a dark look but didn’t take the bait.

He pressed on. “Tell me again why you’re interviewing for husbands?” he prodded. “It slipped my mind.”

Though he could tell she detested the need to, she returned her gaze to his, making it clear from her expression she was not amused by his pestering. “Look, I just want to walk on my beach. It is mine. I’m paying for the right to use it.”

Her cutting glare could have drawn blood from a lesser man. Even Cole felt its jab. She turned away and hurried off. “Oh, right,” he drawled, deciding to theorize why she was there. Clearly she had no intention of telling him without some manipulation. “It’s that career move, right?”

She faltered but recovered quickly, whirling to confront him. “I didn’t tell you about the promotion. Did Ruthie?”

Damnation. Why did he have to be right? He would have given a lot not to be. Hiding his anger behind a mask of indifference, he walked up to join her. “Ruthie didn’t say a word.” When they were toe to toe, he dropped the bomb. “You did. Just now.”

She inhaled sharply; her cheeks going pink. “That was a dirty trick.”

He shook his head. “No dirtier than the one you’re going to play on some unsuspecting man.”

Her eyes went wide. “What are you talking about?”

He could no longer hide his anger. Towering over her, he leaned forward, fixing his eyes on her like gun barrels. “I’m talking about the poor guy you marry. What happens when you’re through using him? Does hubby get severance pay?” Without giving her a chance to reply, he went on. “What job could be so all-fired important that you’d make this mad dash to snag a husband? What kind of work even has husband in its job requirements?”

She took a step backward, clearly intimidated by his animosity and his height. Even so she matched his stance, defiantly jutting her chin. “The job is none of your business, but just to be clear, the man I choose to marry I’ll marry for keeps!”

He couldn’t believe such ludicrous tripe and responded with a hollow laugh. “Yeah, sure—and the check is in the mail.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

His laugh died and so did his smile. “If you’re not lying, you’re deluded.”

“You have some nerve!” She kneaded her temples as though trying to ward off a headache. “You don’t know me! You don’t have any right to presume anything about me!”

“I know plenty of women like you.”

Her lips sagged and she made a low, guttural sound. He tensed for the attack he knew was coming. She lashed out with a hand, but he caught her before she made contact with his face. Her arm trapped in his fist, she bared her teeth. “I don’t know what kind of women you know, and I swear I don’t want to know.” She jerked on his grasp. “Let go!”

“So you can take another shot at me? Do you think I’m stupid?”

She yanked on his hold, glared at him, but didn’t reply. She didn’t have to. Of course, I think you’re stupid, glittered in her eyes.

With a muttered oath, he released her.

Surprised, she stumbled several steps.

“Maybe you shouldn’t bad-mouth stupidity, honey,” he muttered. “Only a guy with nothing going on between the ears would agree to some half-baked marriage scheme.”

“Then you’d be perfect for the job!” she cried, her eyes a blink away from tears.

“So where do I get in line?” That crazy question came out of nowhere. The shock on her face was no more staggering than the shock he felt from hearing the inquiry in his own voice.

She closed her mouth, swallowed, then whispered hoarsely, “What?”

He shoved a hand through his hair and counted to ten to restore his composure. He told himself he was being sarcastic—to shake her up. He’d succeeded, he could tell. With a crooked smile that felt tight, he said, “In your opinion, I’m stupid enough to be perfect. So—where’s the line?”

Her expression mutated from a stunned stare to a murderous glare. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “My husband would need credentials. At least a college degree—advanced would be better.” She licked her lips, obviously grasping at any straw that would convince this lowly handyman he didn’t have a chance at marrying her, no matter how desperate she might become. “And—and…” she went on, “he must be able to converse with intelligent, educated businessmen who have money, position and power.”

He eyed heaven theatrically, deciding words weren’t necessary to convey his contempt.

“I don’t care what you think. There are logical, level-headed men out there who can understand that two intelligent people with the right attitude and similar goals can make a good marriage!”

“Bull.”

Their eyes traded stinging hostilities before she responded. “I couldn’t expect you to comprehend. I imagine you’d be hard pressed to understand anything more complicated than peeling bananas with your toes and—and swinging around in trees!”

“Are you calling me an ape?”

She winced and he sensed she wasn’t in the habit of insulting people. “Forget it.” She turned away to stare out to sea. “I just want to be left alone. Even a not-so-bright ape could see that.”

He felt an unexpected twinge of compassion but shook it off. She was planning to use some poor jerk to advance her career. She didn’t deserve compassion. “For the record,” he asked, “how many logical, advanced-degreed Nobel prize winners have loved your proposition so far?”

She bit her lip, her only reaction.

“That many?”

She cast him a furtive glance. “I have very high standards.”

From her pensive preoccupation earlier, he bet much of the turning down hadn’t been on her part. Deciding she needed taking down a peg he meandered casually around her, making it clear he was checking her out from all angles. “Mm-hmm,” he said when he’d finished his leisurely circuit.

She glared at him. “What is that supposed to mean!”

“It means, men have standards, too, Miss Sancroft.”

A glint of uneasiness in her eyes told him he’d hit a nerve. “What—what are you saying?”

With the flick of his hand he indicated her attire. “Look at you.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I may not have the most aristocratic résumé as potential husbands go, but I know what men want.” He allowed a stony silence to lengthen between them before he let her have it right between the eyes. “And it’s not a priggish, cold-fish virgin.”

