by Diana Palmer
The kindness in his voice brought tears surging up behind her eyelids. “Don’t,” she whispered brokenly.
His face shuttered. Abruptly he rose from the bed and moved away. “Mrs. Brodie will bring you some soup, and I’ll get your suitcases. You’ll probably feel more comfortable in a gown.”
She stared at him with her heart in her eyes. The tears spilled over onto her flushed cheeks just in time to catch Mrs. Brodie’s attention as she came in with soup and coffee on a tray.
“Oh, poor dear,” she murmured, setting the tray down on the bedside tale. “Does it hurt very much?”
Carla took the handkerchief she offered, and dabbed at her red eyes. “Terribly,” she whispered, but she wasn’t talking about physical pain.
“I’ll get you some aspirin directly. Right now, you eat this soup.” She placed the tray on the bed across Carla’s slender hips. “Bless your heart, I’m so glad Mr. Moreland brought you to me. I wondered what was wrong, of course, but it isn’t my place to pry. He’s just been so bitter lately, and the way he rides that big black stallion of his, it’s a wonder he hasn’t killed himself.” She sighed, watching with maternal concern as Carla started sipping the delicious broth. “That dreadful King person. How could he do something so terrible to a man like Mr. Moreland?” She sighed, her ample bosom rising indignantly. “Pretending to be his friend, and all—can you imagine? Thank goodness someone took the time and trouble to get the truth.”
“Amen,” she breathed softly.
“It was your paper that did it, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Brodie asked shrewdly.
She dropped her eyes to the spotless blue coverlet. “It was my paper that started it,” she said miserably.
Mrs. Brodie patted her shoulder gently. “It all came right, dear. Don’t worry.”
Nothing had come right, but she only smiled. “The soup is very good,” she murmured.
And Mrs. Brodie beamed.
* * *
Moreland made a conspicuous effort to stay completely out of her way in the evenings. Naturally, his job kept him away in the daytime. But even when he came home, he found things to keep him busy. Farm business, paperwork, phone calls, anything, it seemed, to keep him away from Carla’s bedside. Even Mrs. Brodie noticed it.
“Why, Miss Maxwell will get the impression that you don’t want her here, Mr. Moreland,” Mrs. Brodie teased gently one evening when he made a rare visit to Carla’s room.
Carla, who was sitting wrapped up in her fleecy white robe in an armchair by the window, only glanced his way. One look at the formidable, dark face, was enough to tell her how little he wanted to be in the same room with her.
“Mr. Moreland is busy, I’m sure,” Carla said with a gentle smile. “It was…very kind of him to let me come here to recuperate. I already feel I’m imposing, without his having to entertain me.”
Moreland’s eyes were flashing fire. “Don’t let her stay up too late,” he told Mrs. Brodie. He turned and went out the door, his face like stone.
“I just don’t understand,” Mrs. Brodie sighed.
Carla did, but she couldn’t begin to explain it and she wasn’t going to try.
A few days later, she dressed in her jeans and a pale green T-shirt that matched her eyes. It was an effort just to stand, but once she’d dragged a brush through her long, waving black hair and washed her face she felt a little more alive. The bruises on her flawless skin were beginning to fade a little, to a purplish yellow, but she didn’t bother with makeup. What would be the use? She couldn’t attract Bryan Moreland again if she were the world’s most beautiful woman. He hated her too much for that.
She made her way down the hall on unsteady legs, glad that Mrs. Brodie had driven into town to do the shopping. Being here on her own had given her some incentive to rush her recuperation. The sooner she was able to go home, the better. If only her father’s arrival hadn’t been delayed.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” came a startled, deeply angry voice from the direction of the study.
She froze in her tracks, half turning as Moreland exploded out of his study into the hall. He was dressed casually, too, in worn jeans and a deep burgundy velour shirt that she recognized with a blush as the one he’d worn during her last brief visit here.
“I…I was just going to the kitchen,” she said weakly.
He moved closer, towering over her. “You crazy child,” he said in a soft, deep tone.
Her wounded eyes lifted to his, and he drew in a sharp breath.
“You shouldn’t be on your feet this soon,” he said, his hard mouth compressing into a thin line as he studied her thin figure in the tight jeans and top.
“The sooner, the better,” she said quietly. “I have to go home.”
“When you’re able,” he agreed. His eyes narrowed, glittered, on her face. “My God, little one, you look so thin. As if a breeze would blow you all the way home.”
He clouded in her vision, and she averted her face from the concern she read briefly in his gaze. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” she said tightly.
“Is that how it sounded?” he asked. His lean fingers came out to close over her shoulders. “I’ve got a pot of coffee in the study, and a roaring fire. Come keep me company until Mrs. Brodie gets back. I don’t want you staggering around alone.”
“I’m not drunk, you know,” she whispered, unnerved by his closeness, the electrifying touch of his warm, caressing hands on the delicate bones of her upper arms.
He drew her imperceptibly closer, and she could feel his smoky, warm breath against her forehead, the bridge of her nose. “Would you like to be?” he asked in a bitter, brooding tone. “Maybe it’s what we both need. To get staggering drunk and hold a wake over the past.”
