Season of The Shadow. Bobbi Ph.D. GrooverЧитать онлайн книгу.
"I'll be with you in a moment." A lilting voice drifted from the floor behind the counter.
He heard material rustling, and then a grunt followed by a scraping sound.
"The devil take this confounded thing!"
Not so much annoyed as intrigued, Fletcher leaned over the counter to better view the enticing scene behind. "May I be of assistance?" he asked of the heaping mass of material sprawled on the floor.
"What?"
The tantalizing flurry of green fabric jumped at the sudden intrusion, and Fletcher came nose to nose with the loveliest creature he had beheld in some time. Her chestnut hair, pulled back in unassuming demureness, had lost a few stray curls in her efforts, and they hung softly by the sides of her face. Fletcher had to strongly resist an urge to reach out and touch them. She blushed and with a swift move, the lovely woman pulled the locks back into place, smiled and stood up.
"I'm sorry," she said in a soft voice. "I didn't mean to make you wait, but this box has fallen in my way, and I don't seem to have the strength to move it. I should have called one of the men, but I positively hate looking like a helpless female. It's been hard enough trying to run this place by myself since my father died. Everyone tells me it's no job for a woman, that I should find myself a man, settle down and raise a passel of kids. Well, that's not what I want to do, and I'll be horse-whipped before I let someone railroad me into—"
Her hand flew to her mouth. She chuckled and the red in her cheeks darkened. "My goodness, I don't normally chatter to perfect strangers about my problems. I haven't even asked you what you wanted. As you can see, I'm still learning about running a hotel. Let's start over." She extended her hand. "I'm Sage Jurrell, owner and manager. Welcome to The Palace Hotel. What can I do for you?"
For an instant, Fletcher was so taken aback by her openness he did nothing. Lone females telling him their life's story before they had been formally introduced was not something he'd been used to. He imagined she was about his age or a few years younger; but judging from the way he felt, that aged her somewhere between twenty and a hundred fifty. Unable to decide whether to shake her hand, or kiss the perky mouth that held a captivating smile, he settled for a combination of the two. He took her hand in his and lightly brushed his lips to her knuckles.
"Never in all my life have I had a warmer welcome," he said. "I am honored to make your acquaintance. My name is—" No, his brain told him, not your real name. Better to continue being who you've been, as loathsome as it is. "My name is Zachary, Zachary Brown. And I'm at your service, moving heavy boxes for helpless females being my specialty." When she smiled again, he saw how deep were the dimples in the cheeks of her angular face.
With a wave of her hand, the beautiful owner and manager of The Palace Hotel indicated her willingness for him to rescue her from her manual labor, a rescue he happily undertook.
He circled the desk and put his shoulder to the task. "There," he said when the job was finished. "That should teach this insolent box who's boss!"
He found her watching him with interest. Her intense yet strangely innocent gaze warmed a place deep within him that had been without warmth for a long time, a very long time. The rush of feeling startled him, and he looked away. In the mirror behind the counter he could see that her lovely smile had faded. He realized the reason when he glanced at his own face. He wore a scowl that would surely have caused little children to run to their mothers in fright.
Suddenly self-conscious, he swallowed, cleared his throat and studied the papers that cluttered the counter. "Yes...well...I've come to see about a room."
"Will you be here for one night or more?" she asked, her voice as flirtatious as the glance that peeked out from under her feathery lashes. An even script recorded his name in the book.
The invitation was familiar, and he responded with practiced ease. He leaned on the counter and, resting on his elbows, brought his face close to hers. "That depends..."
"On what?" Her voice was sweet and gentle.
He inclined his head slightly and lifted one eyebrow. "On...my...horse!"
She laughed at that, a wonderful unabashed laugh. Her eyes twinkled. They were large, round and green.
Like Kyndee's.
The thought hit him like a physical blow, causing him to shudder. He snatched his pack. "If you'll tell me which room is mine, I'll be heading up."
Her face fell and looked as if he had struck her. Fletcher was strangely sorry, but there was nothing he could do about it. At that moment he hadn't meant to be rude or nasty. Sometimes the pain hit him when he wasn't ready for it, when he was unaware, and he had to hide himself before he lost control. The pounding in his head would start, and the dizziness soon follow. She handed him a key and he raced to the stairs, taking them two at a time, never glancing back.
* * *
Throwing down his few possessions, Fletcher paced the room. The bed looked inviting—so inviting—and he was bone-weary and dog-tired. "I'll lie down and rest," he said as if giving voice to the words would make them true. "Right. I won't fall asleep, just rest."
Although hesitant, he finally crawled onto the bed. He didn't even take off his boots, merely hung his legs over the edge. That way, he would be sure not to sleep.
God, he was tired. He willed his mind to be still, to go blank, to think of something bland...empty...colorless...white...white... He felt his control slipping. White...white...like the color of her dress on one of the last days he saw her.
He remembered—God help him—he remembered...
* * *
The dream always started the same way. Her hair was the color of pure yellow gold, soft and silky. He could still recall the feeling of it as it fell through his fingers. Her eyes were emerald jewels fringed with thick, sooty lashes.
Kyndee was the most beautiful alluring thing he could name. She had understood him as did no one else. She laughed at his jokes, cheered at his inventions and encouraged his new ideas. She was the other half of himself, the part that kept him in check against his own reckless nature. Kyndee could find the best part of anything. He recalled the time his father had jeered at one of his inventions and called him a dimwit.
"You are a dimwit," she chided him when he recounted the incident to her. "You're dimwitted if you let him stop you from exploring everything you can be." She leaned back against the trunk of their favorite tree and crossed her ankles. "But you're my dimwit, Fletcher, and I won't allow anyone else but me to call you that." Gracing him with one of her glowing smiles, she reached to caress the hair at the nape of his neck. "You're my Mister Dimwitty." She threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, but you must have a name." Her eyes squinted, her lips puckered and her finger tapped her chin as she struggled in her search. "Mister—uh—Carmack Dimwitty. That will do nicely." She shook her head and pointed with her forefinger. "No, you're my Sir Carmack Dimwitty, because you're my knight in shining armor."
He touched a wildflower against her temple. "And I shall call thee my lovely Lady Bonbon because thou art the sweetest thing in my life." Rising, he swept a low bow. "My lady, always remember that Sir Carmack Dimwitty shall be at thy service until the last breath of his life."
How they had laughed and giggled at their fairy tale. He tickled her, and they rolled over and over on the ground. Fletcher landed on top of her and, without asking, kissed her soundly on the lips.
The sweet kiss tantalized both of them. There were always sparks between them when they touched. While Kyndee gazed up at him, Fletcher ran his finger down the side of her cheekbones and slowly lifted her chin, pulling her mouth to his. When they were but a breath apart, he whispered, "Always, Kyndee, my luscious little bonbon, always at thy service." And he devoured her mouth again, delighting in the velvet feel of her lips and the floral scent of her hair. His hands slid down her sides to her narrow waist, pressing against her rib cage. She felt unbelievably small and delicate next to his own chest, but her size didn't prevent her from being a true spitfire when riled. Kyndee was not easily daunted and gave as good