by Mimi Barbour
“You fancy someone else, otherwise I would be. Let me know if there’s anything else we can do for you, and in case we don’t see you again, be happy, lovie.” When she kissed his cheek, her perfume surrounded him and rekindled his earlier rage against the female gender.
He closed the door roughly just as the downstairs phone drew her away. He engaged Buddy’s leash, stashed the brown envelope and his morning’s work into his briefcase, and lifted his newly purchased matching suitcase. It was time to even some scores.
If there is such a thing as a sixth sense, it must have been what stopped him to comb the room one last time. A green shirt lay crumpled on the bed where Buddy had been. The same one Dani had asked him to buy because she loved the colour. “Shit!” He hesitated. And in a symbolic gesture, he turned away.
As he stepped into the vestibule, Bunty stopped him. “Hold on, Troy, there’s a call for you. It’s long distance from Chicago.”
He passed her the leash and put his baggage down by the counter, then made his way to the big black wall phone. With his face turned towards the wall, he spoke into the receiver and greeted his new boss, Chief Editor Tom O’Grady.
“Hey, Boyo, glad I caught you. I see, from the message I have here, you’re intending to be home tomorrow.”
“You got the final piece I phoned in on the fire victims yesterday?”
“Yep, it’s right in front of me. Great work, Brennan! Glad those poor folks got themselves a happy ending. We’re looking forward to seeing you, but I figured since you’re in the same town as Ellie Ward you might like to take a bit longer and go after that—”
“No can do!”
“Wait a minute. You mean I’m not talking to Troy Brennan, the hotshot reporter who always gets his story, no matter who, no matter where, no matter how?”
“No matter what you say, it ain’t gonna happen. She’s shut tight on the issue and won’t open up for anyone.”
“Use the old Troy charm—she’ll open for you.”
“Nope!”
“You disappoint me, my man. I would have put money on you.”
“I know what you’re trying on here, Chief, and it won’t work.”
“Hey, gimme a break. I’m just doing my job. What can you call a man for doing his job—go ahead, spell it out.”
“A-S-S-H-O-L-E.”
A gruff snicker broke the silence after five long seconds. “You got balls. I gotta hand it to ya, Brennan.”
“As long as you don’t hand them to me, we’ll be fine. See you tomorrow, Boss.”
The bell over the door tinkled and caught Troy’s attention as he dropped the receiver into place. He scanned the room looking for Bunty, but she’d made off with Buddy to the back garden. A scholarly-looking middle-aged man stood there wearing a strange expression, as if he knew Troy. Only Troy had never seen the fellow before in his life.
Rudeness never sat well with him, so he smiled pleasantly and said, “Can I help you, sir? Bunty, the proprietor, is in the back right now, but she should return shortly.”
“Thank you, you’re very kind. I believe I’m to meet a friend here, but it seems I must be early.” The scrutiny from keen eyes staring over the rims of lowered glasses made Troy feel a bit disconcerted until the other man smiled and held out his hand. “Hello, I’m Robert Andrews.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Troy Brennan.” The handshake that followed was firm from both sides. Troy knew when he was being closely examined, but for some strange reason this man’s gentle manner didn’t unnerve him.
“You’re the young reporter who wrote the wonderful stories in the paper about some very good friends of mine. A tragedy, what happened to the old Kingsly Home, and to the seniors who lived there.”
“Yes, there were lives lost and hearts broken. But the townspeople are coming together to take care of their own. Especially Ellie Ward, who has bought The Gardens and is organizing renovations so it can be donated as their new Care Home. Do you know of it?”
The other man nodded. “A rather splendid idea, if you ask me. It’s exactly what they need.”
“In the end it’ll be bigger and far better than the old rickety place they had before.”
The genial fellow watched carefully as Troy spoke about the issue close to his heart. Whatever he said or did seemed to please the other man, who answered with a smile. “Strange how every once in a while, in certain situations, good deeds are born from tragedies. It’s one of those unexplained mysteries, I suppose.”
