The MacKades Collection: The Return of Rafe MacKade / The Pride of Jared MacKade / The Heart of Devin MacKade / The Fall of Shane MacKade. Nora Roberts

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ touch, taste.”

      His eyes were dark again, reckless. He picked up the knife, tested its point. “Take,” he added. “But that’s just me, and there are two of us here. So you go on ahead with your mulling.”

      Baffled, she stared at him as he chose a clove of garlic. “I’m trying to decide if you expect me to thank you for that.”

      “Nope.” Expertly he laid the flat of his knife over the garlic, gave one quick pound of his fist to crush it. “You’re just supposed to understand it, like I’m understanding you.”

      “You’re a real nineties man, MacKade.”

      “No, I’m not. And I’m going to make you stutter again. You can count on that.”

      Challenged, she picked up the wine, topped off their glasses. “Well, you count on this. If and when I decide to make my move, you’ll do some stuttering of your own.”

      He scooped the minced garlic into the oil, where it sizzled. “I like your style, darling. I really like your style.”

      Chapter 4

      Sunny skies and a southerly breeze brought in a welcome end-of-January thaw. Icicles dripped prettily from eaves and shone with rainbows. In front yards and fallow fields, snowmen began to lose weight. Regan spent a pleasant week earmarking stock for the Barlow place and hunting up additions to her supply at auction.

      When business was slow, she revised and honed her room-by-room decorating scheme for what was going to be the MacKade Inn at Antietam.

      Even now, as she described the attributes of a walnut credenza to a pair of very interested buyers, her mind was on the house. Though she hadn’t realized it, yet, she was as haunted by it as Rafe had been.

      The front bedroom, second floor, she mused, should have the four-poster with canopy, the rosebud wallpaper and the satinwood armoire. A romantic and traditional bridal suite, complete with little bowls of potpourri and vases of fresh flowers.

      And what had been the gathering room, on the main level, had that wonderful southern exposure. Of course, Rafe had to pick the right windows, but it would be spectacular in sunny colors with a trio of ficus trees, hanging ferns in glazed pots, and pretty little conversation groups of boldly floral love seats and wingback chairs.

      It was perfect for a conservatory, a place to gaze through the glass into the woods and gardens, with forced narcissi and hyacinths brightening midwinter gloom.

      She couldn’t wait to get her hands on the place, add those tiny, perfect details that would make it a home again.

      An inn, she reminded herself. A business. Comfortable, charming, but temporary. And it wasn’t hers. With an effort, she shook her head clear and concentrated on the sale at hand.

      “You can see the marquetry is high-quality,” she continued, keeping her sales pitch moderate and pleasant. “The bowfront cupboards on the side are the original glass.”

      The woman fingered the discreet tag longingly, and Regan’s sharp eye caught the hopeful glance she sent her less enthusiastic husband.

      “It really is lovely. But it’s just a little more than we had in mind.”

      “I understand. But in this condition—”

      She broke off when the door opened, furious with herself for the quick leap, then the quick disappointment when it wasn’t Rafe who came in. Before she could smile a welcome at Cassie, she saw the livid bruises on the side of her friend’s face.

      “If you’d excuse me for just a moment, I’ll give you time to talk it over.”

      An antique bangle jingling on her wrist, sensible shoes clacking, she moved swiftly through the shop. Saying nothing, she took Cassie’s arm and led her into the back room.

      “Sit down. Come on.” Gently, she eased Cassie into a chair at the tiny iron table. “How bad are you hurt?”

      “It’s nothing. I just—”

      “Shut up.” Grinding back the spurt of temper, Regan slammed a kettle on the hot plate. “I’m sorry. I’m going to make some tea.” She needed a moment, she realized, before she could deal with this rationally. “While the water’s boiling, I’ll go finish up with my customers. You sit here and relax for a minute.”

      Shame swimming in her eyes, Cassie stared down at her hands. “Thanks.”

      Ten minutes later, after ruthlessly hacking the price of the credenza to move the customers along, Regan hurried back. She told herself she’d gotten the anger under control. She promised herself she would be supportive, sympathetic.

      One look at Cassie, slumped in the chair while the kettle belched steam, had her exploding.

      “Why in the hell do you let him do this to you? When are you going to get tired of being that sadistic bastard’s punching bag? Does he have to put you in the hospital before you walk away?”

      In utter defeat, Cassie folded her arms on the table, then dropped her head on them and wept.

      Her own eyes stinging, Regan dropped to her knees beside the chair. In the tidy little office, with its ice-cream-parlor chairs and neat rolltop desk, she struggled to face the reality of battering.

      “Cassie, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Cass. I shouldn’t be yelling at you.”

      “I shouldn’t have come here.” Lifting her head, Cassie covered her face with her hand and fought to get her breath back. “I shouldn’t have come. But I just needed somebody to talk to.”

      “Of course you should have come here. This is exactly where you should have come. Let me see,” Regan murmured, easing Cassie’s hand away. The bruises ran from temple to jaw, in ugly purple. One of Cassie’s lovely smoke gray eyes was swollen nearly shut.

      “Oh, Cassie, what happened? Can you tell me?”

      “He…Joe…he hasn’t been feeling well. This flu that’s been going around.” Cassie’s voice hitched and jittered. “He missed a lot of work, being sick, and yesterday they laid him off.”

      Avoiding Regan’s eyes, she fumbled in her bag for a tissue. “He was upset—he’s worked there almost twelve years now, on and off. The bills. I just bought a new washing machine on credit, and Connor wanted these new tennis shoes. I knew they were too expensive, but—”

      “Stop,” Regan said quietly, and laid a hand over Cassie’s. “Please stop blaming yourself. I can’t bear it when you do.”

      “I know I’m making excuses.” With a long, shuddering breath, Cassie shut her eyes. To Regan, at least, she could be honest. Because Regan, in the three years they had known each other, had always been there. “He hasn’t had the flu. He’s been drunk almost day and night for a week. They didn’t lay him off, they fired him because he went to work drunk and mouthed off to his supervisor.”

      “And then he came home and took it out on you.” Rising, Regan took the kettle off the hot plate and began to make the tea. “Where are the kids?”

      “At СКАЧАТЬ