Beauty In His Bedroom. Ashley Summers

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      Clint Whitfield brushed at his face as if clearing away the sunlight teasing him to wakefulness. In his years of roaming the globe, rarely did he awake confused as to his whereabouts. But this wasn’t the veld, the jungle or the dun-colored plains with animals flowing across its soft folds like streams of dark water. He was in his own house—and for a fraction of a second, he expected his wife to come in….

      No, no. She was gone and he was alone.

      Still confused, he gazed around the sunlit room, noting plants and flowers, a snowy knit shawl flung over a chair, framed snapshots on the mantel, none of them his. The center picture, a small girl riding a hand-guided pony, pricked his memory, rousing him to his new reality despite an intense desire to avoid it.

      Even worse, once confusion vanished, he was left with a sense of stupidity that made him groan aloud.

      Regina Flynn. Clint groaned again as her sweet face formed in his mind. He had meant to sit down, exchange a few sensible words with the woman and leave none the worse for the encounter. Instead, he’d fallen asleep. How could he have let that happen?

      I’ve got to get out of here! Reacting to an urgency he didn’t fully understand, he threw off the afghan, bounded to his feet and grabbed his hat off the desk—

      “Good morning.”

      The low, musical greeting affected Clint like a shout. He froze, then whirled, eyes narrowing as he noted the tiny smile sweetening her lips. Yeah, just as he thought—amusement, so faint he’d have missed it had he not been immediately suspicious!

      She sat at the bar, coffee cup in hand, head still tilted in humorous regard. “Sleep okay?” she asked.

      Clint grunted. She wore something long and pink and looked absurdly delicious with all those messy curls streaming around her face and down her neck.

      “I slept fine,” he said. “I didn’t intend to,” he added tersely when she gifted him with another smile. “Falling asleep here was definitely not in my plans.”

      “You were exhausted,” she said easily. “There’s hot coffee—pour yourself a cup. Then go shower if you’d like. Meantime I’ll get dressed. We can talk over breakfast. Nothing fancy, just bagels. Frozen, unfortunately.” She dimpled. “But there’s homemade strawberry jam to even things out.”

      She stood up. “Coffee’s there, cups over here, sugar and cream by the sink,” she said, and left him standing there still forming a polite but tellingly curt refusal.

      Clint couldn’t resist the appeal of a hot shower. After downing a cup of black coffee, he fetched his bag from the rental car and headed for his bedroom.

      Opening the door was good for one of those gut-kicking pangs that life gifted him with whenever he dared think he was finally immune. Once inside, he paused for a quick look around. He’d never cared for the plush decor. But Barbara had liked it. So he’d put up with all this red velvet and carved mahogany.

      But that bed… He’d never sleep in it again. Well, there were plenty of other bedrooms in the-house-that-Clint-built. Grimacing, he made a mental note to return this heirloom furniture to her family. “Should have done that a long time ago,” he berated himself. Tight-lipped, he walked on to his personal bathroom, an uncluttered expanse of white tile, forest-green porcelain and sparkling glass.

      The shower felt as wonderful as anticipated. After a satisfying interval, he turned it off and grabbed a towel. Wrapping it around his hips, he wiped the fogged mirror and studied himself with a crooked smile. He looked dark, dangerous, tough as nails, a well-fitting mask that had gradually formed around his features as the darkness squeezed all joy and humor out of him.

      He’d lived behind the mask so long and it had served him so well, that he doubted he’d ever be free of its cynical benefits.

      “Just as well,” he muttered, lathering on shaving cream. He had no use for romantic illusions. Any dreams he might have had were dead, crushed by the weight of gritty reality.

      Such massive destruction left a man achingly vulnerable, and cynicism, with its razor-sharp edges, made a good shield. Avoiding his own gaze, Clint finished shaving and hurriedly dressed in khaki slacks and a white knit pullover.

      When he returned to the den, breakfast was laid out on the bar. Regina, clad in a smart navy suit and low-heeled pumps, motioned him to sit. Impassively he obeyed. He accepted a cup of coffee, but ignored breakfast. He’d rather look at her than eat, an unsettling discovery. He swallowed a big gulp of coffee, burning his tongue grievously. He swore, but kept it under his breath.

      “Help yourself, I’ve already eaten,” she said with another wave of her slim, elegant hand. Absently she smoothed her hair. “Mr. Whitfield, I’m sorry if I’ve caused you distress. I did notify you about a house sitter,” she went on in a rush of words, “but I admit I might have jumped the gun a little—”

      “Jumped the gun a little?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow.

      “All right, I did notify you, but I didn’t wait for your response. So you do have cause to be irate. In fact, you have cause to lodge a complaint with Lamar himself,” she added.

      With just enough irony in her smile to make that much too harsh a punishment, he thought. “But you hope I won’t.”

      “Yes, of course. I value my job.”

      “But not enough to keep from risking it. Why? What prodded you into doing this?”

      Her gaze dropped. “That’s not important. I don’t want to play on your sympathy. Not to that extent, anyway. But I can promise that I’ll be out of here by tonight, with no harm done that I can see. I really have taken good care of your home during this time—”

      “During what time? How long have you been here?”

      Regina stuck a bagel in the toaster. “A little over a month. I moved in the last week of August.”

      “And you didn’t tell anyone at the office?”

      “No. Oh, I told Lamar I was appointing myself your house sitter, but he assumed—and I let him assume—that you’d agreed to the arrangement. I hoped, of course, that you would do so before he discovered that I’d acted prematurely,” she said stiffly. Refilling their coffee cups, she picked up hers and cautiously sipped. “Again, I’m sorry.”

      “Why? Because you got caught?”

      “No,” she replied indignantly. “Well, yes. But also because you were upset by it. I apologize, and I will get out at once. It won’t take any time, I only have my clothes and my garden—”

      “Your garden?” His eyebrows shot up again. “You can move a garden?”

      “Well, if it’s in big pots, you can. Just some herbs I use often, and a few pepper and tomato plants I’ve coaxed through the summer heat. Not an easy job, believe me!” she said with a sudden smile. It faded, and the room inexplicably darkened.

      “I suppose not.” The bagel popped up. He took half, then reached for the cream cheese. “What caused you to sneak in here in the first place? There must have been some good reason to risk your job.”

      “There was. And I didn’t СКАЧАТЬ