Beckett's Cinderella

by Dixie Browning

  “Wet. Mama’s roses caught hell again, but other than that, everything came through just fine. My cousin Carson says hello, by the way. He was there when I called.”

  “Well. I know you’re relieved.” She was standing awkwardly beside the kitchen door, painfully aware of what she must look like. Neither of them had changed into dry clothes. It was extremely hot in the house, particularly in the kitchen.

  “Uh…Liza? Do you need any help? I mean, with your hands and all…?”

  But supper was over now. They could either sit in the living room watching TV as long as they had power, or go to bed and lie awake staring into the stifling darkness while the storm wore itself out and passed on up the coast. As tired as she was, she knew she wouldn’t sleep.

  And it wasn’t the thought of the storm that would keep her awake. It was the thought of the man just a few feet away.

  Beckett of the chiseled bronze features, the pewter hair and the quicksilver eyes. Becket of the square-palmed, long-fingered hands, the comforting shoulders and the hard, flat abdomen.

  She quickly lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “The attic. I need to set out buckets under the leaks,” she blurted.

  “Stay here, I’ll do it. Where do you keep your buckets?”

  The buckets were all filling with rainwater, so she supplied pots and plastic wastebaskets, then waited at the foot of the stairs while Beckett set them under any drips he found in the cramped attic space. The thought of climbing the stairs was too painful to contemplate.

  She tried to imagine how she’d be feeling if she’d been seriously injured—broken a leg or worse. She was one of those fortunate individuals who had never been seriously ill. Good thing, considering she’d turned out to be such a wimp.

  “That’s done.” He descended, grinning and brushing his hands together. “Now, what do you say we switch on the fans and try to get some sleep?”

  “You know where the linens are. You’ll pardon me if I don’t offer to make up the couch for you? I’ve just learned that I despise physical pain.”

  They were standing too close in the narrow stair landing. She could smell his shaving cream—he had obviously showered and shaved just before picking her up to go out for dinner. All that seemed aeons ago, but only a few hours had passed.

  “Remind me never to accept a dinner date with you again,” she said dryly.

  “Remind me never to ask you for another date.” He smiled, but the intensity of his look lingered after the smile had faded. She averted her face, her pulse suddenly kicking into overdrive.

  Instead of moving away, he continued to stand in the attic doorway. “Liza?”

  Just that. He said her name, and that was all it took. When he opened his arms, she moved into them as if he were a magnet and she a splinter of steel. No words were needed. Lifting her, he carried her to the bedroom door, then had to back up and reposition himself to maneuver her through the opening without bumping her legs.

  “It never happens this way in the movies.”

  “Wider doorways,” he said gravely. She snickered and he grinned, but the tension remained unabated. Carefully he lowered her to the bed. She held her breath. If he left her now, she didn’t know what she would do. Beg him to stay? Swear at him? She was no better at begging than she was at cursing.

  He reached for the tail of her shirt, eased it carefully over her head and draped it over the foot of the bed. “Liza? Are you all right with this?”

  Was she all right with what? Letting him undress her? That depended on whether it was an act of pity or an act of seduction.

  Mutely she nodded. His eyes narrowed, and then he asked, “Where are your scissors?”

  “My scissors,” she repeated. She was sitting here naked except for a skimpy bra, matching panties and three miles of gauze, and he wanted a pair of scissors?

  To cut off what?

  “Kitchen shears in the third drawer down beside the sink, nail scissors in the medicine cabinet. Take your pick.”

  He left, returning a moment later with the nail scissors and a roll of adhesive tape. “Might as well get you more comfortable before we…”

  Before we what? she wanted to scream at him.

  Gently but methodically, he removed several yards of gauze from her knee, retaped the rest and used the excess to bandage her hands, wincing at the sight of her raw flesh. Finally, setting the scissors and tape roll on the dresser, he said, “There now, that’s better.”

  She started to make a crack about playing doctor, but thought better of it. Obviously, she’d misread the signs.

  But then he reached for his belt. While she watched, hardly daring to breathe, he shed his khakis and tossed them across a chair.

  Neat, but not overly so, she couldn’t help but notice. James would have spent minutes brushing off imaginary specks and wrinkles, draped his trousers carefully over the mahogany clothes rack and then spent even more time taking care of his shirt and tie. It was no wonder their sex life had never been terrific. By the time he was ready to come to her bed, she’d usually been half-asleep.

  He was tanned all over, from his feet upward. And upward led past some breathtaking scenery. In a pair of navy boxers, he was visibly aroused. Aroused and perfectly in control. That was somehow even more exciting than being aroused and out of control.

  They were adults, Liza reminded herself. He was probably better at this than she was—he had to be more experienced. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. Other parts of her body were damp and throbbing. She felt like a nervous virgin, unsure of how to act, wanting so much to please, terrified that she wouldn’t. Dressed in a designer gown, with her hair professionally done and her face carefully made up, she might have felt more confident, but stick-skinny and practically naked, with big, clumsy bandages on her hands and knees, confident was the last thing she felt.

