"Yes, but…you were supposed to meet Perry this morning," Stephanie said in vague protest.
"I did…for a few minutes. Are you going to come here? Or am I going to have to wade through all those clothes to get to you?" He both challenged and mocked her.
Stephanie laid the shirt over the side of the washing machine. In doing so, she became conscious of her appearance. Her gaze slid down the front of her sloppy sweat shirt and faded jeans. She felt the nakedness of her face, minus even lipstick.
"You should have called before coming over." Raising a hand to the hair tied back, she stepped over the pile of clothes blocking her path to the doorway and Brock.
"If I had, I wouldn't have got the chance to see this domestic scene." Brock reached out to take the hand she was balancing with and pulled her into his arms, locking his hands behind her back while he studied her upturned face. "And you know you look like a sexy little girl in that outfit."
It wasn't exactly the compliment she wanted to hear as she turned her head away to let his kiss land on her cheek and pushed her way past him into the kitchen. The floor seemed to roll under her feet, but she knew it was only her knees quaking.
"I don't want to look like a little girl," she declared, and lifted both her hands to untie the knotted yarn around her hair. But she had tied it tight and the knot defied the attempts of her trembling fingers to loosen it.
When she felt Brock's push hers out of the way, she tried to move away, but he clamped a hand on her shoulder to keep her in place. "Hold still," he ordered, and Stephanie stood quietly while he worked the yarn free of the knot. When it was untied, he turned her around and combed her hair into place with his fingers. "Now you just look sexy. Are you happy?" he asked with a lazy glint in his gray eyes.
But he didn't wait for her to answer, he bent his head to cover her lips with his mouth, skillfully parting them as he curved her into his arms. Her fingers curled into the wool of his sweater, clinging to the only solid thing she could find in the deepening intensity of his kiss. She was exposed to a whole set of raw, new emotions that had her straining toward him in trembling need. He dragged his mouth roughly across her cheek to her ear.
"Did you really think you wouldn't see me again before I left?" He sounded almost angry.
"I'm not sure if I believed it or not," Stephanie admitted with her eyes closed as he nibbled his way down her neck to her shoulder.
"Where are your parents? Who else are you expecting besides the egg lady?" he demanded.
"My parents are dead," she whispered, and wondered why he didn't know that. "There's only Mrs. Hammermill. She usually comes before nine."
She felt as well as heard the deep shuddering breath Brock took before he lifted his head to smile tightly at her. "In that case, why don't you fix me some breakfast? I didn't bother to eat before I came over. I thought you might do your shopping in the morning and I didn't want to miss you."
Not knowing how much she dared into that statement, Stephanie decided not to comment on it. "Do you want bacon and eggs?" she asked instead.
"What I want, I can't have at the moment." His hands slid up her back, suggestively pressing her closer to him before he released her and stepped away. "Bacon and eggs will do."
"How do you like your eggs?" She walked to the refrigerator, glad to have something to do. She took out the package of bacon and the last two eggs from the shelf.
"Sunny-side up, and crisp bacon."
She spied the pitcher of orange juice on the refrigerator shelf. "Juice?"
"No, thanks." Brock came to stand beside her while she laid the bacon strips in the skillet.
When it began to sizzle, she walked to the cupboard on the other side of him and took down a place setting. She glanced uncertainly at the kitchen table, then at him. "Would you like to eat in the dining room?" she suggested.
"No," he said with a decisive shake of his head. "I have no intention of letting you out of my sight."
His look, as well as his answer, was disturbing, but it also gave her such much-needed confidence. She was smiling as she arranged the plate and cutlery on the gingham-clothed kitchen table. She walked back to the stove to turn the bacon.
"When was the last time you had breakfast in somebody's kitchen?" she asked curiously, eyeing him with a sidelong glance.
"Probably not since I was a child," he admitted what Stephanie had suspected. "Are you a good cook?"
"Not as good as Perry, but he's had a lot more practice than I have." The bacon was beginning to brown nicely, so Stephanie kept turning it.
