She had expected him to be offended by the sight of the Kandratavich camp. Material possessions never dominated a Gypsy’s life. Her family enjoyed the freedom of their old life and saw no reason to change when they started over in America. Nadia had spent a small fortune to have the family’s four vardos shipped across the Atlantic and freighted to North Carolina. The brightly painted horse-drawn wagons now stood under giant oaks in a picturesque valley on the ranch. They were the center of the camp. She had also persuaded her family to allow her to purchase two secondhand mobile homes that provided them with heat, running water, and bathrooms. Life in the Kandratavich camp would be considered hard, if not primitive, by most people’s standards, but her family felt they were living in the lap of luxury.
“You’re awfully quiet,” said Owen. The fading light was making it difficult to see, but he could feel the tension radiating from her.
Nadia worried her lower lip and ducked under a cracked board that at one time was part of a fence enclosing the pasture they had just walked through. She felt uneasy walking the fields at twilight with Owen. It felt too familiar, too intimate, to be heading for her home just over the next hill. “Sorry.” In another five minutes he would be gone, and she’d be safely in her room writing down the song she’d been hearing in her head all evening, about a colorful donkey who had run away from home so he wouldn’t have to be a pinata.
Owen followed her under the fence. “Can I ask a question?”
“Sure.”
“What exactly was in the stew? I recognized a couple of unusual leaves in the salad that would have given Aunt Verna’s garden club hysterics, but some of the ingredients were totally unfamiliar.”
“Do you really want to know?”
Owen hesitated at the sound of amusement in her voice. “Let me rephrase that. Should I be worried about what I just ate?”
“Not unless you’re a vegetarian.” She laughed softly at his look of uneasiness. “Relax, Owen. Just because I’ve never seen that particular dish on any menu in America doesn’t mean it was an endangered species or anything.” She stopped at the top of the hill and glanced down at the weathered barn and plain house. No matter how many times she climbed this hill and admired the view, her heart always cried out the same message: She was home. “You did enjoy it, didn’t you?”
“Almost as much as the company.” His gaze was focused on her stunning profile.
Nadia ignored the compliment in his voice. “Thank you again for being so understanding with my father and uncles.”
“They’re a great bunch of guys when they aren’t trying to hang someone.” He chuckled softly as he remembered how obsessed Rupa had become during their discussion on the “code of the West.” The man had actually thought cattle rustling was still the number-one offense in America.
Nadia was thankful that the dusk obscured the flush stealing up her face. “I appreciate you not pressing charges.”
“It wasn’t entirely their fault. If I remember correctly, I did come on a little strong.” He smiled sheepishly. “I guess we have that in common.”
She passed the barn and purposely headed for his car. She didn’t want to know what they had in common. Every instinct born into her Gypsy, human, and especially woman—was screaming to get away from him. Owen was trouble. Man trouble. And if there was anything more she didn’t need in her life right now, it was more trouble.
“We both care very deeply for our family.”
“Well, of course I care about my family,” cried Nadia. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“No.” He leaned against the front bumper of his car and glanced over to her house. “Have I done something to offend you, Nadia?”
“Of course not. Why do you ask?” She shifted her weight from her left foot to her right and nervously toyed with the gold necklace hanging around her neck. Three crystals bit into the softness of her palm.
“Then I must make you uneasy.” His relaxed position against the car didn’t change.
Nadia released the necklace and silently listened to the song whirling around in her head. The music was still there. He had not taken her gift. She slowly smiled at her own foolishness. How could he possibly take away her music? “I am not afraid of you.”
“Good.” His brilliant smile flashed in the growing darkness. “Then will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?”
“I...” She glanced around wildly, trying to think up an excuse he would accept without taking offense.
“Dinner, Nadia, that’s all I’m asking.” He saw the look of panic that had flashed in her eyes. “Your aunt thinks you have been working too hard.”