  “Liza, stop it,” Beckett said quietly. “If you don’t want to do this, then just say so. I might not be able to walk upright for a while, but I’ll survive. All you have to do is tell me to leave, and I’ll spend the rest of the night on your potatoes.”

  She blinked. “On my what?”

  All innocence, he said, “Don’t you store your excess stock of potatoes in your sofa cushions? I could’ve sworn…”

  She sputtered, then burst out laughing. Before she could recover, he came down beside her, kissing his way up her throat while he skillfully unhooked her bra and peeled it off.

  And then his mouth found hers and all rational thought fled. Her breasts, modest at best, swelled to his touch, her nipples rising to his kisses. Her thighs first clamped together, then fell apart and she forgot all about her injuries. His back felt warm and slick as she stroked it with her fingers, wishing her hands weren’t swathed in gauze so that she could stroke him with her palms. She was still smiling when he removed her panties, carefully easing them over her knees. She felt an urge to giggle. In her wildest imagination she could never have come up with a seduction scene like this, but, oh, it was working. She lay there, helpless to take a much more active part, and relished every single sensation as he brought her to the brink, allowed her to drift back, then swept her up again. First with his hands, then with his mouth, he took her places she had never before been.

  By the time he moved over her, she was frantic with need. “Please, please,” she gasped.

  Swearing softly, he swung himself up and reached for his pants. “God, I hope it’s still here.” His wallet hit the floor. Rolling onto her side she curled around him as he ripped open the foil packet. Moments later he was back, positioning himself over her again, and she reached for him, never mind her bandaged hands.

  It was everything she had ever imagined and more. Within minutes she climaxed not once, but twice.

  Later, when she could think rationally again, she thought of the times she had accused the authors of all those romances she’d read of exaggerating. The truth was, they hadn’t done it justice.

  Sometime later Liza awoke, sore but
relieved to find him still there beside her, curved around her back, his arm around her waist. She had never been prone to messy emotions, but suddenly her eyes were burning and her throat had that thick feeling that meant tears weren’t far away.

  She knew what she wanted. She wanted it to go on this way forever.

  It wasn’t going to happen. He’d be leaving today; she’d known that all along. She could take his money or not. She’d done nothing to earn it, yet if she refused, he might construe it as a means of holding on to him. There was nothing she’d like better than to hold on to him, but not that way.

  Meanwhile, she reminded herself, there were buckets to empty in the attic, and windowsills to mop up. Hard, blowing rains always leaked through. Maybe she could take the money and use it to buy storm windows…although the whole house was so far off square, she doubted if she’d be able to find any to fit.

  What on earth was she doing, lying here beside the man who had sent her over the moon again and again—thinking about storm windows?

  There’s no hope for you, Lizzy, none at all, she jeered silently. Here she’d been priding herself on the progress she’d made since her whole world had fallen apart, and now this. Now she’d gone and fallen in love with a—with a pirate chaser, of all things.

  Oh, God, I don’t believe this. She groaned—silently, she hoped.

  “In pain, are we?” said a sleepy voice from beside her.

  “No, we are not in pain,” she snapped. “At least I’m not, I don’t know about you.”

  He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, a slant of sun highlighting his bristles on his jaw. Evidently, he was one of those men who needed to shave twice. “Not a morning person, hmm?”

  She was so a morning person, but it seemed childish to insist. Sitting up, she pulled the sheet over her bare breasts and braced herself to swing her legs out of bed.

  “Easy,” he cautioned, reading her intentions. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t have a few bruises to show for your fall last night.”

  Which one? When it came to which fall would hurt the longest, there was no contest. “At least there’s no point in hurrying out to the stand this morning. Why don’t you shower and get dressed, and I’ll make you some breakfast before you leave.”

  He was quiet for so long, she stole a look at him. Surely that wasn’t anger she saw on his face? Lips clamped tight; jaw squared; those coal-black eyebrows that contrasted so dramatically with his hair practically glowering at her. “Beckett? Are you all right?”

  “You’re dead set on getting rid of me, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice silky enough to put her on guard.

  “I only offered—”

  “I know what you offered, dammit.”

  All right, Liza, time to take charge. She might not be used to waking up with a man who was practically a stranger in her bed, but it was no more disconcerting than what had happened to her back in Dallas. She had taken charge then; she could do it again. The storm was obviously over. Her one-night stand had been terrific. But it was just that: a once-in-a-lifetime thing. He hadn’t offered more and she was too proud to beg.

  She said, “Give me a minute in the bathroom first, okay?” Gritting her teeth, she eased out of bed, took a deep breath and stood, waiting for the pain to ease. Then she hobbled, stiff legged, toward the door.

  “Hurts, huh?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “Trouble with injuries like that, you can’t sew ’em up, you just have to grow new skin.”

  “If your shirt’s still wet, you might want to hang it on the line. It should be dry by the time you’re through with breakfast.”

  He was watching her, dammit. She could feel his eyes on her backside as she hobbled to the door, clutching her damp shirt in front of her. Idiot! It’s not your pitiful boobs he’s staring at, it’s your scrawny rump!

  The mere thought of having to bend her knees to step into a pair of panties made her cringe. She’d simply have to find something to wear that would cover her decently without much underneath.