“Or else it’s people striving to find a bright side—”
“Or being motivated to think positive.”
The two men stopped and started to chuckle. Troy felt better somehow for having had this interlude with an intelligent man who saw things in the same way.
Buddy, followed by Bunty, made his usual ecstatic appearance and broke the spell. Time to go! Troy hugged Bunty quickly, picked up his suitcases, and reached for the dog’s leash. As he passed the other two, now in conversation, he noticed the older fellow answered his goodbye smile and nod with a worried frown while staring at his luggage.
Now why in the world would his impending departure bother the bloke?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Troy knocked at the outside door of Ellie Ward’s office. No answer. He walked around to the back of the house, where he thought he’d be able to see into her room, but the sheer white drapes at the picture window were closed. He peeked in through the glass high on her door and didn’t see any movement. A small green-glass lamp shed its light over her desk, diffusing an eerie-mystic glow. A large expensive-looking book lay half on, half off the flat surface, as if tossed there and the culprit hadn’t taken the time to check and see where it landed.
Ellie most likely had stepped out for a moment, so Troy placed his belongings against the outside wall, a little behind a large rhododendron bush. Then he released Buddy from his leash so the four-legged ball of energy could go explore in the huge garden. The eager puppy, ears flapping, white patches evident in the soft brown fur, took off to give chase to a butterfly. The image lightened the tall man’s spirit. He stood, hands on hips, and watched—storing memories.
Then he tried the door handle and, when it opened, stepped inside the dim room, leaving the entry ajar. Wandering around and touching her things soothed him and eased the uncomfortable spikes of hostility still gnawing steadily in his stomach. He sat down in her chair. It fit him well. Her typewriter, the best available, instilled envy in his heart and had his fingers rising to the keys to try it on for size.
After a few moments, his hand reached towards the beautifully tooled leather binder on the edge of the table. Opening the flap, he eased back into the chair, and his eyebrows rose while his heartbeats hammered away inside his chest. Hand shaking, he started to turn the lovingly prepared pages of a schoolgirl’s idolatry of himself. There were hearts embellishing all the columns, the tops and bottoms of each page, and many of the side margins.
Sections of newspaper clippings had been carefully glued onto each page; his photographs decorated with ribbons, gold or silver edging, many done in the shape of a heart. All the best stories of his earlier career were there, along with handwritten blurbs in a variety of pen colours, telling her personal views of his chronicles.
Footsteps approaching hadn’t caught his attention, but her joyful greeting with Buddy did the trick. He jumped so fast he accidentally flipped the scrapbook to the floor and was caught red-handed, snatching it up, when she stepped into the room.
“Snooping?” She stood just inside the door with the sun’s rays as her backdrop. Her hair had been left to fall naturally, soft and lovely, to frame her shoulders.
“Gardening?” His eyes explored the outfit she hadn’t had time to change. God, she was one beautiful, hard-hearted doll. The short shorts had him gulping repeatedly, trying to dislodge the lumps of now-what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do lodged in his throat. And her top, what there was of it, created a sublime setting for the same breasts that
had kept him awake half the night.
Ignoring his comment, she stepped forward and grappled her possession from his loose grip, putting it behind her back like a child confronted by a questioning adult.
“You’re probably wondering why I have this, ah, this old scrapbook—”
“As a matter of fact…”
“Yes, well, I—I started it many years ago when I was young-ger. Very young—little more than a child.”
“A child?”
“Yes, very young, still in scho—”
He squinted, and then interrupted. “I can see that.” Using his hands, he drew a heart in the air in front of him.
Blushing became her. “Did you…” Her voice, shaky and high, had to be cleared before she finished the sentence in as nonchalant a manner as her acting ability could stretch to. “Look through the whole book?”
“Nope, didn’t have long enough. Only saw the first couple of pages.” Lying came easy to him. Anger overrode guilt.