Brock took up a position behind her, his hands caressing the curve of her shoulders, while his thumbs rubbed the hollows of her neck. "Why did he have more practice?" He didn't really sound interested in the subject.
"Our mother died when I was only four. Since our father had to work at two jobs to support us, Perry had to do the cooking and look after me."
It was difficult to concentrate on what she was doing under the caress of his hands. She managed to rescue the bacon before it was burned and set it aside to drain on a paper towel.
"What did your father do?"
"He considered himself a ski instructor, but mostly he earned money as a bartender and cutting firewood…until his accident." She cracked the eggs and slipped them into the hot bacon fat.
"The accident that forced your brother to give up his law career," Brock guessed.
"Yes, he was crippled in a skiing accident." She looked over her shoulder, a curious frown knitting her forehead. "Perry has worked for you for over five years. Surely you knew that."
"No. I don't bother to inquire about the personal lives of my employees unless it affects their work. There's never been any reason to fault your brother's work." There was an indifferent and dismissing shrug of his shoulders.
"But surely you want to know something about their backgrounds," Stephanie insisted.
"Only their qualifications for their particular position. As long as I get the results I want, I couldn't care less who or what they are as individuals." There was a curve to his mouth, but it wasn't a smile. "You think that's a very callous attitude, don't you?"
She concentrated her gaze on the eggs in the skillet, the bright yellow yolks staring back at her. "Yes, I do."
"White Boar Inn represents half of one percent of the gross business Canfield Enterprises earns annually. Maybe that will give you an idea of how many Perry Halls I have working for me," he suggested. "I couldn't possibly become involved or have knowledge of their personal lives without losing perspective of my overall responsibility. By rights, I should sell the inn."
"Why don't you?" She could see the logic in his argument, but she mentally recoiled from this evidence of his lack of feeling. The eggs were done, so she moved away to fetch his plate from the table and scoop them onto it with the spatula.
"For personal reasons," Brock answered. Stephanie didn't think he intended to explain what they were, but she was wrong, "My parents spent their honeymoon at the White Boar when they eloped. He bought it for her on their sixth anniversary. He was the one who decreed that the honeymoon suite would be reserved only for Canfields."
"No wonder you're reluctant to sell it." Her smile was soft and radiant when she gazed at him, touched by this unexpected display of sentiment.
"Six months after he bought it, they went through a messy divorce that lasted two years. My mother has since remarried several times. My father, wisely, contented himself with a stream of mistresses." Brock watched her smile fade almost with satisfaction.
"Is…is he living?" Averting her gaze, Stephanie walked past him, carrying the plate of eggs and bacon to the table.
"Yes. He's retired to the south of France. I believe his current lover is a twenty-year-old model." Brock followed her. "Of course, he refers to her as his protégée.
"Coffee?" When she set his plate down, she searched for an excuse to find something else to do.
"Black with no sugar."
Stephanie mo
ved away from the table as he sat down to eat. "You must not have had a very happy childhood," she guessed.
"That depends on your definition of happy. My grandfather raised me even before my parents were divorced. They were always vacationing in some exotic resort in a far-off corner of the world. The divorce had little effect on me. Most of the time I was away at school or else with my grandfather. From the day I was born I was groomed to take over the company, and when my grandfather died a few years ago, that's exactly what I did."
Stephanie poured two cups and carried them to the table. "And the last time you ate in somebody's kitchen, that was with your grandfather?" "Hardly." Brock laughed Shortly. "He had all his meals at his desk unless it was a business dinner. No, I spent a week at the home of one of my classmates."
"Why don't you sell the inn?" Stephanie watched him, half-afraid to hear his answer. "It's obvious that you feel no sentimental attachment to it."
Brock was slow to answer, but it wasn't due to any hesitancy. "It reminds me that intimate relationships don't necessarily last forever no matter how strong the attachment appears on the surface."
"You make the trip here on an average of four times a year. Yet I've never heard of you bringing the same woman twice. Is that why?" But that question simply prompted another. "Why did you come this morning when Helen is back in the suite?"
