Blaylock's Bride

by Cait London

  Four

  When Kallista’s heart started pounding again, she eased to her feet. She gripped her cappuccino mug to keep her fingers from shaking. A tall, angular man, and trained as a Blaylock to be courteous to women, Roman nodded as she approached; he slowly closed the door and reached to hang his hat on the row of hooks provided for hats and coats. The finality of the gesture startled her, as if he’d come to stay. He looked slowly around the shop, as though scouting new and dangerous territory. He shifted the sack in one hand to the other, studying the plants and television, the weathered ladder from which ceramic cats hung by their tails. He studied the café tables and chairs and the tiles hung on the wall to demonstrate available colors. One swift glance took in the array of individual containers for brushes and the framed Paris in springtime and Venice gondola paintings. Another glance shot to the animal ceramic pots in the window, filled with growing herbs.

  Then he looked slowly at her, as if he’d found what he wanted. His scents curled around her—all those dark mysterious scents topped by soap...and the scent of new clothing, fresh from the package. One glance at his lips took her back a week, when she had pitted herself against him. She fought her shiver and the heat moving in her cheeks.

  Roman Blaylock definitely knew how to pierce her protective shields, something no other man had managed to do. Her awareness of him had to do with the unexpected lurch of her body. At the sight of him—the vulnerable, wary look like a lone wolf who had come to call—a traitorous softening began inside her.

  She slammed her mental door on that treacherous ache. “I suppose you came for the rent. How much rent do you pay Boone’s estate?” she asked bluntly. She could forgo any niceties to a man pilfering Boone’s estate.

  The overhead light slanted across Roman’s black brows to gleam on his cheek. A muscle crossing his jaw tensed and his eyes darkened. “I pay my way. You can stay at the place rent-free.”

  She tore at him; for looking so good, he deserved her anger. “Doesn’t your home mean anything to you? Don’t the memories make you want to live in it? How can you rent it?”

  “It’s a solid house. It should have someone in it.”

  “But not you. Why?”

  His expression closed as he held out the bulging paper sack, avoiding her question. “You can’t live on snacks and cappuccino.”

  Ignoring the sack, she warned him, “I’ll find out, you know. I’ll find out everything.”

  His next words ripped the floor from under her. “You’ll have to marry me to find out.”

  “That’s not a likely event,” she managed after a struggle to reply flippantly.

  “No, not likely. I’ve been married. A wedding ring doesn’t make things right between a man and a woman, neither does trying until your heart bleeds and your pride is gone....” He made a gesture with the fragrant sack, again inviting her to take it. “It’s good food...Italian night at the café. I didn’t sprinkle it with poison.”

  Continuing to ignore the sack, Kallista searched Roman’s tanned hard face, taut skin covering his high cheekbones, the lines bracketing his mouth. Pride and pain ran beneath the surface, and she sensed that he had given her an insight that no one else had seen. She couldn’t afford the emotions running through her, the need to understand his secrets and that odd vulnerability. She had to destroy his grip on Boone’s estate. “I don’t appreciate your views on marriage, Roman.”

  He shifted on his long legs just once and held her eyes steadily, as if he had something important to say and he wasn’t letting her barbs take him off track. “Didn’t mean to say that much about it, but you’re looking pretty sweet tonight and something just went soft inside me. You should be happy...have someone taking care of you, so you’ll eat right and not stay up trying to hack into my computer all night. You’ve got a restless soul, Kallista Bellamy, and I hope you find what you’re seeking.”

  That statement rocked her. Roman had skipped flirting and he’d said every word slowly, solemnly, as if it were wrapped in truth, straight from his heart and soul. He nodded and lifted the sack slightly. Because she was hungry, and the aromas coming from it were enticing, Kallista finally took the bag. Roman’s expression changed mildly, softening as if he were pleased that she would take anything from him. “You just ran your hand through your hair again, as if you’re feeling shy and uncertain.... You’ve got whipped cream on your lip.”

  Then he bent down slowly and kissed the spot where her tongue had just flicked. When Kallista inhaled with surprise and stepped back, Roman’s dark eyes ripped down her body and heated. “Afraid? Of me?”