She swallowed and the redness in her cheeks lightened. Her fluttering eyelashes slowed. She threw out as fake a laugh as he’d ever heard. “It was a school project from years ago. I remembered it after you left last night and decided to dust it off and show it to you. But on second thought, it’s a bit embarrassing to admit what a daft, dim-witted teenager I was. Therefore, it’s probably best to put it back in the dark bowels of the shelf where I found it.” By the time she finished this announcement, she’d already dashed across the room, thrown the book into the far reaches of a cupboard, and slammed the door.
Reaching next to the cupboard to grasp a tall cylinder placed there, she abruptly changed the subject. “Here are the recent plans for The Gardens. They delivered them this morning, and I know you wanted to see them, to be able to finish the piece you’re doing about the fire.” She spread them on top of the others already lying flat on a side table. A handful of ordinary garden rocks held the pages firmly in place and worked well in keeping them open.
“These are the second set?” Curious, he moved over to stand next to her, where he could lean down and survey the blueprints. His shoulder brushed against hers. Beguiling perfume attacked his senses, and made his head spin, reminding him of his intentions. Purposely, he leaned a little more into her.
“Yes,” she replied, an edge to her voice not normally heard. She stepped back. “From the beginning, I’ve insisted the building be made to resemble a home for any age rather than a nursing residence for the elderly. I asked that all the servicing and medical areas be put on the lower floor, separate from the second and third levels where the apartments for the healthier old dears are to be located to take advantage of the view. This way they needn’t be constantly reminded of their senior status and of the fact they live in a medical facility.”
“I knew you weren’t just a pretty face. What a great idea.”
“I can’t take credit for it. One of the older gentlemen, who just happens to be a retired architect, gave me the suggestion. I loved it as soon as he brought it up. He also recommended a lot of the grounds be developed as gardens with pavilions, where the residents can visit with each other, take walks, even plant things if they so wish. He had so many good ideas. I’m only glad I insisted they have input so their wants and needs will be taken into consideration.”
The mutinous look on her face told Troy there was more to the story. “And?” he prompted.
“I wasn’t taken seriously. I will be now, because as of yesterday there’s a different contractor looking after the project. Seems Edmund and Mary Conway’s grandson is one of the builders who worked on the original structure years back. He was more than happy to take on the job. Since he has a vested interest and, shall we say, an ‘in’ with the residents, I feel pretty secure that our wishes will be adhered to in the future.”
“For such a sprite, you sure are loaded with attitude.”
“I had a very good instructor, years ago, who taught me that I needed to go after what I wanted and not let anyone or anything stand in my way. So, yes, I can be a bit stubborn when it matters.”
“And this matters.”
“Of course! This is something I’ve been planning for many years.”
“Pardon me? How could you know years ago that this would happen?” His voice rose as he questioned her, scoffing. Caught! Would she admit who she was now?
“I meant I’ve waited for years to be able to help someone in need. The world’s been good to me, Troy, and I’ve wanted to repay the debt, but only in a way I knew would really matter.” She stood in front of him, like a child would in front of the headmaster. Explanations poured out of her lying mouth. She stared up at him with the eyes of an angel—wide, appealing, and wholly deceitful.
He sighed. She still didn’t trust him. Damned if he knew why. The simmering torment resumed in his gut while his cheek muscles tightened. He clenched his teeth, biting down on the harsh words on the verge of spilling out.
She’d caught him in her trance once again. For a short time, he’d felt pride in his little inner-mate, but the brazen woman standing in front of him wasn’t her. She was phoney, a sham—a manipulative fake. Time to give the siren what she’d wanted last night. Afterward, he’d hit the road. He had a plane to catch.
Unable to stop himself, he drilled her with eyes half-closed until she dropped her gaze to her clasped hands.
“I need to change,” she muttered.
“I think not. You look perfect for what I had in mind.” Huskiness invaded his voice as it lowered several octaves, coming close to a whisper, matching the intentions he made clear in his body language as he leaned into her personal space.