She pulled away from him before he could read the submission in her eyes. “I…I would like some coffee,” she agreed.
He hesitated for just an instant before he took her arm and guided her into the study.
She hadn’t realized it was the same room; she’d been too wrapped up in Moreland. But as she recognized the fireplace and the rug, her face went white, and she stood like an ice sculpture in the doorway, just staring at it. The pain of memory was in her eyes, her face, her whole posture. A muffled sob escaped from her tight throat as she remembered with vivid clarity the sight of the two of them lying in each other’s arms on the soft rug, the feel of his big arms warming her, loving her.
“I can’t,” she said on a broken gasp, turning away. “Please I’d like to lie back down.”
He caught her flushed face in his big hands and turned her shimmering eyes up to his. “Lie with me, then,” he said in a soft, haunted tone. “Go back with me.”
Tears ran down her cheeks as her hands pressed warmly against his chest. “We can’t,” she whispered achingly. Her eyes touched every line of his face. “I ruined everything,” she murmured bitterly. “I killed it.”
“Did you?” He bent, his mouth touching her own lightly, teasingly, tasting the tears that had trickled down from her eyes.
“The story…” she whispered. Her eyes closed, as she savored the feel of him against her, the tangy scent of him—cologne mixed with soap…. “Bryan,” she breathed as his lips touched and lifted against hers.
“We made love on that rug,” he whispered deeply. “Do you remember?”
A sob broke from her throbbing throat. “Every second,” she said without pretense. “The story…had nothing to do with it. I loved you….”
His open mouth caught hers, pressing her lips apart as he bent and lifted her completely off the floor, cradling her trembling body against him as if she were some gentle, fragile treasure.
“Don’t talk,” he whispered against her soft, yielding mouth as he carried her toward the fireplace. “Make love with me. We’ll heal each other.”
A sob was muffled under his hard, devouring mouth. Her warm arms clutched at him, holding him as he laid her gently on the rug and came down beside her.
�
�I love you,” she whispered softly.
“I’m years too old for you,” he murmured against her cheek, his lips maddeningly slow and enticing.
“I’ll push your wheelchair,” she gasped as his mouth burned against her throat. “I’ll polish your crutches. Bryan…I want children with you….”
She moaned under the hard, uncontrolled passion of his mouth as it forced hers open and searched it with an unfamiliar intimacy that made her blood run hot. This kind of ardor was something she’d never experienced before; she stiffened in instinctive fear at first. But his arms tightened, and his ardor became suddenly gentler, coaxing, and with a sigh, she gave herself over to him completely. She wouldn’t fight anymore. Whatever he wanted. Anything. Everything. Her cool fingers moved under the hem of his soft burgundy shirt and ran over his firm, hair-covered chest with a sense of awe. It was so good to touch him, to savor the powerful masculinity that drew her like a magnet. She loved him so. If all he wanted was a mistress, even that didn’t matter. She moaned, her fingers digging into his muscular flesh as the kiss deepened sensuously.
Abruptly he drew back and rolled away from her to lie breathing heavily, his hands under his head, one knee drawn up.
She turned her head on the rug, staring at him not comprehending. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked softly.
“Pour me a cup of coffee,” he said roughly. “It’s behind you, on the table.”
She sat up, feeling vaguely rejected, and turned around to the coffee table. She poured coffee into the two china cups and added cream in his, remembering how he liked it. She lifted his and set it on the rug beside him, then turned back to get her own, grimacing with the movement.
“Now do you know why I stopped?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her as he sat up and lifted his cup.
She stared at him, lost in the warm darkness of his eyes.
He chuckled softly. All the hard lines were gone from his face. He looked years younger, carefree—loving.
“Your ribs, darling,” he said gently, as he sipped his hot coffee. “You aren’t up to violent lovemaking yet.”
The “yet” made her pulses go wild. She stared down into her black coffee. “You don’t…hate me?” she asked.
“Look at me, country mouse,” he breathed.
She lifted her shimmering, soft eyes to his and caught her breath at the emotion she read in them.
“I love you to the furtherest corner of my soul,” he said quietly. “I’ve never loved this deeply, this completely. But you were a baby, and I was afraid of you. I didn’t think you were capable of feeling deeply at your age.”
She felt the warm glow wash over her body like scented water, and she smiled at him. “And now?”
He chuckled deeply. “If you could have seen the look on your face when you walked in here…it told me everything. That you cared. That you’d been hurting the way I had. That you loved me. It was like waking out of a nightmare.”
“I’m so sorry,” she began.
He pressed a long forefinger against her lips. “It’s over—forgotten.” His finger traced her soft, pink mouth. “Kiss me.”
She leaned forward and drew her lips against his slowly, teasingly. “Like that?” she whispered saucily.
He caught the back of her head and ground her mouth into his for a long moment, making her ache with the barely contained passion in his kiss. “More like that,” he replied with a mocking smile when she drew back, blushing.
