Roomful of Roses. Diana Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ the half-made-up page. “At his age, there must be a woman or two.”

      “No.”

      She looked up. “How do you know so much about him?”

      “I helped raise him, remember? He used to hang around my house as much as he stayed at his own. We’ve kept in touch all this time.” He glanced at her over his glasses and smiled. “I always wanted to be a war correspondent, you know. But I had a family, and I didn’t feel I had the right to take the risk. McCabe’s shied away from permanent relationships for much the same reason, I imagine. Rough thing for a woman to take, having her man on the firing line most of their married lives.”

      Wynn had thought of that, but she wasn’t admitting it. Neither was she admitting how many newscasts she’d chewed her fingernails over before she stopped watching them altogether, or the kind of worrying she’d done about McCabe over the years. He shouldn’t matter, of course, he was only her guardian.

      “Wynn, are you listening?” Ed asked shortly. “I said, I’ve still got a hole on the front page. Go call the fire chief and see if they’ve had any fires overnight, okay?”

      “Sure thing, Ed.”

      The hectic pace kept her from thinking about McCabe any more until quitting time. The phones rang off the hook, people walked in and out, there were additions and deletions and changes in ads and copy until Wynn swore she’d walk out the door and never come back. She threatened that every Tuesday. So did Ed. So did Judy. So did Kelly and Jess. It was a standing joke, but nobody laughed at it on Tuesday.

      At five o’clock, the pages were pasted up and Kelly was driving them the thirty miles to the printer. The wreck Kelly had covered earlier took up a fourth of the front page. It had been a tragic one involving people from out of town, two carloads of them. Wynn was sad but involuntarily relieved that no one from Redvale had fallen victim. It was harder to do obituaries when you knew the victims.

      She dragged herself in the door at a few minutes past five, weary and disheveled and feeling as if her feet were about to fall off from all the standing she’d done. She already missed the air-conditioning at the office. She didn’t have it at home, and it was unseasonably hot.

      “Is that you, Wynn?” McCabe called from the kitchen.

      “It’s me.” She’d forgotten for an instant that he was here, and her heart jumped at the sound of his deep voice. She tossed aside her purse and paused to take off her suede boots before she padded in her hose onto the tiled kitchen floor.

      He glanced up from the counter where he was perched on a stool, making a chef’s salad.

      “Long day?” he asked, glancing down at her feet.

      “You ought to know,” she returned. “Can I help?”

      “Make a dressing, if you don’t have a prepared one.”

      “What’s the main course?” she asked, digging out mayonnaise and catsup and pickles.

      “Beef bourguignon. Do you like it?”

      She stared at him. “You didn’t mention that you did gourmet dishes.”

      “You didn’t ask.” He turned on the stool to study her. His shirt was open down the front, and she kept her eyes carefully averted. McCabe, stripped, was a devastating sight. She’d seen him that way at the pool, of course, wearing brief trunks that left his massive body all but bare. He was exquisitely male. All bronzed flesh and hard muscle with curling thick hair over most of it. Wynn didn’t like seeing him without a shirt. It disturbed her. Seeing Andy the same way didn’t, and that disturbed her, too.

      “You look bothered, honey,” McCabe commented, flicking open another button, almost as if he knew!

      She cleared her throat. “I need to change first, before I start this,” she said, leaving everything sitting on the counter while she escaped to her bedroom.

      She closed the door and slumped back against it heavily. What was wrong with her, anyway? McCabe was the enemy. Unbuttoning his shirt wasn’t going to change that, for heaven’s sake! Was she an impressionable girl or a woman? She shouldered away from the door. A woman, of course!

      Ten minutes later, she went back into the kitchen and McCabe stopped with a spoon in midair above the stew and just stared.

      The dress was emerald-green jersey. It had spaghetti straps that tied around her neck and across her back, leaving it bare to the waist behind. It outlined her high breasts, her small waistline and the deep curve of her hips with loving detail, and clung softly to her long legs when she walked. With her long hair piled atop her head and little curls of it hanging around her neck and temples, she was a sight to draw men’s eyes.

      “Do you wear dresses like that often?” McCabe asked, scowling.

      “Of course I do,” she said softly, and turned away. “Are you through with supper? I’ll finish making the dressing.”

      “Not in that dress you won’t,” he said curtly. He moved, leaning heavily on his stick, and was behind her before she knew it. One big warm hand caught her waist firmly and held her away from the counter. “It would be a crime to ruin it.”

      Her body tingled wildly under his hard fingers, as if she’d waited all her life for him to touch it and bring it to life. She felt herself tremble and hoped he wouldn’t feel it.

      “You...shouldn’t be standing,” she reminded him.

      “You sound breathless,” he murmured, and she felt his warm breath in her hair, like a heavy sigh. His fingers moved experimentally to her hip and back up again, as if they were savoring the feel of her. She wanted to lean back against him and let them inch up, slowly....

      She gasped and moved jerkily away from him. “I...I’ll get an apron,” she faltered. “Andy will probably be here any minute, he’s almost always early!”

      McCabe didn’t say a word. He stood quietly by the counter, leaning against it and the cane, and watched her with darkening eyes that didn’t leave her for a second.

      She glanced at him nervously as she fumbled with jars and bowls and spoons. “Say something, will you?” she laughed.

      “What is there to say?” he asked softly.

      She tried to speak, tried to find words to diffuse the tension between them, but instead she looked into his eyes and ached all the way down to her toes.

      Before she could move, or run, the doorbell rang sharply and saved her the effort.

      She turned and walked like a zombie to the front door and opened it.

      Andy’s brown hair was rumpled, as if he’d been running his hands through it angrily, and his dark eyes were troubled. He stared down at Wynn, but didn’t really seem to see her at all.

      “Hi,” he murmured. “Supper ready? I’m starved.”

      She sighed and led him back toward the dining room. “Come and say hello to McCabe first,” she said.

      Andy made an irritated sound. “Does he really cook?”

      “Of СКАЧАТЬ