As if accidentally, his eyes wandered to the smashed rear end of his car, and Laura felt a rush of guilt. She’d been nothing but trouble to him all afternoon, and now she was being churlish as well. “Come in,” she invited hesitantly, and immediately noted the triumphant gleam in his eyes.
“Let me take the baby for you.”
“You don’t have to do that. Actually, no one’s held Mari but me, and I—”
He stole the child so swiftly that she found herself standing awkwardly, feeling exposed somehow. His eyes took a determinedly slow path, from her high-necked lace blouse over her ripe, firm breasts, down to slender bare legs and sandals. She felt a rush of the uglies. Her stomach wasn’t quite flat yet; her breasts seemed disproportionately big from nursing; her legs were too slender these days. Not that it mattered what he thought, but the flush she felt climbing her cheeks was a surprise. Perhaps she still had some feminine vanity left, even after Peter.
Owen’s eyes met hers, opaque, unreadable, but there was something…dangerous there. Something she’d never expected. And then it was gone. He turned, setting down the diaper bag, and studied the room.
“You like antiques?”
“They’re my business.” Again, pride echoed in her voice. At first look, the room was a jumble of baby gear and packing crates. Beneath that, though, the place was ideal for the two of them. Upstairs, a roomy loft with a slanted roof had been divided into two bedrooms and a bath. The main floor contained an old-fashioned country kitchen, a dining room she could use as an office, and the long living room they were standing in now.
Plank paneling and casement windows and a huge fieldstone fireplace set off her treasures…the bonnet-topped highboy, the comb-back Windsor chairs, the oak refectory table with baluster legs, the Georgian burred desk. The couch was Jenny Lind—a criminal transgression for a period antique fanatic, but Laura had opted for comfort; its blue-and-white cushions were thick and comfortable, matching the crisp curtains. A lighthouse clock stood on the mantel, and the bookshelves were already filled with books on the eighteenth-century antiques that were her stock in trade.
“You sell antiques?”
“Actually, my business is finding them.” Laura moved forward swiftly, self-consciously straightening things. “My ex-husband was a musician—a cellist—and we traveled around from city to city. That gave me a chance to scour the countryside, comparing prices and quality, finding all the best sources.” Stop babbling, Laura. “Anyway, I act as a middleman. For example, if a store has a customer looking for a step-down Windsor settee, or a baroque chimney piece, or an English linen press, they call me and I track it down. Good eighteenth-century antiques are hard to find; they’re usually hidden away on estates. I’ll have to go back to traveling in time, but for these first months with Mari, I’ve arranged to do most of my searching on the internet. Owen?”
“So you’re trying to work, as well as move in and care for a new baby.” No surprise echoed in his wry tone, but a rare twist of jealousy gnawed in Owen’s head. So the guy had been artistic, a musician. Owen could claim courage, guts and sound survival instincts in the corporate jungle, but not a single artistic bone. So if that appealed to her in a man… And he’d expected her to talk about her ex-husband with anger, or pain, or something to indicate the reason for a fast divorce in the middle of a pregnancy. But Laura mentioned Peter as casually as she might discuss chicken soup.
“Owen?” A frantic note had crept into her voice.
“Yes?”
He’d taken off his coat, and the baby was perched face-down under his arm. Laura said politely, “You’re holding Mari as if she were a football.”
He glanced down. “I haven’t found a baby yet who doesn’t like being held like a football.” He paused. “Where’s your corkscrew?”
She hadn’t the slightest idea, but finding it at least gave her something to do with her hands. Owen trailed her to the kitchen, peeking into the freezer and refrigerator.
“Do you really have six brothers and sisters?”
“Yes. Spread out all over the country these days, except for Gary—I think I mentioned him—and a sister, Susan. They both live nearby. I think my parents intended to have only one child… I was seven before they went on a one-a-year binge.” He lifted a package from her freezer. “The youngest finally reached twenty this year, and the confusion at family gatherings seems to get worse every year. Most of them are married and have kids of their own.”