“Which aunt?” Nadia ground her teeth on a curse that would surely invoke a lightning attack from above.
“Sofia.” He had been pleased by her family’s obvious attempts at matchmaking. “Your mother mentioned that you haven’t been out since they arrived five months ago.”
Stifling a curse, she asked, “What else did my ‘well-meaning’ family say?” If she wasn’t so damn mad, she would have crawled under a rock and died of mortification.
“It wasn’t their fault.” He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I kind of pumped them for information.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve been avoiding me since the pinata was broken open. At first I thought you might already have a boyfriend, but Sofia said no; only your music keeps you warm at night.”
“Sofia ought to mind her own business,” snapped Nadia.
Owen glanced down at his feet to hide his smile. “She loves you, and so do the others.” He eyed the stubborn angle of her jaw. “They’re afraid you’re becoming a stick-in-the-mud.”
“Stick-in-the-mud?” shouted Nadia. After everything she had done for them, everything she had sacrificed, how could they say that? For months all she could think about were the songs for the album. Everything she did, she did with music playing in her mind. She ate, walked, and slept music. All for them. All to be called a stick-in-the-mud.
He chuckled. “Your mother’s exact words were ‘twig-in-the-dirt,’ but I got the picture.”
Nadia saw red and allowed her temper to overrule her common sense. “What time will you pick me up?” She’d show them who was a stick-in-the-mud. The way her family was throwing her at him, she was amazed her father hadn’t sat down with him and worked out a marriage contract. Hell, she must be worth at least three good horses and a small sack of gold coins.
* * *
Owen parked the car in front of Nadia’s house at precisely one minute to seven the following evening. He felt like a heel. He never should have goaded her into having dinner with him. The only excuse he could come up with during a sleepless night was desperation. She had been avoiding him all afternoon, purposely putting little children and anyone else she could find between them yesterday. If he had wanted to talk to her during dinner last night, he would have had to use a bullhorn or walkie-talkies. Nadia had made sure he was at the opposite end of the Kandratavich dinner table with at least thirty people between them. He had known she was going to refuse his dinner invitation before he’d even asked. For some reason she was running from the sparks they struck off each other.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and made sure his tie was straight before picking up the small bouquet of wildflowers and getting out of the car. His footsteps were heavy and slow as he climbed the two steps to the porch and knocked on the door. He wouldn’t blame her one bit if she’d changed her mind.
Nadia heard the knock and swallowed the lump in her throat. Three times this morning she had picked up the telephone in the kitchen and dialed his number to cancel this date, only to hang up before the last digit had been pressed. The truth of the matter was, she might have accepted the date to prove something to her family, but she was keeping the date because she wanted to. Owen was everything she had always looked for in a man. He was confident, intelligent, liked children, and was handsome. He could turn her knees into water with just one look an
d cause a riot of excitement to skip down her spine with only the slightest of touches. He was also more than three years too late.
She took a last glance in the mirror and pushed back a wayward curl. She couldn’t change history, but she could enjoy this one night. Who knew, maybe Owen would give her the last song she needed for the album. He had already provided the inspiration for the adorable little number about Jose, the paper donkey. She picked up the small clutch purse from the crowded dresser top and walked out of the bedroom, turning off the light behind her.
Owen smiled and straightened the clear plastic wrap the florist had placed around the colorful bouquet of flowers as Nadia opened the door. For a minute there he thought no one was going to answer his knock. He stepped into the kitchen, and his pleasant smile turned into a whistle of appreciation as his gaze caressed every one of Nadia’s curves. He had known Nadia was beautiful and had a body that could stop a freight train, but this woman standing before him could tame a lion without using a whip. Not only was her dress a mind-boggling red, but it clung to each curve like a pair of lover’s hands. He swallowed heavily as his gaze slid over red high heels, up past the sexiest pair of legs he had ever had the pleasure to meet, over gently flaring hips, trim waist, and a generously endowed bustline. A fine gold chain lay against the satiny smoothness of her throat, drawing his gaze upward to the sweet temptation of her ripe mouth and the fire carefully blanketed in the depths of her dark eyes. He watched entranced as her pearly-white teeth sank into the sweet fullness of her lower lip.