"Because I didn't want to be with her. I wanted to be with you." His sharpness dissolved into a chuckle. "You are having a hard time trying to understand me, aren't you? The Helens of this world go in and out of my life ail the time. I have the sex drive of any normal male. There's no pretense, on either side, that we're together for any reason other than the purely physical—or sexual—if you prefer. She understood the ground rules going in—no emotional claims on me or my time. In return, I treat her with respect and courtesy. I'm not attempting to brag or shock you: I'm only trying to explain the circumstances that dictate my life-style."
Stephanie was trying but it all sounded very cold-blooded. "I am sure you can rationalize any behavior," She replied stiffly.
Leaning forward in his chair, Brock reached for her hand and gripped it firmly in his. The intensity of his gaze was piercing. "What I'm not making clear to you, Stephanie, is how difficult it is for me to have the kind of relationship you regard as normal—with any woman. I don't have time to carry out a courtship." A muscle was working convulsively along his jaw. "Tomorrow I'm driving to New York. When I arrive, there might be a phone call that will take me to the West Coast. I could be there a month, maybe two. Or I might be there a day and leave for Zurich—I have hotel suites in a dozen cities. I'm with you today, but it might be six months before I can see you again. How can I build a relationship on that? How can I ask a woman to wait for me without being able to tell her when I'll see her again?"
"It's really quite hopeless, isn't it?" Her voice was choked, the futility swamping her.
He released her hand with controlled irritation, pausing a second before he resumed eating the rest of his breakfast. "Sometimes I forget that it is, but the inn reminds me…every month when I see the name on the report."
"That's why you said you didn't want an heir—that it was time the Canfield name died," she said, suddenly understanding.
"No one should have this responsibility unless he wants it," Brock stated.
"You…you could sell?" Stephanie suggested hesitantly.
"This is what I was trained for—what I'm good at." His mouth slanted in a half smile. "I doubt if I can make you understand that. I wouldn't change my life and what I do, even if I had the choice." He wiped at his mouth with a napkin. "That was a very good breakfast. Is there more coffee?"
"Yes, of course." A little numb, Stephanie stood up to take his cup. After all he had explained, she was still trying to figure out where she might fit into his life.
Brock must have read the bewilderment in her eyes, because he reached out to stop her when she started to pass his chair, his hand resting lightly on her forearm. "When I find something I want, I reach out and grab it, Stephanie, because it might not be there the next time I come back. I live hard and fast—and I love the same way. If I forget to say you're beautiful or that your eyes are the color of the morning sky, it isn't because I don't think of it. I just don't waste precious time."
"Yes, I—" Her reply was interrupted by a knock at the front door. It startled her until she realized who it was. "It's Mrs. Hammermill."
"The egg lady," Brock nodded, and dropped his hands to leave Stephanie free to answer the door.
Setting his cup down, she walked toward the living room. "Yes! Come in, Mrs. Hammermill!" she called, and the front door opened to admit a short, stout woman in a dark pillbox hat. Two dozen eggs were balanced under one short arm.
"I'm sorry I'm late, but the mister's been sick with the flu. I've been doin' his chores as well as my own."
"I hope he's feeling better soon," Stephanie murmured and led the way into the kitchen. The woman stopped short at the sight of a strange man and eyed him suspiciously. Stephanie quickly introduced them.
Mrs. Hammermill was instantly all smiles. "Maybe you can talk to Perry about letting me supply the eggs for the restaurant. I would have to buy some more layers, but—"
"I'll talk to him about it," Brock assured her. Taking the egg money out of the jar on the counter, Stephanie paid the woman and tactfully hurried her on her way. She almost regretted identifying Brock, but the gossip about a strange man would have been worse.