  “Not a bit. And no one has ever called me shy.” Trying to be careless of his attention and keep her fingers from shaking, Kallista placed the sack on the table and took out a shallow pie pan covered with foil “Fried chicken? Mashed Potatoes? Gravy?” she asked, experienced in the usual country café fare.

  “You’re shy now, like your skin is dancing over your bones, and you can’t look at me. You’re skittish, keeping your distance from me. Are you sorry you kissed me like that? Like your walls were ripped away and you’d dived for what you wanted? Curled against me and sank into me?” he asked too softly. “Are you regretting that?”

  One startled glance at Roman revealed the deep lines on his forehead, his hands hanging loosely at his side as though bracing for a blow. Why did she feel that rocketing need to comfort him? “I’m not in the habit of doing things I’ll regret, Blaylock. I wanted you to know that I can hold my own.”

  “Uh-huh,” he murmured, disbelieving her.

  With shaking fingers, she eased away the foil. A mound of fettuccine alfredo topped by an artistic slash of chives, basil and shrimp caused her mouth to water. Another foilcovered package revealed warm crusty Italian bread. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “‘Nothing’ doesn’t come without strings.” She turned to him slowly, facing him squarely. She wanted him to understand her rules. “I won’t be obliged to you in any way, Roman. You can’t come calling at my doorstep when you’re in the mood.”

  “You’ll see me coming,” he answered slowly with a tilt to his black head that said she’d nettled him. “What time does Men’s Night start?” he asked, scanning the shelves of bisque and the waiting brushes and paints.

  Ignoring Roman, Kallista sat down and began eating. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she savored her first mouthful of fettuccine. While Roman prowled the shop, she quickly finished the meal. She glanced up to see Roman studying the cappuccino machine. “You’ll have to leave. My customers will be arriving soon. Don’t come back.”

  Roman turned slowly, reached out to latch his big hand on a bisque dog food bowl as if he’d never let go, and said quietly, “As Boone’s executor and partner, I’m responsible for fifty-one percent of this shop. I’m staying.”

  Stunned, Kallista stared at him. “You’re not my partner!”

  “Check the document you signed with Boone. It’s part of the estate. I’m obliged to check on it.” Roman lifted the dog bowl from the shelf and studied it. “I’ll take two of these. Where do I sit? And how fat is that file you’ve got on me? Learn anything interesting?”

  “You’ve got a nasty habit of tossing out too many things with one breath, Blaylock. I feel like I’m running on two tracks with you and I don’t like it. What makes you think I’ve got a file on you?” She had notes, little things people had said about Roman, how he was as a child, when his parents died, when he grieved for his child, how well he cared for Boone—She kept shoving them around, hoping to push the puzzle into something she could destroy.

  He settled into a chair, a rangy sprawl of broad shoulders and hard muscles sheathed in cotton and denim, shaggy hair blue-black under the light. The ragged cut of his hair suited the man; smooth and neat wouldn’t do for his untamed look. The angles of his cheekbones jutted against the taut skin, his jaw clenching as he turned the unpainted bowl in his big work hands. Then his black eyes narrowed
, burning her. “When a woman like you starts asking questions, a man feels proud.”

  Kallista’s indrawn breath hissed by her set teeth and Roman’s slow grin knocked her back another heartbeat. After years of a cosmopolitan life-style, she’d forgotten how small towns shared and thrived on gossip.

  Two hours of the Mens Only Night passed and Kallista hoped her smile concealed her throbbing headache. Toby Young, an eighty-year-old friend of Titus and Dusty’s, had asked Lem Steward to join them. Toby talked overloud, adjusting to his hearing problem. Both the new extralong, extraviolent action movie got on her nerves, and all the men there—including Dan, Logan, Rio, James and Roman—were driving her quietly out of her mind with their exacting, painful, precise painting techniques. Each man had chosen a solid, big object—dog bowls were favored—and required help... all with the action movie erupting in full sound.

