Beauty In His Bedroom. Ashley Summers

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      A sound from the kitchen jolted him back to reality. There was no one to welcome him home from work—there never would be again. Giving himself a savage shake, he took off his hat, then stood there crushing the brim in his fingers. He wasn’t imagining things—someone really was cooking!

      His eyes slitted; anger ticked a muscle in his jaw. Was this somebody’s idea of a joke? Treading quietly on the gleaming wood floor, he entered the great room.

      Surprise stopped him again. Plants filled the sweeping curve of tall, Palladian windows. In the den, a lamp burned beside his leather chair, and a book lay facedown on the cushion. Pink satin house slippers lay nearby, as if lazily kicked off.

      “What the hell!” he muttered, mauling his hair.

      Depositing his hat on the built-in desk, he looked around for the source of sound he’d heard. Only a half wall separated the kitchen proper from the breakfast nook, and at first he thought it empty. Then a young woman emerged from the pantry carrying a pewter bowl.

      Clint experienced a swirl of vivid impressions. She wore jeans, a pink T-shirt and big, round glasses with purple frames. Her face was a valentine, her nose, small and sassy. Unpolished nails tipped her bare feet, and a bouquet of red-gold curls bloomed wildly atop her head. He hadn’t the faintest idea who she was.

      That topknot of hair swayed precariously as she caught sight of him. Eyes as green as springtime flew wide behind those absurd glasses. She screamed and dropped the bowl, which hit the tiled floor with a resounding clang.

      “It’s all right. I won’t hurt you!” Clint said. Hoping to prevent another outburst, he flung out his hands reassuringly.

      She backed against the counter, her eyes enormous.

      His heart contracted. “Please, don’t be scared. I’m Clint Whitfield. I own this house.” He stepped closer. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to scare you. I just let myself in and then I heard…” His eyebrows shot together as the situation hit home. “Wait a minute—who are you, anyway? And what are you doing in my house?”

      “R-Regina. Regina Flynn. Gina.” Collecting herself, she pressed a hand to her throat. “My goodness!” she exclaimed with a tremulous laugh. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Whitfield. Obviously you caught me by surprise.”

      “Obviously.”

      “Uh, yes. And I’m here because…” She bent down to pick up the bowl, and with precise movements, placed it on the counter.

      Stalling, he thought, eyes narrowing again as she straightened. “Because?” he prompted.

      Her eyes flinted and that pointed chin came up. Deliberately she removed her glasses. “Because I’m supposed to be here. I’m with the Lamar Home Maintenance Agency, and among other things I’m a house sitter. House-sitting your house,” she added. “It’s just part of the agency’s service.” Her gaze collided with his. “Wait a minute—you’re not supposed to be here. You didn’t notify me that you were returning!”

      “I didn’t know I had to notify you that I was returning,” Clint replied with cutting sarcasm. Twice in as many minutes, he’d literally had the wind knocked out of him. “And I don’t recall asking the agency,” he mocked, “for this particular service.”

      “Well, then your recall is wrong,” she retorted with a little more spirit.

      “Is it now! I don’t think so, lady.” Clint’s nostrils flared as a wisp of fragrant steam rose from the kettle simmering on the stove. His kettle, his stove. It was spaghetti sauce. His irritation swelled into a roar that he swatted down with sheer willpower. Be damned if he was going to lose his temper!

      “No,” he continued, his voice soft and steely. “I think what’s wrong is your presence on my property. In fact, I doubt you’re even with the agency, I think you just found an empty house, moved in and made yourself at home. Maybe even sold off a few things when you needed pocket money,” he added, looking around. Nothing appeared to be missing, but then he’d been gone so long, who remembered? “Maybe I should call the police.”

      “The police! But that’s crazy, I’m not a thief—there isn’t a thing missing from your house!” she replied, her bosom heaving with indignation.

      It really did heave, Clint thought, startled at his interest. The T-shirt displayed her small breasts to perfection. His willful gaze traveled down her slim waist to the soft denim hugging her thighs and long legs. She was tall for a woman—five foot nine, he estimated. And although trim and fit, she was no clotheshorse. She had hips, thighs and buttocks, he noted in that fleeting but quite intense scrutiny.

      When he brought his gaze back to her face, she squared her shoulders and firmed up her mouth.

      “If you’ll stop making these asinine accusations and let me explain, I’m sure we can clear this up,” she said. “I am with the agency and I am your house sitter—not some squatter staking a claim on your property!” she added with emerald-eyed disdain. “Personally I think you’re very fortunate to have me here looking after your interests. I’ve taken very good care of your home, Mr. Whitfield, really, I have.”

      She waved a slim, rose-tipped hand, encompassing the immaculate kitchen and den. “You can see that for yourself if you’ll just look around. But now that you’re back,” she said hastily, “I’ll be quick to pack up my stuff and leave without further ado. I’ll tell the agency that you’re back—you needn’t bother yourself, I’ll be glad to do it for you.”

      She gave him a piercingly sweet smile.

      Clint’s head suddenly reeled. He stepped back from her. “I bet you will,” he drawled, his annoyance almost too hot to handle. “But why don’t I just tell them myself?” He reached for the telephone.

      “You go right ahead and do that!” she snapped, then bit her lip. “Except it would do you no good. In the end you’d only get me. I mean, I’m in charge of you. Your file, that is.” Her head lowered a fraction, but she still met his gaze. “It says in your contract that you did want this service.”

      He leaned against the counter, studying her. He didn’t want to listen to her, he wanted to—needed to—vent this unreasoning anger. Besides, she was nervous about something. Not exactly lying—with those eyes, how could she lie? They had such depth and clarity. Moss green now, with little gold specks, tiny islands in a dusky sea that threatened to engulf him.

      Startled anew, Clint jerked his gaze away. “Now why would my contract say a thing like that? I certainly don’t remember putting it in there. In fact, when I left here I didn’t give a damn about this house. I handed it over to Lamar’s because it was the practical thing to do. And God knows I’ve always been practical,” he said with gritty irony. “Protect your investment, Whitfield, I told myself.”

      Clint shook his head. “Some bloody investment,” he added, looking around the lovely room. God, the bitter fights over this fine, Italian-tile floor and hand-carved cabinetry, those soaring windows… Catching himself in an iron grip, he shut down the sudden flow of memory. “Well?” he prodded, glaring at the aggravating Flynn woman. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

      His forceful demand seemed to fire rather than quell her defiance. Her eyes flashed. She threw back her head and that chin came up like an arrow aimed straight for his Adam’s apple.

      “I’ll СКАЧАТЬ