The Rancher Returns. Brenda Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ He would begin thinking of Layla Harris in his bed? Too late. His mind had already gone there. More than once. Those thoughts had pretty much settled in the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Having her at the party house wasn’t helping matters. Typically, all he had to do was snap his fingers to get any woman he wanted. Why were his fingers itching to be snapped? With Layla Harris, would it be that easy? Why didn’t he think so?

      “I am so sorry,” she said now. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I know you need to get all that rest and—”

      “You didn’t wake me.”

      “But you said that you heard me playing.”

      “I did, but that’s not what awakened me.” Gavin figured there was no reason to tell her how disrupted his sleep patterns tended to be during his first few days back home. Which still left her question unanswered. Why was he here? Why had he sought her out? In the middle of the night? “You play very well,” he said.

      Gavin thought she was even more beautiful than she had looked this morning. He blamed the easy smile that touched her lips.

      “Thanks, but I’m sure you didn’t come all this way just to give me that compliment.”

      No, he hadn’t. He’d actually come to give her hell for feeding his grandmother a bunch of crock about buried treasure on their land. So he needed to say what he had come to say. “We should talk. May I come in?”

      * * *

      It was funny he would ask. After all, she was the visitor on his land. This was his house. Ms. Melody had told her that Gavin and some of his SEAL teammates had built it a few years ago as a place to hang out whenever they visited.

      Gavin and his friends could get loud and rowdy here at the cottage without disturbing his grandmother. That accounted for why the place was so spacious with the cupboards bare—except for a refrigerator stocked with beer and wine coolers. Not to mention that a deck of cards seemed to be in every room.

      “Yes, of course you can come in. You own the place.”

      “But you’re my grandmother’s guest.”

      Had he said that to remind her she wasn’t his guest? To remind her that her presence on the Silver Spurs was something he didn’t support? Layla would find out soon enough.

      She moved from the door and he followed, closing it behind him. “Would you like something to drink?” Grinning brightly, she said, “There’s plenty of beer and wine coolers in the fridge.”

      Gavin chuckled. “I’ll take a beer.”

      She nodded. “One beer coming up.” She felt his gaze on her backside.

      “Here you are. I feel funny doing this,” Layla said, coming back into the room carrying a cold bottle of beer.

      He lifted a brow. “Doing what?”

      “Serving you your own beer.”

      “No reason that you should. You’re my grandmother’s guest.”

      That was the second time he’d said that, Layla thought. Not one to beat around the bush, she crossed the room to hand him the beer, and then wished she hadn’t. Their hands had only briefly touched so why was heat filling her? And why was he looking at her as if that same heat filled him?

      She quickly took a step back and wiped her hands down the sides of her jeans.

      “You think that will get rid of it?”

      She met his eyes. She knew what he’d insinuated, but she wanted to be sure. “Get rid of what?”

      “Nothing.”

      He then opened the bottle and took a huge gulp. Afterward, he licked his lips while she watched. Her chest tightened. He lowered the bottle from his mouth and held her gaze. “Want a sip?”

      She drew in a deep breath to clamp down on her emotions. Was he offering to share his beer? For them to drink from the same bottle? Doing something like that was way too intimate for her. Evidently not for him. A distinct warmth coiled around her midsection. The way his eyes darkened wasn’t helping matters.

      She should call his bluff and take a sip. But that might lead to other things. It might give him ideas. The same ideas floating crazily through her head. The last thing she needed was an involvement with a man. Any man. Especially him. Her work was too important to her. The idea of an October fling was not. “No thanks. I had one earlier and one was enough for me.”

      Instead of saying anything, he nodded and raised the bottle to his lips to drain the rest. She watched his throat work. When had seeing a man drink anything been a turn-on?

      When he finished the bottle and lowered it, she asked, “Want another one?”

      He smiled at her. “No, one was enough for me.”

      She couldn’t help but smile back at his use of her words. “I don’t know, Gavin Blake. You seem like the sort of guy that could handle a couple of those.”

      “You’re right, but that’s not why I’m here.”

      His words were a reminder that he hadn’t shown up tonight for chitchat and drinking beer. “Yes, you said you wanted to talk. Is there a problem?” Layla knew there was and figured he was about to spell it out for her.

      “Who taught you to play the harmonica?”

      She’d expected him to just dive in. His question threw her. “My grandfather,” she said, angling her head to look up at him. “He was the best. At least most people thought so.”

      “And who was your grandfather?”

      “Chip Harris.”

      Surprise made Gavin’s jaw drop. “Chip Harris? The Chip Harris?”

      Layla nodded. “Yes,” she said, intentionally keeping her voice light. Very few people knew that. It wasn’t something she boasted about, although she was proud of her grandfather’s success and accomplishments. He’d been a good man, a great humanitarian and a gifted musician. But most of all he had been a wonderful grandfather. Her grandparents had helped to keep her world sane during the times her parents had made it insane.

      Layla saw Gavin’s dark, penetrating eyes suddenly go cold. “Is anything wrong?”

      “So that’s how you did it.”

      She raised a brow. “That’s how I did what?”

      “How you were able to talk my grandmother into going along with your crazy scheme of Jesse James’s treasure being buried on my property. You probably heard she’s a big fan of Chip Harris, and used the fact that you’re his granddaughter to get in good with her. Get Gramma Mel to trust you and—”

      “You jerk.” Anger flared through her. His accusations filled her with rage. “How dare you accuse me of doing something so underhanded, so unethical and low? You might not know me but you know your grandmother. How can you think so little of her to imagine she has such a weak mind she could be taken in by anyone? How can you not trust her judgment?”

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