The Deputy's Bride & Sitting Pretty

by Liz Ireland

  Just then, a movement below caught his eye. Brad focused on the flagstone patio below him. His heart tripped. There, by the wet bar, Jayde was wiping off the wrought-iron table. Brad knew it was wrong to watch her while she was unaware. But he couldn’t stop himself. As she leaned over the table, she was, to him, more mesmerizing than the setting sun. Her swiping motions moved her body as if she were engaged in some sensuous dance, as if she moved to music only she could hear.

  She was magic. A breath of fresh air in a stale world.

  Without warning, as if she had sensed his attention, she looked up. Brad froze in place, even as she did a double take, her gaze finally locking with his. She tossed the wet cloth onto the tabletop and blatantly stared up at him. A smile spread across her generous mouth. Affected as he’d never been before in his life, Brad leaned over the smooth masonry of the balcony railing, settling his crossed arms atop the sun-warmed stone baluster in front of him.

  “How perfect is this, Mr. Hale?” she called. “If you were down here and I was up there—and if I knew the lines—I’d be reciting from Romeo and Juliet.”

  Brad chuckled. “Oh, go ahead. Try.”

  She shrugged. “All right. You’re the boss.” Melodramatically clasping her hands together over her chest, Jayde plaintively cried, “Oh, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Ro—’ She dropped the pose. “No, wait. I’m down here, so I’m Romeo and I’d know where I was. And you’re up there on the balcony. So that makes you Juliet, right?”

  “Not unless she needs to shave her legs,” Brad quipped, feeling lighthearted for the first time in a long time.

  “I wouldn’t know. But still, you are the one on the balcony.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. “You got me there. Okay, I’ll give it a try.” He cleared his throat and called out, “Oh, Romeo, Romeo—’ He looked down at her. Her hands were clamped over her mouth and her shoulders were shaking. She was laughing at him—at him, international investment banker extraordinaire. Fighting a grin, Brad called down, “I can’t say that. I’m a guy.”

  She looked up at him. “Well, thank God. That explains the hairy chest.”

  Brad couldn’t help laughing. And knew they’d just crossed some line. He wondered if she felt it, too—the tug between them. The sharp awareness. All he knew was she made him feel as if he could simply hop over this balcony, jump to the ground, and take her in his arms. He couldn’t seem to help himself. It was as if they’d gone to that place where their bodies, and maybe their souls, communicated with each other on some unconscious level. It was the oddest thing. And, yes, a little frightening to someone who’d never felt it before.

  Brad didn’t want to move, lest he break the spell between them. Then the doorbell rang—but not like any doorbell Jayde had ever heard. Brad’s eyes widened. So did Jayde’s.

  “What’s that?” she called up to him, sounding a little shrill.

  Brad didn’t blame her a bit, given all of JOCK’s antics of late. “I think it’s just the doorbell. But I couldn’t swear to it because I’m not sure I’ve ever heard that sound before.” Then, just to tease her a bit, he looked down at her and grinned. “Are you expecting company?”

  AM I EXPECTING COMPANY? Jayde felt certain she was drowning in a big pool of guilty sweat as she stood there staring up at her boss. Logic told her it just couldn’t be. She’d only just mailed the money and the note to her parents a matter of hours ago. Her letter probably hadn’t even left Sarasota yet. So it couldn’t be her folks. Finally, she managed to shake her head. “Me? Expecting company? No. Of course not. I don’t know anybody here. Except you and Lyle.” She latched on to that. “That’s it. It’s Lyle. He’s bringing supper, right?”

  Mr. Hale shook his head. “No. I told him we could fend for ourselves. He’s got the night off.”

  She spread her hands wide. “Then I don’t know.”

  “And yet, I do.” JOCK’s voice came from the speaker mounted in the outside wall, right below the security camera. “Ask me.”

  “All right, JOCK,” Mr. Hale said, an eyebrow raising as he nonetheless continued to stare down at Jayde, who was beginning to feel like a butterfly pinned to a display. “Who’s at the door?”