She dropped her eyes to her coffee. “Did you really want me here?”
“Are you out of your mind?” he asked conversationally. “It was all I could think about. I reasoned that if I could get you here, keep you here long enough, you might be able to forgive me.”
Her eyes misted once again as she looked at him. “For what?” she asked incredulously.
“For almost costing you your life,” he said, and his face went rigid with remembrance. “Oh, God, when I saw that taxi heading for you…” He stopped and caught his breath deeply. “I prayed every step of the way until I got to you, and I swore that if you lived I’d make it all up to you somehow.”
“But it was I who’d caused you so much pain,” she countered.
“We hurt each other,” he said, summing it up. “But that’s over. I want you to live with me.”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about the terms?” he asked with a slow grin.
She shook her head.
“Unconditional surrender?” he probed.
She nodded with a smile.
He caught her hand and took it to his lips. “Marry me, then.”
“You don’t have to.”
He gave her a measuring glance. “I thought you just said you wanted children with me?”
She blushed wildly. “Well…”
“Yes or no?”
She met his teasing eyes levelly. “Yes. A boy, and maybe another girl,” she added gently, sensing his pain.
He nodded. “The farm will be a good place for them to grow up.”
She clutched his hand as if all the past few minutes were a delicious dream she was afraid of losing. “Oh, I only wish my father was home so that I could tell him.”
“He is, and I already have,” he said.
She gaped at him, tugging her hand loose. “He is?” she burst out.
He nodded. “I called him. He was here for those first few critical hours until we were sure you were going to be all right. Then I persuaded him to pretend he was still on vacation so I could take you home with me.”
“However did you get him to agree?” she asked, aghast.
He touched her cheek gently. “I told him I was in love with you, country mouse, and that I was reasonably certain you were in love with me.”
Her eyes closed briefly. “Is it real, or am I just dreaming again?” she said, more poignantly than she knew.
He stood up, drawing her with him. His face was strained. “We’d better go call your father before I give in to the temptation to show you how real it is. Think how shocked Mrs. Brodie would be,” he added wickedly.
She reached up and touched his cheek. “Are you sure?” she asked quietly. “I’m not worldly, and…”
“Hush.” He brushed her mouth with his. “You’re my priceless treasure, and I’ll treat you like paper-thin glass. All right?”
She flushed and turned away from his mischievous smile. “I thought we were going to call Dad.”
He drew her into his arms. “In just a minute,” he agreed, bending his head. “I think it can wait that long, don’t you?”
She went on tiptoe to meet him halfway, her warm smile disappearing under the slow, expert pressure of his mouth. Yes, the phone call could wait. Everything could wait. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the one man in all the world whom she could love forever. In the back of her mind were the lines of a poem… “Keep spring within your heart, if winter comes, to warm the cold of disillusion.” The winter approaching would find spring flowering in her soft eyes.
* * * * *
Beauty And The…Man Who’ll Never Let Her Go
Elise Bravo needed a job, desperately. And soldier turned thriller writer Jed Walsh burned through—almost literally, it turned out—assistants like hellfire through brimstone. Turned out he had some…unusual work habits to go along with his giant talent and ego. He threw knives to relax. He cleaned his guns as he acted out scenes. And more than anything, he hated cats…
Enter Elise, crack typist, master plotter and perfect for the live-in job in every way but one…two if you counted Mr. Wiggles, her furry companion. For though Jed had sworn he would never get “involved” with a woman who worked for him, it took only a day or two with the perfectly professional, pencil skirt–wearing Bravo beauty to realize that his interest in Elise broke all the rules. He had to make her his—even if he had to win over her kitty to do it…
Ms. Bravo and the Boss
Christine Rimmer<
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CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER ONE
Elise Bravo wanted a bath. A long, relaxing one. With lots of bubbles. She longed to shed every stitch and pile her hair up on her head. To grab a juicy paperback romance and sink into her slipper tub, the one she’d had specially installed in the big master bath of her two-bedroom apartment above her catering shop in the gorgeous old brick building she co-owned with her best friend, Tracy.
Unfortunately, Elise’s beautiful slipper tub was no more. Neither was her apartment. Her business? Gone, too. Three months ago, the historic building on Central Street in her hometown of Justice Creek, Colorado, had burned to the ground.
As for her lifelong best friend? Tracy had moved to Seattle to start a whole new life.
Now, Elise lived in a tiny rented studio apartment over Deeliteful Donuts on the less attractive end of Creekside Drive. The studio had a postage stamp of a bathroom—with a shower, no tub.
And sometimes lately, as she raced through the lunch rush at her sister Clara’s café, or manned the counter at her half sister Jody’s flower shop, Elise could almost lose heart. She was deeply disappointed in herself.
Because it wasn’t the fire that had ruined her life. She’d been in trouble long before the idiot tenants who leased a shop on the ground floor had disabled the fire alarms and then left a hot plate turned on in the back room when they slipped out to run errands. By then, bad choices had already brought Elise to the brink of ruin. The fire had only slathered a thick helping of frosting on her own personal disaster cake.