  “You won’t be able to drive for a while, you know,” he said so close behind her she jumped. She hadn’t heard him, but then, breathing through clenched teeth was a rather noisy process.

  “I’ll manage.”

  “Don’t be a damned martyr, Eliza. Would it kill you to ask for help?”

  Nine

  Beckett took a moment to gather his thoughts after clipping his cell phone onto his belt. His last call to Carson had relieved him on several points. PawPaw was holding his own and might even be allowed to go home in another week or so if a private nurse could be found.

  And one could, of course. When it came to seeing to the welfare of her family, Rebecca Beckett was more than a match for any five-star general.

  The storm had passed by offshore, doing little more than surface damage. “Your end of the coast probably took more of a beating than ours,” Carson had said early this morning. “How’d you and your fair lady fare?”

  “Fair. A few minor scrapes, a few leaks, a few branches down. Nothing too serious.” He wasn’t about to elaborate, not until he’d analyzed the data and decided on a course of action.

  As to how Beckett himself had fared, that might be another story. He’d set himself up for what had happened, coming back again and again on a mission that had waited a hundred years and could easily wait another hundred.

  Except for PawPaw. He couldn’t go back and report failure; neither could he lie about it. Which meant he was stuck here until they reached an agreement regarding the money. If nothing else, he could set up an account in a local bank in her name. It would help to know where she banked, but it wasn’t the sort of question a man could easily work into a conversation. From the looks of things, she probably didn’t have much left to deposit after the usual monthly outlays.

  Despite the fact that his family had always had money, Beckett was no snob. At least, he didn’t think he was. Still, it struck him as all wrong for a woman like Liza Chandler to be eking out a living selling fruits and vegetables. She was no Eliza Doolittle. The woman had style. She had class. She had intelligence and integrity.

  Not to mention sex appeal that was all the more potent because it was so understated. If she’d done anything to attract his attention, he might have been able to resist, but she hadn’t. Just the opposite, if anything.

  Granted, he had a weakness for needy women. Maybe it was genetic; maybe it was an acquired trait—he didn’t know. He did know he had trouble refusing any woman who’d ever asked for his help.

  Liza Chandler was needy as hell, only she refused to admit it, much less accept his help. What woman in her right mind, with a roof that was about to fall in, would turn down ten grand, no strings attached?

  “I’m out of the bathroom if you want to shave before you go. Didn’t you mention something about seeing someone up in Virginia?”

  Virginia. Newport News. McKee Shipping. He’d forgotten all about it. “I’m in no hurry,” he called back. He’d never even gotten around to making an appointment. “I’ll bring down the buckets from the attic.”

  “Just empty them out the window, it’s a lot easier than trying to bring them down the stairs.”

  She was stalking around the house like a giraffe, mopping up windowsills and throwing open windows. Barefoot, with her hair in an off-center ponytail, she was wearing something that looked as if it was made to go over a tent pole. And all he could think of was taking her back to bed, making love to her until they both collapsed.

  Great. Just bloody, blasted great. He was damned if he stayed and damned if he left. He had a feeling that Dublin wouldn’t be far enough to cut him loose from her spell.

  Worse, he didn’t know if he even wanted to be cut loose.

  Beckett knew from experience that he was bad news to any woman looking for more than a brief fling. Maybe it was a conditioned reaction, a defense against his weakness for needy females, but it didn’t change the facts. He’d been running from commitment
far too long.

  Not that Liza was looking for anything long-term. Not from him, at any rate. Over the years he’d gotten pretty good at reading the signals, and the only signals he’d picked up from her were confusing, to say the least. On the other hand he knew damn well that she was as conscious as he was of the physical awareness that had sprung up so unexpectedly between them. Uneasy, awkward and inappropriate as it was, recent circumstances had only served to heighten that awareness.

  Once they’d ended up in bed, he’d put her awkwardness down to her injuries. Now he was beginning to wonder if there hadn’t been something else behind it. The woman had been married for what, eleven years? Had the jerk been a eunuch as well as a crook?

  From a few things Fred Grant had said that first night, Beckett had learned that she hadn’t gone out on a single date in all the time she’d been living here. Which probably meant she was lonely. And lonely women were vulnerable. Lonely women had been known to latch on to the first reasonably healthy, solvent and available man who showed an interest in them.

  Beckett qualified on all counts. Add to that the spice of the sexual attraction that had unexpectedly sprung up and it was trouble waiting to happen. A smart man would have been gone before things got out of hand.

  Trouble was, he had never claimed to be smart where women were concerned. Wary, was more like it. His first experience had set the stage for that. At twenty-two he’d thought he knew it all. He’d thought that because his family was prone to long, happy marriages, it would happen for him whenever he was ready.

  And he’d been ready. Ripe for the picking. Fresh out of college with family money behind him, he’d been ready to launch a career. It hadn’t taken much to convince him he needed a wife at his side. Someone to help him keep his eye on the ball.

  What a pathetic jerk he’d been. Shows you what comes of having a happy childhood, he thought now with no real bitterness. You grow up with unrealistically high expectations, and then one day, whammo! You wake up in the real world. There ought to be a vaccination.