  “A delivery person.”

  Delivery person. Relief coursed through Jayde. Oh, thank you. She resumed breathing.

  “What’s he delivering?” Mr. Hale asked.

  “Not he,” JOCK informed his creator. “She, Mr. Hale. Two shes, as a matter of politically correct fact. And a rectangular package, to answer your question—one secured in a large and apparently heavy cardboard box. Shall I answer the door? I believe the delivery persons, apparently being of the impatient sort, are going to ring the bell—’

  The bell rang again.

  “Well?” That was JOCK.

  “Tell them I’ll be right there,” Mr. Hale informed his butler.

  “As you wish,” JOCK said, signing off.

  Mr. Hale looked down at her. “Would you mind, Jayde? You’re closer. And I’ll be right behind you, even though I’m not expecting anything.”

  “Oh. Sure.” She set off in motion, heading for the sliding-glass doors that led into the elegant breakfast nook. What in the world could they be getting that was wrapped up in a large, rectangular box? If Mr. Hale wasn’t expecting anything, then certainly she—

  Ohmigosh! My paintings!

  She remembered now. She’d had to ship them. How could she have forgotten something so important to her? Excitedly, she crossed the kitchen, rounded the corner, skirted the devastatingly formal dining room and finally made her way to the crystal-chandeliered gallery entryway when Mr. Hale came bounding down the circular sweep of the wide stairway. True to his word, he was right behind her.

  She grinned at him as a part of her brain noted the virile handsomeness of his straight nose and high cheekbones, the deep set of his blue eyes, the tug of his masculinity on her…well, femininity. “I know what this is,” she told him excitedly. “It’s my paintings.”

  He frowned as he reached around her for the doorknob, his closeness all but pinning her between his body and the wall. “Your paintings? I don’t get it. What do you mean?”

  Her heart beat happily at his being so near. “I mean mine. The kind I painted.”

  He evidently forgot the doorknob in his hand. “You painted? You’re an artist?”

  “Well, not of the caliber you have in your home. But I hope, one day, to rival them.”

  He let go of the doorknob, obviously quite taken with this turn of events. “No kidding?” He put his hands to his waist, adopting a conversational pose. “That’s really great, Jayde. I never guessed I had such a beautiful accomplished woman right here in my own home.”

  Jayde absolutely preened under such compliments. She didn’t dare touch the “beautiful” comment. But the other… “Well, I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say ‘accomplished,’ Mr. Hale. I just dabble. Really, I—’

  “Excuse me?” JOCK interrupted. And he sounded bored. “Might I break in to ask that one of you answer the door, please?”

  6

  BRAD SAT at the round oak table in the breakfast nook and stared at the paintings Jayde was proudly propping up around the room. When she finished, every surface held a picture she’d painted. She now stood to one side, across the room from him, her hands clasped in front of her. She had her bottom lip gripped between her teeth. Her eyes were wide and she wasn’t blinking. She was, however, staring at him, waiting expectantly for his comments.

  Brad pushed his chair back from the table and sat forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and covering his mouth with his steepled fingers. He allowed his gaze to again sweep the body of her work. He fought to keep his expression neutral, but his underarms felt sweaty…and he wished like hell he’d gone on to England.

  The paintings were awful. Indiscernible of subject matter. Unfathomable in intent. Painful. If she’d turned them all upside down, he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. Almo
st against his will, he met Jayde’s stare.

  “Well?” she chirped, her voice proud and hopeful. “What do you think? I realize—just from examining the pictures you own—that you’ve got a good eye for art. And I know I’m not in a league with the Picassos or Rembrandts of the world. But do you see anything in these at all? How do they make you feel?”

  Like he had a hangover, actually. The thick, goopy strokes she’d applied to each canvas hurt his eyes. He felt the beginning of a headache…and he didn’t get headaches. Even JOCK was struck dumb. The electronic butler had taken one “look” and had actually turned himself off. Damned coward, was Brad’s assessment—of JOCK and of himself. With that, he sat up and faced his house sitter. “Well, Jayde, I—’

  “Wait.” She stared at him, her eyes bright. With unshed tears?

