Bedroom Diplomacy. Michelle Celmer

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ away from the wreckage. But before they could reach a safe distance the helicopter burst into flames. Both men suffered severe burns, and Colin spent first a month in the hospital, then another eight weeks in a rehab center.

      It sounded as if Colin had been incredibly lucky. Other than the small scar bisecting his brow, he had no obvious marks. Until he took off his clothes, that is. And the last thing she needed to be doing was thinking about Colin with his clothes off. Did she miss dating? Sometimes. But there was nothing Rowena needed that she couldn’t provide herself. In or out of the bedroom.

      That didn’t mean it wouldn’t be fun.

      Three

      The following day seemed to drag by, as if time were moving through a vat of molasses. Rowena tried to keep busy, ordering supplies, working on lesson plans and scouring the internet for craft ideas. Then right in the middle of a task, a vision of Colin, standing in the pool house, his chest bare, his arms thick with sinew, would pop into her head and she’d completely forget what she was doing.

      Would he be at the pool again tonight, or when he said maybe, had he just been humoring her? Did he really mean no way lady? Maybe after they talked, he didn’t find her quite so attractive after all.

      She felt nervous and distracted all afternoon, and during dinner, while Dylan chattered away about his day, she was only half listening. What if Colin really did show?

      What then?

      Even if he liked her, and she liked him, he was only here for a few weeks. It’s not as if they could ever have any kind of relationship.

      She was a responsible adult. Someone’s mother. Her days of brief affairs and one-night stands had ended the day she found out she was pregnant. It was too… undignified.

      It shouldn’t have mattered if Colin was at the pool or not. So why, when she went to take her swim and she found the chairs empty, was she so disappointed?

      When she was done, as she was walking back to her suite, she thought about taking a quick detour to Colin’s suite. Only to tell him again that she had enjoyed their talk, and to let him know that if he needed anything, all he had to do was ask.

      Rowena, she imagined him saying, all I need is you.

      He would be shirtless, of course, and possibly just out of the shower, with droplets of water dotting his pecs. His hair would be wet and spiky. He would hold out his hand, and though she would hesitate for several seconds, she would take it. He would pull her into his room, closing the door behind them.…

      At that point she made herself keep walking until she reached her own suite. As unlikely as it was that would ever really happen, it scared her to think what would happen if it did.

      The following morning she managed not to think about him much at all, until she was walking up to the mansion and saw Colin and her father’s attorney sitting on the back patio.

      “Hello, Colin,” she said with a smile, her heart lifting at the sight of him, only to flop back down and land with a sickening thud when he replied, “Hello, Miss Tate.”

      He didn’t even crack a smile.

      ’Nuff said. She squared her shoulders and kept walking. She had no reason to be upset or feel slighted. They’d talked one time. It wasn’t as if he’d promised they would see each other again. To avoid seeing him again she left through the front door, taking a different route back, walking all the way down the driveway to the road, then up a quarter mile to the day-care center.

      “Why did you go the long way?” Tricia asked.

      “Good exercise,” Rowena told her, then hid in her office for the rest of the morning, refusing to feel sorry for herself. She was being silly, that’s all. All the time she spent cooped up on the estate must be taking its toll.

      In the afternoon a feisty ten-year-old named Davis, whose mother worked for the senator soliciting donations, took a tumble off the monkey bars and Rowena sat with him, holding an ice pack on his bruised and swollen arm, until his mother arrived and rushed him off to the E.R. for X-rays.

      She filled out an accident report and all the other appropriate documentation, then sat through a berating from her father—in front of Dylan, no less—because naturally it was her fault.

      “Dabis godda owie taday,” Dylan said as she tucked him into bed that night.

      She pulled the covers up to his chin. “Yes, Davis got an owie. But his mommy called and said it was just a small owie. Nothing broken.”

      There was genuine relief in his big hazel eyes. Having been through so much himself, Dylan was exceptionally empathetic for a boy his age. And though he might have physically disabilities, he was smart as a whip and wise beyond his very short two and a half years.

      “Papa mad at you,” he said.

      “No, baby, he’s not mad,” she lied. “He was just worried about Davis. But Davis is fine, so everything is okay.” She got so tired of making excuses for her father’s behavior. Dylan adored him. He was the only grandparent Dylan had, but Dylan was exceptionally smart. It wouldn’t be long before he began to understand the kind of man his grandfather really was.

      As she leaned down and kissed him good-night, Dylan asked the same question he had every night since he’d learned to talk.

      “I gedda big bed?”

      She sighed and tousled his curly red mop of hair. “Yes, sweetie, you’ll get a big-boy bed very soon.”

      She felt guilty for depriving him of something he wanted so badly, but she just wasn’t ready to take the chance. In his crib she knew he was safe. In a regular bed, if he had a seizure or even just rolled too far to one side, he could fall out and hurt himself.

      Accepting her empty promise with a hopeful smile, the way he always did, and with his favorite toy race car clutched in his hand, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. He was so tiny for his age. So small and defenseless. She wasn’t ready for him to grow up.

      She leaned down, kissed him one last time and whispered, “I love you.”

      “Wuboo, too,” he said sleepily.

      She switched off his light, checked that the baby monitor was on, then slipped out of the room. As much as she needed a break by the end of the day, and a little time to herself, she hated leaving him alone. Until a year ago she’d kept him in bed with her, until the pediatrician warned that coddling him might only inhibit his progress. But it was so hard to let go, to relinquish control.

      Rowena changed into her swimsuit, but she still had twenty minutes before Betty would be there to babysit, so she switched on the television. It was tuned to the American News Service—the cable network that had broken the presidential paternity scandal—and the anchor, Angelica Pierce, was reporting, as was often the case lately, on recent developments in the story. And Angelica seemed to take a sick sort of satisfaction in relaying the details.

      Having been the target of rumors and speculation a time or two herself, Rowena could relate. Although in her case, the rumors usually were true. But she was never outed in front of hundreds of people.

      Angelica Pierce was saying something СКАЧАТЬ