“Hmm.” She couldn’t find the corkscrew anywhere. Funny, that. Normally she could lay her hands on anything in the kitchen. The room was a joy, with hanging pots and fresh greenery and an old-fashioned raised hearth big enough to cook in. She had hung the Dresden blue curtains yesterday, and a splash of white hyacinths now sat in the center of the oak table. There was ample space for everything…except that a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man seemed to be everywhere.
“You have fresh asparagus,” he commented.
She heard him but deliberately didn’t answer. She watched her baby, ready to pounce whenever Mari let out the first scream. Mari hadn’t been this good since she’d been born.
“A couple of chicken breasts, marinated and broiled? Does that sound good for dinner?”
Laura brandished the corkscrew and flashed a brilliant smile. “I knew I had one, but I haven’t had anything alcoholic in so long…” She could hardly wait to hand him the bottle. He’d have to give Mari back while he uncorked it; no one could do that with only one hand…but he managed, flipping Mari over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The baby gurgled, oblivious of her mother’s look of horror.
“Wineglasses?”
She found one for him. He reached into the cupboard and took down a second glass, filled both, wandered to the window with the baby, and stared out at his bashed-in car.
Laura sighed mentally. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”
“Thank you, yes.”
Whether he knew it or not, she thought darkly, she wasn’t letting him manipulate her, bashed-in car or no. For keeping Mari happy, she would have given him fortunes. Dinner was cheaper.
An hour later, Laura peeked nervously under the kitchen table. Mari was settled in the triangle of Owen’s crossed knee.
“Laura. She’s fine.”
“I don’t understand it. She’s not crying. She always cries when I try to eat dinner.” Laura’s face peeked over the edge of the table. “Did I tell you that dinner was delicious?”
“Four times.”
“How did a bachelor from a large family learn to cook like that?”
He chuckled. “Learning to cook was a matter of survival, not choice. I still haven’t mastered the art of following a recipe.”
He’d mastered a few other things, though, she thought idly. A stranger shouldn’t be sitting at her kitchen table, and yet he was. She’d never meant to drink the glass of wine, and yet she had. Owen had the gift of making odd things seem natural. He’d kept her laughing through dinner with stories of his large, unruly family. He also had wonderful dancing eyes, the most seductive tenor she’d ever heard, and an easy way of making himself at home. Laura, what is this man doing in your house?
“Owen, what are you doing here?” she asked determinedly.
He raised a dark eyebrow quizzically.
“Saving a stranded woman. Chauffeuring her around. Cooking her dinner. You make a habit of this?”
“I’ve been exiled from my own family,” he said gravely.
“Exiled?”
“It’s difficult to explain. You see, chocolates are the family business—did I tell you Reesling is my last name? And for the last seven—”
“Reesling? Reesling Chocolates?”
For an instant, he couldn’t stop looking at her. Sheer lust filled her eyes, vivid and uninhibited. She had let her guard down for those few seconds. Mischief sparkled from her. And if he’d had the least idea that chocolates were her nemesis, he’d have brought up the subject an hour before.
“My dad used to buy them for special occasions,” Laura confessed. “Thirty dollars a pound, all wrapped in satin boxes, those beautiful little shapes…” Abruptly, she came back to earth. “Wait a minute. Let’s get back to why you’re ‘exiled’ from your family.”
He would have preferred to talk chocolates. In her bedroom.
He settled for answering a gentle stream of questions and watching her eyes change from the blue-green of the sea to the turquoise of the gem. She had a most disturbing habit of…listening.
And he had a long-standing policy of not talking about himself, but she coaxed the family history from him. For the past seven years, he’d run the business single-handed, while his dad retired and his younger siblings were busy getting educated—and married. The Reeslings owned cacao plantations in Brazil, transported the beans to New York and manufactured chocolates from their own secret recipes. Like most of the good chocolate firms worldwide, Reesling’s wasn’t a massive corporation, but it was a complex international business. Running it, Owen had discovered, was both satisfying and challenging, particularly since he had been determined to double production.
