She took a deep breath and headed for the stairs.
* * *
David stood on the porch, his hands tucked into the back pockets of his chinos, whistling softly through his teeth as he surveyed the scene around him.
Big white house, colonnaded porch, a driveway you damn near needed a map to negotiate and enough Spanish moss dripping from the trees to gladden the heart of the entire Confederate army.
Nice. Very nice—assuming that living on the set of Gone with the Wind was your idea of a good time. It sure as hell wasn’t his and somehow, he wouldn’t have thought it suited the widow Willingham, either, but then, what he knew about the woman could fit in a thimble with room left to spare.
Frowning, he jabbed the doorbell again. Wouldn’t it be a bitch if she wasn’t in? He knew he was early, knew he probably should have phoned from his car, but there’d been no way to precisely estimate his arrival time…
Who was he kidding? He hadn’t phoned because he was damned well certain Stephanie would have told him what he could do with his impending visit, had she known about it. And then she’d have seen to it that Jack knew the details, as well. All the details, including the embarrassing ones. So David had instructed his temp to offer no names to Mrs. Willingham.
“Just tell her to expect a visit from a member of Mr. Russell’s firm,” he’d said.
The woman’s brows had taken a barely perceptible lift but, unlike the late, unlamented Miss Murchison, she hadn’t asked any questions.
“Yes, sir,” she’d replied, and now here he was, unembarrassed… and, thanks to the hour, unexpected.
David stepped off the porch and gave the house the once-over again. Windows were open upstairs; he could see draperies billowing gently under the warm caress of the spring breeze. Okay. One last try. He climbed the steps, crossed the porch, and pressed the bell, listening as the chimes echoed distantly through the rooms.
All right. Enough was enough. He’d head back to the highway. Or to his car. Yes, that’s what he’d do, phone Jack and tell him what he should have told him in the first place, that he was the wrong man to deal with the beautiful young widow with the vulnerable air and the disposition of a tigress…
The door swung open. Stephanie Willingham stood before him, her hands on her hips.
“You know what, Clare?” she was saying. “As far as I’m concerned, you can take this miserable house and—”
She broke off, her face reflecting shock. Not that David really noticed. He was pretty much in shock, himself.
This wasn’t the stunning, sophisticated woman he’d been dreaming about. Stephanie looked about as sophisticated as a teenager. And she was—there was no other word to describe her—a mess. Her face was smudged and makeup-free; her hair was a mass of ringlets. She was wearing a sweatshirt that was a couple of sizes too large and a pair of jeans that had definitely seen better days.
And she was definitely not as beautiful as he’d remembered.
She was more beautiful, so lovely that the shock of seeing her almost stole his breath.
As it was, it damn near stole his hand, which he’d rested on the doorjamb.
“You,” Stephanie said, and slammed the door in his face.
He moved fast, got his hand out of the way just in time and replaced it with his shoulder, wincing when the door threatened its removal.
“Okay,” he said, “calm down.”
“How dare you? How dare you?”
“Mrs. Willingham…Stephanie…”
She called him a name, one that made his eyes widen.
“Get out of here! You hear me? You—get—out—of—here—right—now,” she said, punctuating each word with a shove against the door.
“Hey. Hey, don’t do that. You’re going to slice my arm off at the shoulder.”
“That’ll be a good start, you—you…”
“Look, I know you’re not glad to see me, but—”
“Not glad? Not glad?” Her voice flew up the scales. “Get off my porch. Get out of my driveway. Get—”
“Dammit, woman, listen to me!”
“No, Mr. Chambers. You’re the one has to do the listening.” Her eyes narrowed coldly. “I’ve got a shotgun right at my side.”
“Oh, for crying out loud…”
“My late husband always said a loaded gun was a man’s best friend, but believe me, this gun’s got nothing against being a woman’s best friend, too.”
“Listen, there’s a perfectly logical explanation for—”
“You get yourself out of this doorway, down those steps and into your car or so help me Hannah, I’ll blow your head off!”
Did she really have a gun? David hadn’t seen any, but what did that prove? Not seeing a weapon didn’t mean there wasn’t a weapon. That was urban survival lesson number one.
“Mrs. Willingham,” he said in his finest, most conciliatory-courtroom manner, “you’re overreacting.”
“Move, Mr. Chambers!”
“Stephanie, dammit because—”
“One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thou—”
“What are you doing?”
“I’m counting. You have five seconds, sir. Two more, in other words, and if I’m not looking at your backside by then, I’m going to fire.”
David sighed. “Jack Russell,” he said, and the instant he saw her eyebrows knot together in puzzlement, he twisted hard, freed his shoulder and threw all his weight against the door.
She had the advantage of leverage. He, however, he had a multiplicity of advantages. He had weight. Height. Muscle. And the growing conviction that if she really did have a gun, she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
The wood groaned. Stephanie shrieked. And then the door gave and he barreled through the opening and damn near through her, too. She shrieked again as his momentum carried him forward, onto her. Together, they fell against the wall.
David’s elbow hit first. Dimly, in the back of his mind, he was aware of a lancet of pain and the knowledge that his arm would probably hurt like hell later on.