“Priggish?” Shock edged her tone. “Cold fish? How dare you!” He noticed she stopped short of repeating “virgin” and thought that significant. It was like admitting that part, at least, she couldn’t dispute. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” She spun away and stalked off.

“Like hell I don’t!” He followed, grasping her arm. “When you need expert advice, Miss Sancroft, you’d be wise to listen to an expert.”

She jerked to face him. “And you’re an expert on women?”

His knowing smile was his answer.

She yanked on his hold. “Well, I’m not trying to attract your type!”

“Honey, when it comes to what men want in a woman, I’m the only type.” He let her go and reached around behind her head, slipping several pins from her hair. The stuff began to unwrap from its tight coil.

“What do you think—”

“Shut up and pay attention.” He tugged the hair gently until it came loose and cascaded down her back. “Shake it out.”

She stared at him as though he was speaking some bizarre foreign tongue.

When it became obvious she wasn’t computing his command, he gripped her shoulders and turned her around. He released her to brush his fingers through the hair. The texture was lush and silky against his fingertips. The brown locks were longer than he’d thought, reaching several inches past her shoulders.

Her hair swirled and swayed in the breeze as he turned her to face him and reached for the top button of her shirt. He had it halfway undone before she slapped his hand away. “That is enough of your expert handling! I can unbutton my own clothes.”

He stepped back to allow her more space and gave her a dubious look. “Do it then. Your dress code is right out of the Temperance League handbook.” That might be true, but at the moment his attention was drawn to her hair, buffeted by the breeze. The stuff he’d dismissed as “dull brown” sparkled with auburn highlights in the setting sun, disquieting him. Taking her down a peg had him a little unsteady.

The blasted button he’d halfway dislodged opened in the stiff, sea breeze, and the Oxford cloth wagged in the wind, tormenting him with flashes of soft, pale flesh. His intention to make fun of her shifted abruptly to an uncomfortable masculine arousal. He took another step back, not to give her personal space, but to place her out of reach.

These small changes in her appearance suddenly felt like a cunning come-on. Irritated, he reminded himself that he had made those changes to annoy and ruffle her, not to turn himself on. Mentally shaking himself to get his head on straight, he indicated her with a dismissive wave. “You’re never going to get an applicant to accept your husband position unless you sell yourself.” His voice sounded gruff in his ears. He was sorry he’d started his I’m-such-an-expert prank. He didn’t know who was suffering more, her or him. “A smart woman shows a sexy hint of what the man’s getting.”

Jen tossed her head, all the better to show off that shiny, velvety hair. Did she know what that little act of defiance did to him? “You think I should do a striptease,” she demanded, eyes flashing. “Are you suggesting all men carry their brains in their trousers?”

“Don’t kid yourself, darling.” Darling? He’d never called a female darling in his life. He cleared his throat, forging on with the lesson, though it had lost any semblance of entertainment. “Men are visual creatures.” Too damn true! He flinched as her flapping blouse caught the wind and billowed to expose the lacy edge of her bra. He forced his gaze to her sparking eyes. “You can offer all the dental, medical and retirement benefits in the world, but if you don’t give out a little T and A you’ll bomb.”

“That shows how much you know!” she shouted. “Marriages based on mutual betterment are formed every day. My parents, as an example, are a fine-tuned machine. They have the same goals and values, are a stable couple and they’ve never been mushy or gooey over each other.”

“Seeing you, I don’t doubt it.”

Her face tightened, her eyes glimmering with hurt. Though she was to blame for his discomfort and frustration, Cole experienced a stab of guilt for that last dig. It had been unfair. But it drove him crazy how she could stand there and be so sterile about something so fraught with intimacy and emotion as marriage.

She blinked back threatening tears, her expression turning obstinate. “I don’t know why I’m bothering to tell you this, but if you insist on emotionalism, my grandmother and grandfather’s history proves my point. Grandma was a widow with two small boys and no income. Grandpa was a widower with a farm to run. They got married out of mutual need. To make a long story short, they had four more children. One was my dad. And somewhere along the way, they fell madly in love. Grandma and Grandpa became the gooiest couple I’ve ever seen.”

She shoved wind-tossed hair out of her face, her features rebellious. “So, for your information, Mr. Noone, love can grow between two people with mutual beliefs and goals, if they work at it. I think that kind of love is much more—more trustworthy, more genuine than blind, irrational hysteria! Besides, I…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “That’s all I intend to say on the subject.”

He wondered what she’d left unsaid, but shrugged it off. “You seem to have it all figured out.”

She eyed him with obvious skepticism, as though she didn’t believe he was convinced. “I’m not a person who does things without great thought.”

“And you’re planning to have children with this man?” That was a question he hadn’t expected to ask. But now that he had, he was curious about the answer.

Her lips parted with shock at his bluntness, but she regained herself and nodded. “If it’s any of your business, yes. I want children.”

He couldn’t believe it. Here she was advertising for a husband to gain a promotion, and she had the temerity to suggest she planned to bring children into the scheme, too? “How deluded can you be?” he demanded. “An educated, intelligent, successful man is not likely to defer his career to become your wife and nanny. Maybe you’d better stick to men of retirement age who’ll be willing to stay home with junior. Or find some terminally employment-challenged guy who can’t hold on to a good job.”