The Beauty, the Beast and the Baby (Man of the Month)

by Dixie Browning

  She sighed, nursing her glass of tea. “Well, there’s my job, too. I mean, if I decide to go back. And if I don’t, I’m not sure I can find anything else. I’ll have to do something, but there’s not a lot of choice in Muddy Landing, or even in Darien. And even if I wanted to sell the house and move somewhere else, I couldn’t. It needs too much work. It’s been listed to rent for nearly a year with no takers. I’d never find a buyer, even if it weren’t in a floodplain.”

  Gus stroked his beard. He tried to look thoughtful, as if he knew precisely what she was talking about and was halfway to coming up with a solution. “You, uh, didn’t mention what it is that you do in this Muddy Landing of yours.”

  “I was the assistant manager for Grover Shatley’s Feed, Seed and Hardware Emporium. It’s the largest business in town. I worked there for nearly twelve years, until just a few months ago.”

  If she’d said she worked in an iron foundry, he wouldn’t have been any more surprised. “Did you quit or were you fired?”

  “I left to try something else, but I think I like my old job better. Unfortunately, Grover replaced me, but even before I left there was talk of the store’s closing down, which was one of the reasons I decided to take a chance on something else. A…a career move, I suppose you could call it. Only it didn’t work out quite like I expected. I guess I’m not cut out for city life.”

  Waitress, Gus thought. Maybe a receptionist. She’d sure dress up any office, and he had an idea she had a few more brains than he’d given her credit for.

  Come to think of it, she could easily make it as a model if she wanted to. Maybe he ought to suggest it. He could give her the name of the agency Lisa had gone with.

  Sprawled in one of the room’s two chairs, Gus propped his chin on his knuckles and surveyed the woman in front of him. No doubt about it, she’d look right at home in a fashion spread in one of those glossy magazines Lisa used to devour. Which was pretty damned ironic, come to think of it. Here he was, alone with a gorgeous, long-legged woman in a motel room on a night that was made for romance and—

  Romance, hell! It was made for trouble, he thought ruefully. Lucky for him he’d already promised himself that if he ever, ever got involved with another woman, she would be short, dumpy, freckled and plain as a mud fence. The kind of woman who hadn’t grown up trading on her looks to the point where she’d never developed much beyond adolescence. From now on his requirements included sensible, reasonably intelligent and good-natured. Looks came pretty far down on the list.

  Of course, she would have to be willing to put up with him, too, which might be a problem.

  Gus had never kidded himself that he was any great prize. Oh, he was smart enough, even though he’d dropped out of college just short of a degree. He owned his own business and could pretty well call the shots. He’d never been arrested—although there had been a few close calls back in his hell-raising football days. He went to church now and then, mostly for the music and because he liked the architecture. He donated regularly to several charities. He was moderate in his habits, except for a few minor weaknesses such as the one that had triggered his present troubles.

  Which, come to think of it, didn’t seem all that troubling any more. He drew a deep, satisfying breath and let it out in a relaxing sigh.

  The rain continued to drone down all around them, enclosing them in a small, cozy space. Mariah sighe d in response to Gus’s sigh. She’d spent years learning to read her siblings in order to head off their more foolhardy impulses. Maybe it was the beard, but she found Gus a lot harder to read. She was pretty sure he didn’t want to be here, at least not with her, yet he seemed resigned to shouldering her burdens.

  Amused, she told herself that he definitely had the shoulders for it, if not the disposition. All things considered, Gus Wydowski was a very nice man. She wondered when the last time was that anyone had told him so.

  In the oddly intimate circumstances, she found herself wondering a lot of things about the man who had so unexpectedly intruded into her life.

  Or had she intruded into his?

  Either way, in just a few short hours she had caught glimpses of a complex and lonely man underneath that rugged exterior. It was those glimpses that were beginning to intrigue her to the point where, with a little encouragement, she just might dredge up a few of her old half-forgotten fantasies.

  Lord ha’ mercy, that would never do! There was a time and a place for everything, and this was definitely neither.

  Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if he was married. “I told you all about my life, now it’s your turn,” she said. Actually, she hadn’t mentioned the modeling, but then, she’d been a model for less than a year. She’d done the other for practically all her life.

  Gus wasn’t paying much attention to her words; he was too busy thinking of all the cliches he’d ever heard about a woman’s skin.

  Silk.

  Flower petals.

  Ivory.

  They all applied. Was it his imagination, or was there enough sexual tension sizzling around this place to power a small town? If she didn’t feel it, then her insulation must be a damned sight more effective than his was.

  Or maybe she was just smarter than he was. It was a fluke, their even being here like this. The whole sit uati on was too bizarre to be taken seriously. In a few hours they’d part company and never see each other again, which was a damned good thing because evidently all this rain had shorted out a few important circuits in his brain.

  “Gus?”

  “Hmm?”.

  “I asked what you did for a living.”

  “What? Oh. I’m a builder, like it said on my business card. ATW Construction.” She smelled of lilacs. He’d always had a weakness for lilacs. His Aunt Zee had had two big lilac bushes in her backyard, and in the springtime the scent filled the whole neighborhood.

  And, God, she was graceful! Mariah—not Aunt Zee. She had a way of sitting, even in a cheap, plastic, motel chair, that made the most of her assets. The way her legs were twined around each other was something else!

  “Is that what you’re on your way to do? I thought most of the post-hurricane rebuilding was already done.”

  Gus had never been much good at small talk. Nor was he good at confiding. Even his best friend knew better than to push too hard. This woman—this stranger—this elegant waif with the soft, husky voice and those big, shadow-colored eyes—was beginning to get under his skin.

  He shifted position and at the same time reined in his sexual interest. “I’m on vacation. The weather’s been lousy, and I’m between projects, so I’m taking a few days off, okay? You got a problem with that?”

  Gus could have kicked himself. He was a little short on social skills—hell, he was a lot short. All the same, he’d never made a habit of cutting people up into small pieces.

  “Sorry,’’ he said, and meant it. He wasn’t much on apologizing, either, but she didn’t deserve the raw edge of his tongue.“ This weather’s beginning to get to me. I had the flu recently, too—not that that’s any excuse for lousy manners.”

  “Yes, it is. I’m always cross when I have a cold. My family tiptoe s and whispers around the house, but mostly they stay out of my way.”

  Her family. Gus sighed. He didn’t want to know anything more about her. There was no reason to get too cozy—they weren’t going to be buddies, and they sure as hell weren’t going to be anything else! But in an effort to make up for biting her head off, he asked about her family and learned that she wasn’t married. Not that he cared one way or another, only if there was a husband somewhere in the background, allowing her to run around loose this way—to go to motels with strange men—then he was a fool who deserved to lose her.

  She told him about her brother, sisters, sister-in-law and the niece she was going home to look after. He found out more than he really cared to know about Basil’s struggling new computer consulting business that took eighteen out of every twenty-four hours, and about Myrtiss’s resentme
nt at having to do bookkeeping at home for Basil’s business and several others, and at the same time, to keep house and look after a baby with too little help from her husband.

  In return, and because he had no intention of telling her anything personal, Gus shared a few zany occurrences from the building business, such as the investment broker who had handed over a set of blueprints, a check big enough to choke a camel, and announced that he was setting out to sail around the world. When he got back, he intended to move into his house. When Gus had wanted to go over the plans with him, he’d flatly refused. “I designed it myself. There’s nothing that needs discussing. Just build it precisely the way I planned it, period. That’s what I’m paying you for.”

  So Gus and his crew had followed the plans faithfully, and the broker had come home eleven months later to a two-story house with no stairway.

  Mariah had laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. For a woman with the kind of looks that could only be described as elegant, if not downright aristocratic, she had a surprisingly earthy laugh. Gus laughed, too, and it occurred to him that his chest was no longer quite so congested. His throat felt a hell of a lot better, too, come to think of it.

  Yeah, they’d talked. She was interesting. Just off beat enough so that he couldn’t quite figure out where she was coming from.