Mosdy, he was aware of her.
Of Stephanie. Her softness, and the fullness of her breasts, braless apparently, beneath the oversize sweatshirt. Of the silky brush of her hair against his mouth. The faint, incredibly sexy aroma of woman and flowers and sweat…
And of her knee, as she aimed it straight for the most vulnerable part of his anatomy.
David cursed and sidestepped just in time. She caught him in the thigh instead of where she’d been aiming, but it was close enough so that he got the message.
There was no gun—his brain had registered that fact right away—but that didn’t mean she wasn’t hell-bent on murder.
“Okay,” he said grimly as she struggled to get a thumb in his eye and a knee to his groin. His hands closed on her wrists; he lifted her arms and pinned them to the wall above her head. “Okay, Scarlett, that’s enough!”
“I’ll scream,” she panted. “And everybody in this house will come running. The maid. The butler. The chauffeur. The cook. The housekeeper…”
“Funny not a one of them came running when I was leaning on that doorbell,” David said with a mirthless smile, “or when you were screaming up a storm, a couple of minutes ago.”
Color drained from her face. “They’re—they’re all busy.”
“Busy.” He smiled silkily. “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? No well-trained servant would interrupt his or her work to respond to a doorbell or, heaven forbid, a woman’s bloodcurdling screams.”
“They’re all here, I’m telling you.”
“Sure they are.”
“I’ve only to call them—”
“Call.”
“—And they’ll come running.”
“Tripping over each other’s feet, as they rush to your aid, right?”
“Yes. No. I mean—”
“I know what you mean, Scarlett. I’m just not buying. You’ve told one tall tale too many. First a loaded rifle—”
“A sh
otgun,” Stephanie said with surprising dignity.
“And now a bunch of stalwart servants near at hand.” David grinned. “You’ve certainly got a fine imagination.”
Color seeped back into her face, along the elegant, high arches of her cheeks.
“And you’ve got your nerve, coming here!”
“I’ve been trying to tell you, I’m here for a reason…and not the one you think.”
But he was having increasing trouble, remembering the reason for his visit. The supposed reason because, the truth was, he’d been searching for an excuse to find this woman ever since he’d turned his back on her in that airplane and walked away.
He could see the swiftness of her pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. She wasn’t frightened of him anymore; the magic words—Jack Russell—had taken care of that. She was just wary now, and angry.
And so damn gorgeous.
She was breathing rapidly, and not even the fullness of the sweatshirt could disguise the rise and fall of her rounded breasts. He was still holding her hands locked above her head; the position of her arms tilted her body forward ever so slightly and his weight was still on her—it had been the only way to keep that knee from getting him where he lived—and now, for the first time, he registered the fact that her hips were angled toward his, that her pelvis was tight against him.
Heat rose in his loins and raced through his blood; he saw her pupils enlarge as she felt the immediacy of his arousal against her. The pulse in her throat beat faster, and his heart raced along with it. She knew what was happening, and she was responding to it. She wanted him, wanted what he knew now he had never stopped wanting.
He slid his hands up her throat, to her face. Her skin felt cool against his fingertips. His thumb slid across her mouth, and her lips parted.
God, he was on fire!
He whispered her name, his voice husky and thick with need. The sound of it seemed to startle her. He felt her stiffen against him, and saw the sudden contraction of her pupils.
“Don’t,” she said. “Please, don’t.” And even in the escalating fever of his desire, David recognized the fear in that soft, breathless plea.
It stunned him.
He’d known many women over the years. Some had claimed to adore him, one—his former wife—to despise him, but none had ever feared him. It was a new experience, and an ugly one.
There was nothing lower than a man who inspired fear in women.
And Stephanie wasn’t just afraid. She was terrified.
His hands slid to her shoulders. He felt her start to tremble.
“Listen to me. I’m not going to hurt you. I’d never hurt you—”
“Let go of me!”
He did, immediately, although what he really wanted to do was take her into his arms, hold her close, promise her that no one would ever hurt her, not so long as he was there…
“Now, get out of my house.” She pointed her finger at the door. Her hand was shaking, but her voice was clear and steady.
“Jack Russell asked me to talk to you.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“Jack told me you’d phoned him about a legal problem. He asked me if I’d come down and discuss it with you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why would he do that? And how do you know Mr. Russell?”
“He and I are partners in the same law firm. He told me you needed legal advice.”
She stared at him, speechless, and then she gave a choked laugh.
“Let me get this straight. You’re his errand boy?”
David’s mouth thinned. “I’m no one’s errand boy. Jack asked me to talk to you and I said I would, as a favor. To Jack,” he added with deliberate emphasis.
Was he telling her the truth? she wondered. Probably. He couldn’t have found out about her call to Russell any other way. Not that it changed the facts. Given the choice between finding Godzilla and David Chambers on her doorstep, she’d have opted for the reptile, and never mind that it wasn’t the one who had the law degree.
Stephanie stood as straight and tall as her five feet, four inches permitted.
“Well, you’ve done it. You’ve come here to see me—and now you can go home.” Her chin tilted. “You can inform Mr. Russell that you did as he’d requested, and that I sent you packing.”