His soft moan caused his body to rebel against the lack of oxygen. He had forgotten to breathe at the sight of Nadia. He hastily covered his rudeness with a cough. The trembling of his fingers was barely detectable as he handed Nadia the flowers. “Lord, you are beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Nadia clutched the bouquet. “Is this dress appropriate? You didn’t say where we were going.” She had only a handful of sophisticated dresses, which were purchased when she arrived in America and started singing in nightclubs. Most had been bought in secondhand shops and had satisfied the owners’ ideas of what a singer should wear.
The closet in one of the spare bedrooms was jam-packed with sequined gowns with no back, very little front, and slits that started at the floor and ended at mid-hip. They were from another life, and all bore the stamp of her disgrace. The closet door had been nailed shut and would stay that way.
Owen pulled at the knot in his tie and tried to swallow. He’d rather cut off his right arm than tell her to change her dress. “You look perfect.” It was the understatement of the year.
Nadia lowered her gaze to the flowers in her hands and mumbled another polite “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He smiled at the blush staining her cheeks. “Why don’t you put them in some water? They’ll last longer that way.”
She crinkled the clear plastic between her fingers. “I wasn’t thanking you for the flowers, I was ...”
Owen raised an eyebrow. “You don’t like the flowers.”
“Of course I do. They’re beautiful.” She walked over to the cabinet above the stove and pulled out an empty glass jar and filled it with water. “Thank you.” She carefully unwrapped the flowers and slowly placed them in the jar, one flower at a time. She glanced out from underneath her lashes at the handsome man standing in her kitchen watching her every move. A purple iris tumbled from her fingers and landed on the counter. She quickly picked it up and jammed it into the jar. His intense gaze was making her jittery. Her insides were beginning to feel like a chocolate bar that had been left on the dashboard of her car in July. She placed the last sprig of baby’s breath into the jar and tossed the wrapping into the garbage can under the sink. “Are you ready?”
He was ready for a lot of things. Walking out that door wasn’t one of them. “Sure.” He held open the door for her. “Aren’t you bringing a wrap?”
“No, summer evenings are to enjoy, not to be hidden from.” She flipped on the porch lights as she left the house.
Owen closed the door behind them and admired the view of Nadia’s retreating form as she walked toward his car. He sent a silent prayer heavenward, thankful that Nadia didn’t believe in hiding. The view captivating his attention was guaranteed to make this one of the wannest summer nights he’d ever encountered.
* * *
Nadia smiled politely at the young man holding the car door open and stared at the imposing building in front of her. Huge white columns, lush greenery, floor-to-ceiling windows, and the gentle, seductive whispering of a massive fountain dominating the front lawn greeted her. Her heart sank. Owen was taking her to the most exclusive restaurant in five counties, the Foxchase Country Club. Only people with pedigrees dating back before the Civil War dined here—people with old money, who drank mint juleps on their verandas and had butlers to answer their doors. People like Owen.
She glanced around and watched as Owen, who had turned the car over to the valet, rounded the front bumper, and walked toward her. He was dressed in an immaculate dark gray suit, a crisp white shirt, and a conservative striped tie. He looked confident, rich, and extremely sexy. He looked as if he had just stepped off the cover of GQ, while she looked like she was about to lie across the top of a baby-grand piano and belt out some old Nat King Cole songs.
Owen tenderly took her elbow and led her up the few steps to the front door. A young man dressed in high-waisted black pants and a short jacket materialized out of nowhere and opened the door for them. Nadia felt the artificial coolness and shivered as they stepped into the foyer.
“Cold?” He had felt her shiver.