“Which you’ve done.” Laura had no doubts.
“Which I’ve done,” he agreed. And he’d turned into a workaholic in the process. Of his six brothers and sisters, only Gary and Susan were interested in the business. Both were well educated and skilled in managing the business, and they had been indispensable to him. “Only, according to them, I’ve turned into a domineering, autocratic tyrant,” he explained to Laura glumly.
“Have you?”
“Hell, yes.”
She chuckled, but her smile was compassionate. “There’s more to it than that, though, isn’t there, Owen?”
He nodded. “Family businesses don’t work unless each member is willing to sink or swim alone. Any firm that takes on all of Uncle Johnny’s forty-seven nephews out of family loyalty is going to go down the tubes unless each is prepared to pull his weight. And I have two siblings who are dying to pull their weight. Gary’s got good marketing ideas; Susan has a degree in chemistry and wants to try a dozen new products. Neither of them wants the top chair, just a chance to try out their management wings. And that just wasn’t happening…”
“Because you couldn’t let go of the controls,” Laura guessed quietly.
“I told you I was a tyrant.” He shook his head. “I pulled the plug for about six months—not totally, but I’m trying to stay away unless they actually ask for help. They’ve got an experienced staff behind them, but they need time and freedom, without me constantly telling them what to do. They need their chance—and, frankly, I need to change. Anyway, enough of talking about myself.”
The baby let out a sharp, piercing wail, and Owen gently handed her to Laura. “I’m afraid the princess just ran out of patience.”
“Owen…” She wanted to say something reassuring but wasn’t sure how. In spite of his dry humor, Laura guessed he’d never meant to share a personal crisis. Still, he was a relative stranger and she didn’t have the right to reassure him. He’d labeled himself a domineering workaholic, but dominating wasn’t the same thing as domineering. He was a man who naturally took control, but he didn’t seem to lose any of his humanity in the process. If he saw himself as a tyrant, Laura didn’t. To her he’d shown caring and compassion for her baby, and she didn’t like to see him being so hard on himself.
She wanted to say something, but in a minute her arms closed around the pink-wrapped bundle, and her attention was distracted. Softness glowed on her features. Mari was her world. For an instant, she’d been so immersed in Owen’s story that she’d almost forgotten that. Impossible. The baby was her life.
“I’ll clear the table while you nurse the baby. And it’s cooled down so much I’ll lay a small fire—if you had the chimney checked out before you moved in?”
“I…yes, and there’s even a little wood on the back porch, but you don’t have to do—” Mari let out another furious wail, and Laura looked at Owen nervously. All right, so he wasn’t quite a stranger anymore. Maybe she’d even enjoyed the past few hours, and maybe she even felt unwillingly drawn to a man who’d shouldered heavy responsibilities for too long. Still, the bottom line was that no man belonged in her living room.
His eyes met hers. “If you’d just turn your chair around,” he suggested gently. “Laura, I won’t intrude on your privacy.”
She flushed; he knew she was embarrassed to nurse in front of him. Paying no attention to her, he brought in an armful of twigs and knelt by the hearth, stacking them together with a few small logs. By the time he flicked the match, she had turned the chair around and bent her head away from him.
He moved toward the kitchen, shifting plates to the counter, a faint smile on his mouth as he watched her. The fire was little more than ribbons of flame, its amber glow dancing in her hair. He heard her murmur softly to the baby, saw her fumble with her blouse buttons. The infant wailed, then fell silent. Laura’s face was only a fire-warmed shadow against the paneling, but he saw the sudden wince when the baby latched on, then the sensually radiant smile as she leaned her head back.
He envied the baby.
After he had disposed of the dishes, his eyes narrowed on the space around him. The clutter of packing boxes bothered him; her half-empty refrigerator bothered him. Laura clearly had too much on her plate.
Financially, she was obviously solvent. Her property was expensive; the baby gear was the finest quality; her antiques were worth a small fortune. She was just so…alone.