  Had he waited too long to speak? If those were tears in her eyes, he’d—

  “I just want to say something before you give me your opinion, okay?”

  Relief at not yet having to render that opinion had him gesturing his heartfelt encouragement. “Please.”

  She slumped, as if with relief. “Thanks.” She spared a glance for the painting closest to her and reached out, lovingly touching it. Then she again focused on him. “You know how you have a talent for making money?”

  That took him by surprise. He hadn’t before thought of his business acumen for amassing a fortune as a talent, not in the creative sense, anyway. But for the sake of the discussion, he said, “Okay. Yes.”

  “Right. Well, I believe that each of us is born with a special gift. A gift that defines us and never lets us down. Like you, for example. You have a talent for producing wealth. And that’s good. Very good. The world needs that. But I can tell you’re also good at everything else you do, too. You’re just that type of person.”

  Brad was really getting uncomfortable. “Jayde, I don’t know where you’re going with this, but I—’

  “Please, Mr. Hale.” She held out a hand to him. “Let me finish. Now me, I’m different from most. See, I’m not really good at anything. As you’ve seen, I mess everything up. And I’m accident-prone—only I hurt other people, like you, for instance. I mean well, but I can’t even keep myself from getting locked out of your house. Or manage a butler who’s just a bunch of wires and circuits.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. He’s done the same thing to me.”

  Jayde smiled…as if she didn’t believe him. “Maybe. But what I’m getting at is—’ she swept her arm out, indicating her paintings “—this I can do. I can paint. I may lose all my jobs—even this one some day. And that’s okay. Well, it’s not. I mean I don’t like being incompetent—’

  “You’re not incompetent.” It surprised Brad how angry he got hearing her essentially putting herself down.

  Again she smiled. “You’re just being nice.”

  “No. I’m not. I’m not known for being nice.”

  Jayde frowned. “Well, I think you are.”

  Brad looked away from her, away from her awful paintings, away from her need for his approval. His chest felt constricted. He focused on the dying day outside. The sky had gone from streaks of red and rose to shades of gray and black. Why did this have to happen now, when he’d just discovered he could be himself around her? Why?

  “Anyway,” Jayde blurted, regaining his attention. “Being able to paint is what keeps me going. In fact, the main reason I took this job was so I’d have the time to develop my talent. One day, I might even be able to make a living at it. I might even be as successful as you are.”

  Brad stared into the darkest, most sincere eyes he’d ever seen. A silence spread out between them. Then, Jayde gestured abruptly. “That’s all. I just felt it was important that you know I have ambitions and drive, things like that.” Then she gave him a slightly stricken smile that begged him to be gentle. “So, what do you think?”

  As he looked at her, she crossed her arms. Brad was an expert in body language. He had to be, in his business. And he recognized the classically defensive—and in her case, defenseless—posture. In that instant, unfamiliar emotions assaulted his senses. Compassion. Protectiveness. Tenderness. Dammit, a genuine caring about the feelings of another human being. He’d never allowed these weak-kneed emotions to get a grip on him before. They had no place in his world of cutthroat finance.

  Every day he fought a bloodless war with numbers, with people who knew the rules. Even the women in his life had known the rules. But Jayde Greene was different. She was real. And she was an innocent. Brad looked her up and down. Suddenly, his heart lurched and he realized he was smiling.

  “I love them,” he heard himself saying.

  “YOU’RE LYING,” Jayde said. Hurt, and not really knowing why, she began gathering up her paintings. Banging them together carelessly, she piled the canvases against the tiles of the breakfast bar. “You hate them.”

  “I do not,” Mr. Hale protested, suddenly on his feet and trying to tug from her grasp her rendering of a particularly ornate Kansas City fountain. He won the battle. “Like this one.” He now held up the picture at eye level. “It’s beautiful. Very evocative.”

  Jayde arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “Of what?”

  Mr. Hale lowered the canvas. “What?”