Her smell, heady as any he’d known in his many years of bachelorhood, enticed him, had his male hormones leaping for joy. She was ripe, and he was picking.
“No, it’s not what you think. Really, these are my—my gardening clothes. I’ll go change,” she babbled, and made to leave the room. But he snaked his hand towards her, moving quickly, reflexes honed from years of reporting on dangerous assignments in places where staying alive could depend on the difference between a slow reaction and a quick response.
****
Her hand was trapped. The tease lifted it to his mouth. Her breath caught, audible in the silent room. The devil licked the centre of her palm with the tip of his tongue until she swayed closer, and her heavy eyelids fluttered and lowered. She moaned and let his lips do what they wanted while the nerve endings in her palm celebrated. Her brain’s signals seemed to be jumbled, as if an overseas switchboard operator had plugged in all the many lines incorrectly. Nothing made any sense.
His head bowed over the hand held captive while the fingers of her other hand itched to stroke and feel his soft gold-tinted, auburn waves—and so they did. The texture of his thick hair compelled her to sift through, not once but over and over. She made love to the strands like a mother does with her child—gently, blissfully touching him. Finally!
Long seconds passed before she realized he wasn’t stirring. Her hand cupped his cheek. His lips didn’t move. Silence reigned. Then she heard him sigh—an uneven harsh sound.
She found it hard to believe the fantasies she’d conjured for ten endless, unfulfilled years could soon become reality. Her hero, the one she’d imagined while writing all her romance books, the man she’d fallen in love with as a woman-child, was here in the flesh, kissing her body, wanting her.
The male image she’d mentally reproduced over and over while writing, creating scenes and plotting, was a person any woman would lust for—a real man. One whose strong arms she’d savoured for a short time last night and had hungered for since.
This time, by God, the devil wouldn’t leave her crying, aching, with her flesh craving. She couldn’t stand it. Every cell in her body cried out for passion. For loving and completion. One word reverberated over and over in her mind, and her lips took up the mantra.
“Please. Oh, Troy, please!”
****
Like a key switchin
g on the ignition, her pleas stimulated his earlier intentions. Why the hell was he stopping? He needed to teach her a lesson about playing with a man’s illusions. How dare she not tell him about the time difference, about the fact that she’d let him build all his dreams around a young girl who would need him to teach her the ways to love a man?
Instead, he faced a grown woman, a sophisticate, a writer of sex scenes and—in his mind—a total disenchantment.
He felt robbed of the years he’d imagined living with his young lover, years where he could adore her, spoil her and watch her grow both in body and spirit. Not only that, he’d lost out on Amy’s baby years. The hours he’d spent lately, his imagination filled with pictures of him playing with his daughter or son, teaching and loving, had disintegrated like a curl of cigarette smoke in the wind.
The strength to walk away from her seduction yesterday was possible only because he hadn’t known Dani and Elli were the same person. He knew better now, and he’d make her pay for the hell she’d put him through. The pot of anger Troy had fed and stirred earlier boiled over again.
Uppermost of all the thoughts ricocheting in his overtired mind lurked revenge. After all, she looked like a tart. Therefore, he had every right to take what she’d been offering, what she was offering at this very moment, wavering toward him, trembling. She begged “please,” and he’d be answering, “Sure—and thank you, ma’am.”
Rage stirred, bubbled, and blocked out every coherent thought—poof, gone, overtaken by pure animal lust. He crushed her tiny frame in his arms, muscles hardening. There was no gentle coaxing. He was all male dominance. This female meant nothing to him. She was a separate being from his Dani. The grownup Ellie wasn’t anyone he’d come to care for yet.
He attacked her throat, rubbing his face into its contours while his tongue and lips feasted. Nips of passion jolted her, as he devoured her skin.
She squeaked. No other word for it. He yarded her into his arms, and she squeaked. A noise that a young girl would make, absolutely, but not the mature, chic woman of the world he’d imagined Ellie Ward to be.