  But that didn’t mean he was going to take on her problems. No way. Dogs, cats, raccoons—those he could handle. Women like Mariah Brady were the kind of trouble he had learned the hard way to avoid.

  Four

  Mariah had learned a long time ago to stand on her own two feet. There was no earthly reason why she should start leaning now, just because she’d been presented with a pair of invitingly wide shoulders. After showering and blow-drying her hair, she dug out a pair of beige silk slacks that had cost an arm and a leg, even at a discount, and paired them with a baggy Peruvian sweater in shades of taupe, plum and malachite green.

  It was still pouring down rain. The silk would water spot, but for reasons she didn’t care to examine too closely; she put them on anyway. It couldn’t rain forever.

  Besides, when a woman looked her best, she rationalized as she smoothed her flyaway hair, she was better prepared to face whatever needed facing.

  “Just as long as you remember that those inviting shoulders aren’t yours to lean on.” She puckered and touched her lips with a pale frosted tint. “All the man offered you is a lift and a temporary loan. Period.”

  She smoothed her eyebrows, picked up her mascara wand and put it back again. All mascara would do for eyes that were tired and shadowed from a lack of sleep was call attention to them.

  Perhaps her dark glasses…

  Then, snorting in disgust at the irrepressible romantic streak that she’d never quite managed to outgrow, she peeled off her finery, changed back into yesterday’s jeans, rumpled her hair with her fingers, and scrubbed off her Desert Mirage lipstick.

  Pride was such a silly thing. Underneath all her recently acquired posh and pizzazz she was still plain Sara Mariah Brady of the dishwater hair and the dishwater eyes—a shy, bespectacled beanpole who hadn’t had a single date until she was almost twenty.

  Reaching automatically for her purse, she remembered, swore, and let herself out the door. Gus was waiting outside—none too patiently, if his expression was anything to go by. He was wearing a fresh pair of rumpled khakis, these not quite so faded as yesterday’s had been, topped with a white shirt and black leather bomber jacket. His hair looked at if it had been groomed with a hay rake. Shoulders braced, hands planted on his narrow hips, he scowled out at the dispirited drizzle.

  “Good morning,” she said with more cheerfulness than she felt.

  He glared at her over his shoulder.

  What now? she wondered, sighing. Last night they had parted as friends…acquaintances, at the very least. Or so she’d thought.

  “Good morning, Gus,” she repeated.

  He shot her another nasty look, as though blaming her for the weather. “It took you long enough,” he growled.

  “It’s seven twenty-three.” Mariah looked pointedly at her watch. She’d been up since just past six, unable to sleep.

  “I suppose you want breakfast before we check out.”

  She took a deep, steadying breath. If she’d been literally starving, she wouldn’t have admitted it now. Forcing herself to smile, she replied that she could easily do without breakfast if he wanted to get on the road.

  “Dammit, don’t be so noble! Do you want breakfast or not?”

  “Not.” Wheeling back into her room, she began bringing out her bags, dumping them on the sheltered walkway outside her door. Using her one good hand, it was slow g oing, but she’d sooner turn green and die than ask for help.

  With a low snarl, Gus brushed past her and shoul dered her box of books. He jerked his head toward the truck. “Get in,” he snapped.

  “Get lost,” she muttered under her breath. This, on top of a largely sleepless night and everything else, was just too much! Suddenly reversing her steps, she snatched her toilet case off the stack she had just deposited outside and marched back into the room.

  “What the devil are you doing now?”

  She turned and went back outside for her suitcase. “You’re obviously in a hurry, so don’t let me keep you. If you’ll just bring my box back inside, please, I can get everything else and you can be on your way. Once I retrieve my car, I’ll swing back by and collect my things.” She spoke softly. Anyone who knew her well would have known to back off.

  Gus didn’t know her. “Don’t be crazy. Get in the damned truck, Mariah.”

  “Go to the devil, Wydowski.” Darn it, he was too pale to talk so tough. If he’d been hers to worry about, she would have been force-feeding him homemade soup by now, and making sure he got enough rest.