  To soothe her taut nerves, Kallista went to work on her cappuccino machine. All the men except Roman approached to tower at her back, asking questions. Eventually they took over the cappuccino machine, gaily steaming drinks and whipping froth. The “gizmo” produced drinks for the men, and after discussions of cinnamon and whipped cream, they settled down to paint piggy banks, softballs, chunky candlesticks and fish teapots.

  Roman continued to paint dog bowls in his steady, meticulous fashion. Rio seemed intent on flirting with her, and she entered easily into a kind of dialogue she understood. She was comfortable with Rio’s light, charming banter and his compliments. She was not comfortable with the dark way Roman’s gaze followed her as she helped the other men. For just a fleeting second, she almost reached out to touch his sleek black hair, that small spike of hair that jarred as he tilted his head; she’d jerked her hand away. As if sensing her near, Roman had turned slowly to her, his black eyes pinning her briefly before she looked away.

  When the evening was coming to a close, Roman stood slowly as she passed. “You’re working too hard. Come out to the ranch tomorrow. You can count the pigeons and the pigs.”

  That dark intense look caused her to shiver again and Roman’s expression tightened as if she’d slapped him. Then he looked over her head to the woman standing in the doorway, draped in a long fur coat. The woman looked hardened by life, her face layered with cosmetics, and her bleached hair badly in need of care. She puffed nervously on her cigarette, her eyes darting around the room, then said, “Roman, I need you.”

  Roman glanced at Kallista, then quickly brushed by her. He took the woman’s arm and hurried her outside. Through the window, the shops’ neon lights revealed Roman and the woman who was obviously upset with him. She stalked to her expensive luxury car and got into the driver’s seat, while Roman got into his pickup. The woman followed him in the direction of the ranch.

  Kallista fought the pain tearing through her, as though a piece of her heart had just been ripped away. She told herself firmly that it didn’t matter to her if Roman’s women came for him, or if he hurried to be with them, when only a moment ago he’d asked Kallista—

  “Women,” Dusty said while swirling his brush artistically over a fish platter. “Never know why they come to see Roman, but they used to do Boone like that. Just tromp right in and start up with him. Odd women wanting something. Sometimes real young ones and those a bit older. Odd mix for Roman to be seeing, but never know what he does when he’s away from the ranch.”

  “Women came like that for Boone?” Kallista asked. Her guardian had seemed so perfect, immune to cheap affairs, while Roman hurried toward them.

  Titus placed his brush in the water cup and stretched. “This artwork saps a man. Sometimes men like to keep their romancing away from where they live, quietlike. But neither Boone nor Roman are the sneaky sort. After his wild young buck days, Boone was gone that thirty-year spell and came back different, purely lost interest. Something went out of him, out there in the world.”

  Dusty shook his head. “Roman never did play around. He palled around with Debbie for a good long while, then all of a sudden they turn up married with a baby on the way. He was working two jobs then, trying to pay for that house. He sure loved that little girl. I never understood Debbie, but she came from a good family. Her folks died years ago, just a bit before Roman and she got married. He’s never courted a woman since, and those Blaylock men make pretty certain that the other bucks know who’s their lady love.”

  The old cowboy scrunched up his face as though running layers of memories through his mind. “Don’t really remember him really courting Debbie, either. Not the flower, hand-holding sort of cuddling sweetheart courting.”

  “All those Blaylock boys act up when one of them kisses his bride. I always thought that Roman was slow and careful to kiss Debbie, when the rest were grabbing and grinning. Not that their women minded.”

  Dusty lowered his voice so the other men couldn’t hear. “That Rio sure enjoys women. He’s not likely to settle down quick, but when he does, he’ll be like all the Blaylocks, good family men.”

  Dusty looked at Titus. “We need to make something homey for the bunkhouse. Maybe some bowls and cups. You think Roman will ever try a wedding ring again? Or he’s too much of a lone wolf type?”

  Kallista closed her eyes and fought the headache pounding her skull. If she had Roman’s thick neck in her hands, she’d... One minute he’s bringing her food and telling her about the soft feeling in his heart, and the next a woman turns up to claim him. She’d had enough of Roman Blaylock.

