Beauty In His Bedroom. Ashley Summers

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      Sweeping the floor, while satisfying in one respect, did not stop the thoughts surging through her mind much like the flames had surged through her house. She shivered, remembering that traumatic day.

      The disaster had felt so overwhelming. Afterward, still in shock, she’d lain in her rented sofa bed at night and had little panic attacks trying to formulate a workable plan for the future…

      Regina’s skin goose bumped as the image of flinty blue eyes pierced her mind. Would Clint Whitfield sympathize with her fearful anxiety? Or would he scorn it as a weak attempt to justify her decision to move into his home?

      Suddenly swamped with misgivings, she dropped the broom and began pacing. When she found herself standing outside the master bedroom, she opened the door and snapped on the light. Ordinarily this was forbidden territory; she would not invade private space, although she’d peeked, of course. But tonight she felt a perverse need to do more than just peek.

      Bottom lip held firmly between her teeth, Regina stepped inside his bedroom. She didn’t much like it. It was too dark, too ornate. An antique mahogany armoire dominated an entire wall. A large roll top desk held a cluster of ancestral pictures in heavy silver frames. Positioned on a somber Oriental rug, two tall, straight-back chairs upholstered in shadow-striped silk flanked a round, claw-footed table. All family heirlooms, she suspected; probably cost the earth. But she’d have nightmares sleeping in that bed. The towering four-poster with its heavy velvet canopy was straight out of a Gothic novel.

      Shivering, Regina stepped back into the hall and pulled the door shut. Going into his bedroom was a mistake. What was the matter with her? She had to think about her problem, not the cause of it! But the image of a tall, rugged stranger filled her mind. Sable hair, tousled as if by yearning feminine fingers. Sky-blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled…

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Regina, when did you actually see him smile?” she hissed, exasperated at her silly musings. “Just a stretch of facial muscles, that’s all it was. Because you yelled like a banshee and he was scared to death you’d do it again.”

      Still muttering to herself, Regina swept into the kitchen and turned on the stove. She needed to eat, and to heck with Clint Whitfield!

      After putting on a pot of salted water, she unpinned her hair and let it swirl around her face in a rambunctious blaze of defiance. Then she slumped down on a bar stool. “Don’t be a goose, Flynn,” she admonished. “You can’t afford pride—there’s Katie’s expenses to think of.” Her school was supported by private donations, plus steep fees from parents. But Regina was well paid, and with careful planning, was managing fine. Until her home and possessions became ashes in that ravenous blaze…

      Regina’s sigh reflected her inner conflict. Right or wrong, there was no denying that living in Clint Whitfield’s home had cut her expenses to the bone. But he’d gotten a break, too, she contended; regular house sitters were paid a substantial fee. And come to think of it, why did he dislike this beautiful house so much? She’d sensed his negative feelings several times during their confrontation.

      “Dang!” she swore, jumping as the doorbell sent its three-toned peal through the house. Switching on the intercom, she inquired curtly, “Who is it?”

      “Clint Whitfield.”

      “Oh, Jeez!” Regina whispered, clutching her chest. The husky male voice had sent her heart into a stunning somersault. She cleared her throat. “Just a minute!” After hurriedly smoothing her hair, she sped to the darkened foyer. The porch lights were on and she could see him through the door’s etched-glass insets; tall, bare-headed, forbiddingly stern. Snatching a fortifying breath, she lifted her chin and opened the door to face him.

      “Ah, Mr. Whitfield,” she drawled, her puckish sense of humor surfacing like a saving grace. “Returning to the scene of the crime?”

      His dark brows shot together. “This is not a laughing matter, Ms. Flynn.”

      “Maybe not,” she agreed with a wry smile. “But I learned long ago that if you can’t laugh at your problems, you’re in big trouble.”

      He didn’t smile back.

      Regina sighed. “So why are you here?”

      “To get my hat.”

      She blinked. “Your hat?”

      “Yes. When I left here, I…left in a hurry.” He frowned as her mouth quirked. “It’s on the desk,” he ended tersely.

      “Oh.” She stepped back. “Please, come in. After all, it is your house.” Turning, she proceeded him to the great room.

      At the desk, she paused to pick up the battered Stetson. It felt good to her fingers, heavy, masculine. When he took it, his hand brushed hers. The contact created an electrifying sensation.

      He jerked his hand back. “Sorry. Static electricity. This dry weather. Thanks,” he said, taking the hat.

      “You’re welcome. You know, if you hadn’t slammed out of here so fast, you wouldn’t have had to come back.” Regina met his gaze with a rueful smile. “Then again, if I hadn’t lost my temper, maybe you’d have kept yours and we could have talked this out.”

      She glanced at the hat he turned round and round in long, tanned fingers. Something loosened inside her. “You think we could try again? Like calm, rational adults this time?”

      Clint shoved back a lock of hair from his brow. “Look, I’m bushed, beat, wiped out from travel fatigue, certainly in no position to bandy clever words with you. The best I can do is apologize for my hot-headed exit. I don’t really think you’re a squatter and I doubt you’re a thief. But truth to tell, I don’t give a damn if you are or not. All I want is my hat, and in due time, your absence from my house.”

      “No explanation?”

      His eyes narrowed. “I said I didn’t—”

      “Give a damn,” she finished for him. “Yes, I heard. Something of a character flaw there,” she murmured just loud enough for him to overhear.

      He frowned.

      Regretting her barb, Regina tipped her head and gave his rugged face a keen, probing look. A highly sensitive woman, she saw beyond his flinty blue eyes to the profound weariness of heart and mind. His spirit was deeply troubled. And you have an incorrigibly soft heart, Flynn, she acknowledged with droll self-amusement.

      He turned his head, bringing into focus the scar slanting along one angular cheekbone. She’d noticed it as soon as he stepped into the brightly lit foyer, and wondered at the where, when, and how of it. Intriguing, she admitted, mentally tracing it with a fingertip.

      Responsive to the sudden warmth blossoming in her chest, Regina reached out to rescue the Stetson from his nervous fingers. “Here, let that rest a minute. You sit down, make yourself comfortable. If you’ve been subsisting on airline food all day, you’re bound to be ravenous, and it’s an indisputable fact that I make the best spaghetti sauce in the world—in the universe, actually. The freshest ingredients, herbs I grow myself, gourmet garlic, my Italian plum tomatoes…” She kissed her fingertips. “You’ll love it.”

      Without waiting for agreement, she replaced his hat on the desk and headed for the kitchen.

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