And Laura was a woman who shouldn’t be alone, if any man had sense in his head. She was proud and warm and intelligent; her eyes had a sensual incandescence when she looked at her little one. Such a great capacity for love.
Why was she alone? What kind of fool had her ex-husband been?
Carrying his glass of wine, he returned to the fire and crouched down to add another log. Orange sparks flew up the chimney, hot and crackling. He sensed that she’d quickly drawn up the baby blanket to cover herself. There was no need; he wasn’t looking.
He didn’t need to look. In his mind he carried an indelible picture of her bared breast bathed in the warmth of the fire’s glow. He settled on her couch and sipped the wine, seeing images he had no business seeing…and willing them anyway.
Laura shifted the baby to the other breast. “Owen? You live in Ridgefield?”
“I bought a house here about three years ago. Truthfully, though, I haven’t spent more than a few months in it in all that time. It needs some work…” He swirled the golden liquid in his glass. His house was the last thing on his mind. For once, even the business wasn’t on his mind. His conscience was reading him a riot act. Licentious thoughts were inappropriate around a woman fresh out of the hospital, but his mind wouldn’t stop filling up with…images.
When Laura shifted the baby to her other breast, he knew that the flame would cast amber and shadow on her supple skin.
“Owen?”
He saw the shadow of the baby’s fist flailing, then curling possessively on her mother’s breast. He gulped the last of his wine and fumbled for the track of conversation. She’d asked something about why they grew the cocoa beans in Brazil. “Most beans are grown in either West Africa or Brazil. Soil and climate affect their taste. A blend of Brazilian beans produces the sharpest, clearest flavor…though I doubt you’d get our competition to agree.”
He hoped that answered her question, because he’d already forgotten it. She propped the baby on her shoulder to burp. For an instant, her bare breast was silhouetted in the shadow of the fire.
Owen felt abruptly more rational when she finished buttoning up her blouse. At least until she turned around, and he saw the natural, sensual sweetness of her face.
The baby was sleeping on her shoulder, very full and contented. Owen felt hollow and frustrated, and could only hope he didn’t look that way.
Laura stood up. “I’m going to lay her down,” she whispered.<
br />
When she took the baby upstairs, Owen rolled down his shirtsleeves, buttoned the cuffs and glanced around for his suit jacket. He wasn’t staying; he refused to allow himself to stay. She was exhausted and needed rest. But the first thing he said to her when she came back down was “Would you come outside with me for a few minutes?”
Chapter 3
“Just for a few minutes,” Owen promised her.
Laura glanced uncertainly up the loft stairs. “I can’t leave Mari.”
“We won’t go far. You’ll be able to hear her.”
Laura stepped outside ahead of him, her arms folded tightly under her chest. Her kitchen door led to a cedar deck overlooking the ravine.
The night was cool. A faint breeze murmured through the new summer leaves. In the distance, she could hear the gurgling rush of the creek, and all around her the rain had intensified all the smells of early summer—grass and pungent earth and the sweet hyacinths.
Behind her, Owen leaned against the cedar rail.
She could feel his eyes on her, and when she turned, the breeze tossed a wisp of pale hair across her cheek; she brushed it away. Moonlight touched his features, the lines of strength and purpose, the opaque shine of his eyes. Away from the firelit room, away from Mari, alone with him in the darkness, she suddenly felt aware of him as a man.
Her tongue was inexplicably tripping itself, trying to find something to say. “I love this place,” she said lightly. “All the time I was growing up, I loved traveling and never really missed having a home. But since Mari…”
“You picked a beautiful site. Come here, Laura.”
She smiled, a cool, bright smile that denied the strange little shiver that raced up her spine. Come here, Laura. That was all he’d said. Nothing…dangerous.
“It probably would have been more practical simply to find another apartment in New York, but…” She saw his hand reach out to her in the darkness, and smiled brilliantly again. “I wanted a home. Something of my own. My grandmother set up a trust for me, so I could afford it. Between that money and the fees I earn from my work—”
Sweets to the Sweet Page 3