  “Out,” she said quietly, and then, as the men continued to debate their next projects and play with her cappuccino maker, she pasted a smile on her face. “Session is over. Your things will be ready next week.”

  Rio grinned and plopped his Western hat on the back of his head. “You’ll miss me. Think you can go a whole week without seeing me?”

  Used to friendly flirtations, Kallista shot him a practiced, sizzling look beneath her lashes. “I’ll probably waste away without the sight of you. Spend more money next time.”

  Rio chuckled. “My big bad brother took all the dog bowls.”

  “Good. Profit is up. I’ll order more,” Kallista returned lightly, then glanced at the row of dog bowls that Roman had lined up on the shelf with the other men’s work. “Luka,” “Igor,” and other names were on the bowls. Each name was aligned perfectly with the next, the printing bold, leaving nothing unclear—except Roman’s secret life....

  Later that night Roman was leaning against the building as Kallista stepped out onto the sidewalk, locking the door behind her. For just an instant, his heart stopped as she leaned her head back, inhaling the June night. With her hair drawn back into a band at her nape, she looked sleek, continental, restless, her big bag slung over her shoulder, as though she were ready to step onto a plane and soar from him. The thought slammed into Roman’s midsection and left him cold. The roses in his fist trembled, startling him. They suited her—smooth, beautiful, sophisticated and they’d had thorns, before he’d stripped them away.

  Boone’s granddaughter paused, inhaled again and stiffened, her silver half-moon earrings catching the light. The streetlight pooled around her, a restless woman, impatient to be off, to tear him from Boone’s land. Roman’s fist curled tighter around the bouquet of roses he’d purchased earlier as she turned to find him in the shadows. “What are you doing here?”

  “Saying good-night to you.” He lowered the roses; he wanted to hold her in his arms, bury his face in the scent of her hair, and forget the furious screaming woman he’d had to face. Margaret had exceeded the allowance Boone had pensioned her off with, and she wanted more for a trip to France. To be quickly rid of her, allowing him to return to Kallista, Roman had advanced her payment, damning himself for doing it.

  Kallista’s head went up, her body taut. “Are you finished with your lover?”

  The bold thrust didn’t shock him. His promise to keep Boone’s secret wasn’t an easy road. “She isn’t my lover. We have business—”

  “I’ll just b
et,” Kallista stated flatly.

  Roman studied her. She was clearly furious with him, this granddaughter of Boone Llewlyn’s and the woman Roman wanted to hold in his arms. “You’ll have to trust me.”

  “‘Trust’ and ‘you’ in the same sentence? No, thanks. If it’s any pleasure to you, I’ve had to extend my leave of absence from work. This is taking longer than I had planned.... No, I don’t trust you.”

  Roman didn’t blame her; with her scent stirring him, he barely trusted himself. “The roses are for you. From me.”

  “You smell like a perfume counter, and it isn’t the roses,” she said tightly, furiously, and walked to her car. She tossed her bag into the car and after taking a second look at him, she stalked back and grabbed the roses. “Thanks.”

  An hour later, Roman sat in Boone’s study, watching his computer screen. His Tai Chi exercises hadn’t taken the ache from his body, the need for Kallista, and to settle his stormy mood, he’d pitted himself against Boone’s extensive worldwide accounts. He smiled grimly; Kallista had begun prowling, trying to reach into files by testing passwords. Boone’s granddaughter was thorough, talented, and persistent.

  Roman reached out to type, “Hello, honey. I took a shower. No perfume smell.”

  After a pause, the computer began pushing words on the screen. “Who are you?”

  “Roman,” he typed. “I never kissed her.”

  The words quickly coursed across the screen, “What did she want?”

  “We had business. Boone’s business,” he added. “You’re wasting time trying to hack into this system. It’s secure.”

  The letters ripped across the screen again. “She wasn’t a woman Boone would want.”

  No, but his sons would, Roman thought as the screen became blank, and Kallista finished prowling for the night. Boone’s sons had repeatedly married women like their mother, and Boone had blamed himself for their weakness. That was Boone’s private, black hell—that he’d been a poor father, building an empire in oil fields and the stock market, and that his two irresponsible sons had destroyed others’ lives.