After she had shown the woman out, Stephanie returned to the kitchen. "I'm sorry Mrs. Hammermill tried to persuade you to let her have the egg account at the restaurant inn," she apologized to Brock with a wry smile. "What she really wants Perry to do is finance it. She would have to buy more laying hens, which means she'd need to build a new coop, as well as the initial cost of more grain. She's a marvelous, dependable woman, but I don't think you want to go into partnership in the egg business." At the table she stopped to stack the dishes and add them to those in the sink waiting to be washed.
"You're right, I'm not interested in the chicken business—or the dishes. In fact—" Brock took hold of her hand and pulled her to his chair and onto his lap "—I only have one merger on my mind—the one with you."
Off-balance by the move, Stephanie was dependent on the supporting steel of his arms. There was a wild flutter of her pulse as he made a sound under his breath, almost like a groan. Her hands encircled his neck, fingers seeking the vibrant thickness of his dark hair.
The kiss was sensual and exploring, their mouths mating in delighted discovery; the slow, heady joy of it insulating Stephanie from all thought. In the hard cradle of his lap, she felt the burning imprint of his thighs beneath her, the flatness of his stomach and muscled breadth of his chest and shoulders. So male, so virile! It stirred her already disturbed senses.
As he kissed her, Brock mouthed her lips and cheek, the angle of her jaw and the hollow under her ear, setting afire the urgent yearning of her body. Arousing as his kisses were, she was stimulated by the chance to let her lips wander intimately over his smooth jaw and cheek, tangy with the astringent flavor of after-shave. It was a wildly novel experience to have this freedom to reciprocate the sensuous exploration.
His caressing hands became impatient with the thick, loose folds of the large sweat shirt she was wearing. When he lifted the hem to expose her bare midriff, Stephanie drew in a breath of startled surprise that was never quite completed. Her flesh tensed under the initial touch of his hand, then melted at its firm caress.
He seemed intent on personally exploring every naked inch of her ribs and shoulders. She was quivering, her white breasts straining against the lacy material of the confining bra. When he covered one with his palm, there was a rushing release of tension that was wildly gratifying.
Yet, as his fingers sought the back fastener of her bra, sanity returned a fragment at a time. She had let herself be carried away without knowing for certain it was what s
he wanted. She drew away from him, pressing her hands against his chest for breathing space while she tried to clear her head of this heart-pounding passion.
"Stephanie." His voice both coaxed and commanded as he planted a kiss on an exposed shoulder bone.
"No." She gulped in the negative and swung off his lap, taking a couple of quick steps away from his chair while she pulled her sweat shirt down to her hips. "The first time I saw you, I knew I had to keep both feet on the ground or you'd knock me right off of them. I should have meant that literally." Stephanie laughed, shakily, trying to make a joke out of it even though she knew it was the absolute truth.
"I want you, Stephanie. I told you that last night," Brock reminded her. And Stephanie walked to the kitchen counter, keeping her back to him, in a weak attempt to escape the heady seduction of his voice. "If anything, it's more true at this moment."
At the scrape of the chair leg indicating he had risen, she grabbed hold of the edge of the counter, needing to hang on to something. "It's all happening too fast for me," she tried to explain without sounding as desperate as she felt. "You don't understand, Brock. I can't be as casual about sex as you are."
"How much do you know about sex, Stephanie?" When he spoke, she realized he was directly behind her, his tone steady with patience and confidence.
Her knuckles were white from gripping the counter edge in an effort to keep from turning around. If she did, she knew she would be lost.
To counter his sureness, she became sharp and defensive. "I'm sure I don't know as much as you do, Mr. Canfield."
"Mr. Canfield?" His voice was dangerously low. His fingers gripped her shoulders and forced her to turn around. She was rigid in his hold, but she didn't resist him. Under the narrowed regard of his gray eyes, her head was thrown warily back. "Hey, what is this?" Brock demanded.
"Sex is just a physical act to you, like kissing. I don't treat it that lightly," she defended her hesitation and uncertainty.
He studied every particle of her expression for such a long time that she felt herself growing hot. "Are you a virgin, Stephanie?" He seemed to doubt the accuracy of his conclusion.
Heart of Stone Page 5