  Well, he wasn’t hers, thank the Lord for small favors.

  As a shaft of watery sunshine tried to break through the clouds, Mariah noticed that he’d cut himself trying to trim his beard. She could have told him, if he’d bothered to ask, that it would take more than a trim to make him look even marginally civilized.

  Smiling through clenched teeth, she said, “I believe I’ll walk, thanks all the same.” She would sooner poke her finger in a live socket than get in that truck with him again!

  Without a word, he swept her up in his arms and one-handed the passenger door open. Talk about your short fuses! She tried to wriggle free. His arms tight ened. She would have bopped him over the head with her good hand if she hadn’t been afraid of landing flat on her keester in a puddle of dirty water.

  As he thrust her inside the truck she tried to ignore the thousand or so volts of electricity that surged through her body wherever it came into contact with his. It was anger. Pure and simple anger. The dimmest wit would have better sense than to let herself be attracted to a man like Gus Wydowski.

  Gus slammed the door shut and swung up into the driver’s seat beside her. He rammed the key into the ignition, but instead of twisting it, he gripped the steering wheel and glared out through the windshield.

  Was he counting to ten? Mariah devoutly hoped so. Her fondest wish was that she could irritate him as much as he irritated her.

  “I asked you if you wanted some breakfast,” he growled.

  “No, you didn’t. You insinuated—”

  “I never insinuate. If I’ve got something to say, I damned well say it! Now, do you want breakfast first or not?”

  She retaliated by becoming the grande dame, which was what Basil used to call her when she was trying her best to rise above a dismal situation. Crossing her legs at the ankles, she folded her hands in her lap, stretched her neck to its limit and composed her features. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather you dropped me off at my car. I’d rather dine alone.”

  “Dine, my as—trophysics,” he sneered. “Using what for money?”

  If she’d had her purse she would have whacked him with it, grande dame or not. As it was,
she had only one good band left, and she didn’t dare risk it. Not with a lively eight—month-old imp to look after. “Wy-dowski, did anyone ever tell you you make a lousy good Samaritan?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Then your memory must be every bit as rotten as your disposition.”

  She could almost have sworn she saw his lips twitch. Reluctantly she admitted that he had a nice mouth—firm without being hard. Which just went to show how deceptive appearances could be.

  “We’ll have breakfast first,” he said, switching on the engine.

  Oh, great. If she’d insisted on eating first, he would have driven her directly to her car and dumped her out. Now that they were about to part company, she was beginning to get the hang of handling him. Don’t eat all the carrots, Rosemary, save some for Burdy. What did they call it—reverse psychology? It had worked with the kids.

  Silently she vowed to write him a nasty little note to accompany the payment she intended to send him if she had to rob a bank to do it. The thought of having the last word brought a smug little smile to her lips.

  At the crowded family style restaurant, Gus handed her a menu and waited. “No, thanks, I’m really not hungry.” She should have waited in the truck, but he’d insisted she come with him, probably afraid she might jimmy the ignition and steal his blasted pickup.

  A pink-uniformed Waitress sashayed up to the table. Ignoring Mariah, she treated Gus to a toothy smile, which he returned with interest, Mariah noted sourly. He ordered the works: a full cholesterol special. Then he added, “Make it two, with a couple of side orders of pancakes.” His gaze followed the friendly waitress as she swayed her way gracefully between tables. Then, turning back to Mariah, he said, “You need to eat something if you’re going to make Muddy Whatsis today. Now, let’s see you wiggle ‘em for me.”

  “Wiggle what for you?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched again. “Your fingers, honey. What did you think I meant?”

  Gus had made a valiant effort to keep things on an impersonal level. Unfortunately, Mariah Brady was precisely the type of woman he’d always been a sucker for. The kind who could drag a burlap sack over her head, tie it at the waist with a rope, and look like a million bucks before taxes. There was only one trouble with t hese decorative types—they were all sur face. About as deep as your average oil slick.