The Love Child. Catherine Mann

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       Three

      As the sounds of the spat faded, replaced by the light wind rustling through the low-hanging tree branches that gathered, sentry-like, at the left corner of the boathouse, Isabeau felt her heartbeat intensify.

      Trystan’s slightly calloused hand wrapped around hers. His skin, rough from ranch work—hands clearly used to the brush of leather reins—sending her own skin humming with awareness. She was drawn to the dichotomy of him, a tycoon in boots.

      She hated to admit it, but part of her eagerness to escape his family’s chaos had a lot to do with the draw of this man. In her line of work, she’d found herself frequently at the epicenter of familial disputes. It came with the territory of image curation.

      But this felt different from her experience with any other client. Isabeau knew why too.

      It had everything to do with the man with the charismatic, gruff demeanor.

      She heard the distant bark of her dog and glanced over her shoulder to be sure Paige wasn’t fretting about being away from her. A quick check assured her that her yellow Lab was still enjoying playtime with her new pals—a husky named Kota and a Saint Bernard named Tessie.

      Isabeau turned her attention back to Trystan, surprised at the ease in her steps. She didn’t feel the urgent need to have her dog close. A relaxed and mellow sensation flowed through her veins.

      Along with a total awareness of this big, sexy man. An outdoorsman who danced with a confidence and smoothness that made her body burn.

      And she couldn’t help but glory in the feeling. So many of her panic attacks stemmed from negative encounters with men.

      Some of the males who had flocked to her beautiful, weary mother had crowded Isabeau.

      And then came her college boyfriend, who’d never laid a hand on her but stole her privacy by stalking her every move until she’d been forced to take out a restraining order.

      People could leave a scar on a person’s soul in so many ways.

      Yet, something about Trystan put her at ease.

      His total honesty.

      He might be rough around the edges, but he was authentic and that kept her moving forward along with him. She would worry about the impropriety issue later. Right now, she could only think about how hot she’d found him since the first time she’d laid eyes on him.

      Leading her inside, he flipped on the lights, the switch igniting the darkness in front of her with the warm glow of yellow-hued lamplight. Golden illumination revealed the luxury of even this aspect of the property.

      Plush couches and well-appointed wooden furniture. A row of yellow two-person kayaks lined the wall farthest from them, complementing the neatly arranged fishing poles and nets. A powerboat docked in the water nearby, bobbing up and down, adjacent to a sitting area with Sedona-orange-colored cushions decorating a couch and two chairs. Waterproof, she realized, though they still seemed overstuffed...

      Trystan turned a slow circle. “It’s definitely quieter here.”

      She drew in a breath of the salt-laden air. “You did well at the wedding with the photo shoots.”

      There hadn’t been media present, but still, he’d put on his game face for the shots to be released to the press.

      “So I’ve earned my respite from the masses?”

      “Is that what this is? An escape, a break?” She smoothed her silky dress, her fingers—her senses—hyperaware of every texture down to the timbre of his whiskey-smooth voice.

      His blue eyes lit with a smile. “Actually, this was about getting time alone to talk to you about something other than work. I think we’ve both earned that. Do you agree? Or is it back to business for us?”

      “I do agree,” she answered, wanting to linger in the mellowness between them a while longer.

      “Good, good.” He strode toward the refrigerator and opened it, surveying the contents. СКАЧАТЬ