“No, it’s just the sudden climate change.” She glanced around the elegant room. Twelve-foot-high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, marble floors, and imported carpets dominated the room. Plants the size of small trees were the only splash of color against the sterile white walls. The first thing she would have done with the room was paint it fire-engine red or cobalt blue to brighten it up. Didn’t the filthy rich believe in color?
“Monsieur Prescott, so nice to see you again.” A man in his late fifties bowed first to Owen, then to Nadia. “Mademoiselle.”
Owen chuckled, and lightly slapped the man on his back. “Cut it out, George. We both know you can’t speak a word of French.”
George glanced over his shoulder to make sure he couldn’t be overheard. “Thaddeus will have my job if I don’t greet the clientele right.”
“Tell Thaddeus to stick this job and come work for me. The way you handle all these young men as they wait on tables, clear them off, park cars, and open doors, you’d be a perfect supervisor on the job site.”
George beamed but shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, Mr. Prescott, but I’m getting too old to stand around a construction site all day in bad weather.” He led the way out of the foyer and across the dining room to an intimate table set for two with a breathtaking view of the formal gardens and the golf course in the distance.
Nadia ignored the impressive view of the gardens, which were not as spectacular as some of the scenery found on her own ranch. She owned crystal-clear streams flowing with trout and water so pure you could drink it. There were meadows overflowing with wildflowers in a kaleidoscope of colors, and the majestic Smoky Mountains climbing halfway to heaven in the distance. Who would want to look at the well-manicured grass of a golf course when she had all that?
She glanced at Owen and started to relax for the first time that night. She had liked George and was pleased to see their table was partly hidden from the curious glances of the blue-blooded clientele by huge plants. “So that’s what you do.”
“What?”
“Work in construction. I was wondering how you stayed so fit.” She flushed to the roots of her hair and took a hasty sip of water. Why don’t you just come right out and tell the man you’ve been drooling over his body?
Owen grinned. “I don’t believe it. Ms. Kandratavich actually paid me a compliment.”
“I give com
pliments all the time.” Her brows pulled together in a frown.
“Ah, but never to me.” He was beginning to love the way she blushed. His gaze slid down her throat to the softly rounded neckline of her dress to where just a trace of cleavage showed, and he wondered exactly where the blush started. Were the softly rounded breasts concealed by her dress the same delicate pink as her throat? Would her nipples darken?
“Excuse me, sir.”
Owen came back to earth with a thud. He glanced up at the waiter standing next to the table. “What?” he snapped.
The waiter held out a deep-red leather-bound menu. “I asked if the gentleman would like to see our wine list before ordering.”
Owen took the wine list and willed away the flush that was stealing up his face. Never in all his years of dating had he sat in a restaurant and stared at his date’s cleavage. For Lord’s sake, he was a grown man, not some hormone-driven teenager on his first date. He glanced at the list, snapped it shut, and handed it back to the young waiter with an order for an expensive bottle of white wine.
“Thank you, sir.”
Owen watched the waiter leave with a frown before jerking his gaze back to Nadia. “I’m sorry, Nadia.” He felt the flush threaten to overcome him again. “Is wine all right, or would you prefer something else?” Where in the hell had all his social skills suddenly gone?
“Wine is fine.” A smile teased the corner of her mouth at Owen’s obvious discomfort. “I’m not much of a drinker. Two glasses of wine and I’d be standing on some table singing Neil Diamond numbers.”
Owen chuckled at the mental pictures flashing through his mind. Half the ladies dining would faint dead away, the gentlemen would probably secretly cheer, and Foxchase Country Club would revoke his membership. He glanced around the stuffy room and realized he wouldn’t have cared if they did. He only came here because of their great French chef and to please the haughty clients who were paying him outrageous sums to design their homes. Tonight he had brought Nadia, hoping to impress her with his style, wealth, and charm. It had been an error: He should have taken her to Belle’s and showed her the best fried chicken this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.
My Special Angel Page 4