“No loss, Scarlett. I always thought this was a complete waste of time. I told Jack straight off that you haven’t got a case.”
“Thank you for your opinion, Mr. Chambers. And goodbye.”
“I’ll give Jack your regards.”
“You do that.”
He nodded, stepped out onto the porch, started toward the steps… Hell, he thought angrily, and swung toward her.
“I was wrong.”
“Indeed you were.”
“It is a loss. Mine—considering that I’ve already wasted the day.”
“What a pity,” she said sweetly.
“Yeah. I’m sure it breaks your heart that I expected to be back home on my ranch just about now.”
“My goodness,” she purred. “I didn’t know they had ranches up there in the nation’s capitol.” And she laughed softly in a way that made him want to walk over, grab her and shake her until she stopped laughing…
Or grab her and kiss her until she melted in his arms.
A muscle knotted in David’s cheek.
“It seems to me you’ve got a choice here,” he said, his tone brusque. “You can feel smug about knowing my weekend’s shot to hell, thanks to you, or you can come down off that high horse and tell me your story.” David swept back his tweed jacket and slapped his hands onto his hips. “Your choice, though frankly, I don’t give a damn what you decide.”
He didn’t, either; Stephanie could see it in his stance. And in his face. That hard, handsome face that she’d thought of so many times during the past days and nights, although why she should have was beyond her.
Everything about him was exactly as she’d remembered. His hair was drawn back in that sexy ponytail; his skin had that golden tanned look that nobody had ever gotten from a bottle or a sunlamp. The well-tailored dark suit, snowywhite shirt and silk tie of two weeks ago had given way to a gray tweed jacket, a pale blue cotton sweater and a pair of chino trousers. His boots were dark brown this time, and scuffed just enough so they looked as if they’d seen real use. Not that they would have. She could just imagine his ranch, with yards of manicured lawn and hot-and-cold running servants, and a big, paneled den lined with the heads of dead animals where he sat pretending to be a Western Hero while outside, other men sweated and worked their butts off on his behalf…
“—Your mind.”
Stephanie blinked. “I didn’t… what did you say?”
“I said…” He glanced purposefully at his watch. “Make up your mind. If I’m going to be heading back to Washington, I’d just as soon get started.” He smiled coolly. “Maybe I can get back in time to do something pleasant with my Friday night.”
Call some woman, he meant. Take her someplace cozy for dinner, then bring her back to his place, take her in his arms…
Which was none of her business. Absolutely none.
“Well?” he demanded. “What’s it going to be?”
Not that he needed to ask. David almost smiled. Stephanie’s face was like an open book. She wanted to tell him to go. Maybe it was more accurate to say that what she really wanted was to push him down the steps and off the porch.
But she also wanted him to stay. That didn’t surprise him. She’d called Jack for help; to turn that help away now would be stupid, and whatever else she was, the widow Willingham was not dumb.
He shot back his sleeve, looked at his watch again, and that did it.
“You’re right,” she said, the words rushed together as if she knew that if she didn’t say them quickly, she’d never manage to say them at all. “I suppose I’ve no choice in the matter.”
“There’s always a choice, Scarlett. I’m sure you’ve been around long eno
ugh to know that.”
She smiled bitterly at the thinly veiled condemnation in his voice. How smug he was. How sure of himself. How totally, completely, thoughtlessly male.
She thought of telling him so, of adding that if he really believed there were always choices, he’d either been born with a silver spoon in his mouth or with an IQ rivaling that of a slug.
Stephanie turned on her heel and strode toward an arched doorway at the end of the enormous hall. “Very well, Mr. Chambers. I’ll give you ten minutes.”
“No.”
Incredulous, she spun toward him. “No? But you just said—”
“You are not giving me anything,” David said in a clipped tone. “Let’s be sure we understand that from the start.” He eyed her stonily. “I’m the one who’s giving you something. And if you can’t get that straight, I’m out of here.”
Her face bloomed with color. “I do not like you, Mr. Chambers,” she said. “Let us be sure you understand that!”
He laughed. “Why, Scarlett, darlin’, you just about break mah heart.”
“I’d take that as a compliment—except we both know you haven’t got a heart.” Stephanie jerked her head toward the doorway. “We can talk here, in the parlor.”
David hesitated. Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly…
“Are you coming, sir? Or have you suddenly changed your mind?”
Change it, David told himself. Don’t be an idiot, Chambers.
“Don’t be silly,” he said with a tight smile. “I wouldn’t miss our little talk for anything.”
And he sauntered down the hall and stepped past her, into the parlor.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE room suited the house, or perhaps it suited David’s expectations.
It was big and overdone, a relic of a bygone era. And it was meant to impress, assuming you were the sort who’d be impressed by dark velvet sofas and chairs that looked as if they’d buckle under a person’s weight. Lamps topped with fringed silk shades fought for space on tables crowded with an army of gilt cupids and porcelain shepherdesses.
“Sit down, Mr. Chambers.” Stephanie yanked open the top drawer of a mahogany rolltop desk. “That green love seat’s probably the most comfortable spot, and you can turn on the lamp beside it.”
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