  Jayde pointed to the painting in his hands. “You said it’s evocative. I’m asking you what it’s evocative of.”

  He looked again at the painting in his hands, then at her. His expression was that of a man who’d just been told that his very life depended on him correctly, in the next five seconds, coming up with the square root of 757,281.

  “By the way, you’re holding it sideways.”

  He cut his gaze down to the canvas in his hands and then promptly turned it. “I was holding it like that for added perspective.”

  Jayde sighed. “Then turn it the other way. It’s still wrong.”

  He turned it the other way. And smiled. “There. Oh, okay. Now, I see. It’s really beautiful, Jayde. I love it. I do.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  Very carefully, as if it were stained glass, Mr. Hale put the picture down with the others and turned to her. He ran a hand through his sandy-colored hair. “Your first time to show your work to anyone?”

  Completely demoralized, she nodded. “Yes. Well, outside my family, anyway. And who can believe family? They have to love everything you do.”

  He nodded. “I wouldn’t know about that. But you’re just feeling what every young artist does.”

  Jayde stared wide-eyed at him. “You called me an artist. You’re the first person to do that. So, you really think that I’m just, well, unduly neurotic, like I’m supposed to be?”

  “Yeah, I do.” He sounded as excited as she did. Then he sobered. “Well, not neurotic. You know what I mean.”

  Jayde watched him. Besides being so darned handsome, Mr. Hale appeared sincere. Which only made her feel worse for feeling mean toward him. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was because he was the first person, other than her family, that she’d ever shown her paintings to. And maybe it was because she wanted—needed—so desperately to believe him. It was just…to see the work of her soul so exposed. Well, it made her feel vulnerable. Her worst fear was, what if it turned out she really wasn’t even any good at painting? She’d have no dream left.

  Suddenly she realized Mr. Hale was watching her. “Are you all right, Jayde? You look scared.”

  “Oh. No. I’m fine,” she blurted, attempting a smile. “I guess it’s that whole eye-of-the-beholder thing, right? Isn’t that what you’re really saying?”

  He smiled. “Exactly. You know, some people don’t even like the Mona Lisa. Art is a matter of taste. But who am I to tell you that? You’re the artist here.”

  She winced, unable yet to believe him. “Maybe.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “All right, you still need convincing. Look around you, Jayde. Everything in this house shows my taste. What do you think of it?”


  She suddenly felt too warm—as if she were about to flunk a very important test. Her chin quivered, but she humored him, looking around, taking in the rich appointments of what had to be a three- to four-million-dollar home. Finally, she shrugged. “What do I think? I think it’s fine.”

  Mr. Hale chuckled. “Oh, please. Your praise is too much.”

  Jayde smiled. “No, seriously. I mean it. It’s fine. It’s fabulous. I love everything here. It’s gorgeous and tasteful and elegant. Really.”

  “You’re lying. You hate it.” His inflection was flat, deadpan.

  Frustrated, Jayde shook her head, started to protest—and then realized what he was doing. She wagged a finger at him. “Oh, I get it. It truly is beautiful here…the decor, the furnishings, everything. But if you were insecure about your taste, you wouldn’t believe even an honest assessment. Right?”

  Mr. Hale crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. “Right. And no matter how many people told me otherwise, I’m not sure I’d ever really believe they were being sincere. Even if I attained great success, I’d probably fear every new person’s opinion.”

  Now Jayde really had to struggle not to cry. Mr. Hale was just so wonderfully kind. “Wow. You know your artistic types, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been around a few.”

  Finally, she gave in. “You’re very kind, Mr. Hale.”

  “Well, don’t let it get around. It could cost me a lot of money.” Then, his blue eyes glinted, warming—in Jayde’s opinion—to the aquamarine of Sarasota’s noonday waters. “And why don’t you call me Brad?”

  Jayde blinked in surprise. “Well, because Lyle told me not to. He was very clear on that.”

  Mr. Hale frowned. “No. You misunderstand. I didn’t ask you why you don’t. Well, I guess I did. But what I meant was why don’t you. As in, I’d like for you to do so.”