Bravo Unwrapped. Christine RimmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
waitress clucked her tongue and left them—and Buck reached over and turned off the recorder. Before B.J. could swallow that last chunk of bread and object, he leaned closer and spoke low. “I talked to Ma—about what’s up with Bowie and Glory.”
Okay, she was curious. She washed the bread down with water. “So, and?”
“Glory’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant.” She set down her glass. She probably should have guessed—and was this too close to home, or what?
“Bowie wants to marry her.”
“So he said—more than once. And she said no. Repeatedly. At the top of her lungs, as I recall.”
Buck finally picked up his fork. “It doesn’t matter what she said. He’ll marry her, one way or the other.”
“Not if she keeps saying no.”
“You just don’t get it.”
“That’s right, I don’t.”
“Bowie’s a Bravo.”
“And that explains…what?”
“Everything.”
“Oh. Well. To you, maybe.”
He wore an excessively patient expression. “My brothers and I were raised minus a father. That’s not going to happen to our kids.”
“Ah.” And given her own circumstances, B.J. wasn’t sure she liked the sound of this. “Okay. Just to recap here. Bowie’s a Bravo. So he has to marry Glory—because she’s going to have his baby?”
“Yeah.”
“As in, one and one equals two?”
“That’s right.”
“Buck. Hello. Twenty-first century, U.S. of A.”
He waved his fork for silence. “Look. A Bravo may make mistakes in life. Big ones. But you can bet your favorite pair of sexy shoes that when there’s an innocent kid involved, a Bravo will always find a way to do the right thing.”
A stream of perfectly valid arguments scrolled through B.J.’s brain: that sometimes marriage just isn’t the right solution, that a child can have a productive, happy life without her parents being married. That some people—herself among them—just aren’t meant for marriage, that a bad marriage is never a good thing, for the child, or her parents….
She kept those arguments to herself. This was much too dangerous a subject to get into right now.
Chewing on another roll, she watched him as he ate his salad, thinking, I am now going to turn on the tape recorder and get on with the interview.
But then again…
Okay. She had to ask. “You, too, Buck? You’d marry some woman you didn’t care about, didn’t…love, just because she was having your baby?”
He speared a tomato wedge. “Bowie does love Glory. He said so.”
“Well, yeah. To convince her to do things his way.”
“Uh-uh. I don’t think so. I think he really does love her.”
“And you determined this, how?”
He considered a moment. “Call it an informed opinion. He’s my baby brother. I grew up with him. It’s my informed opinion that he meant what he said. He loves Glory.”
There was a moment. They looked at each other and B.J. felt…sparks. Heat. That burning energy, way too sexual, zipping back and forth between them.
Why this guy? she thought, as she’d thought a thousand times before. Why, always, in the end: Buck?
Nadine appeared with their steaks. She served them and took their salad plates away.
Buck started in on his T-bone. B.J. sipped her water and told herself not to go there—after which, she promptly went there. “And anyway, I wasn’t asking about Bowie. I was asking about you. If you got a woman pregnant, would you think you had to marry her, whether you really wanted to or not?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” she baldly lied.
Those eyes of his seemed to bore holes right through her. And then he lifted one hard shoulder, sketching a shrug. “Honestly, I can’t say for certain. It hasn’t happened.” Then he frowned. “Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me something?”
“No. No, I’m not.” Well, it was the truth. Barely. She wasn’t trying to tell him. Not now. Not yet…
“I’ll say this much.”
She gulped. “Yeah?”
“Any kid of mine is going to know his dad and know him well.” His steak knife glinted as he sliced his T-bone.
B.J. realized she’d been holding her breath and let it out. Slowly. “Buck?”
He set the knife aside. “Yeah?”
“Why are we doing this?”
He arched a dark brow. “Because it’s dinnertime? Because we have to eat—by the way, your filet’s getting cold.”
Stop, a voice inside her head commanded. Drop it. Now. But her mouth kept right on talking. “No. I don’t mean dinner. I mean this whole thing. You and me, here in your hometown. Why did you find it necessary to drag me across the country with you? We both know there’s no reason you can’t write this damn piece yourself.”
“No denying it now,” he said wryly. “You are talking to me.”
“Against my better judgment,” she shot back, then cut the sarcasm enough to ask, “And will you please answer my question?”
He looked at her in a measuring sort of way. The seconds ticked by. At last, he said, “Eat your steak so we can get out of here.”
“And then?”
“You’ll get your answer.”
Buck said nothing after they left the restaurant. In the chilly Sierra darkness, they strolled down the street, around the corner and across the bridge. The stars overhead, no city lights to mute them, shone thick and bright against the black-as-velvet night sky.
At the Sierra Star, the curtains at the front window were still open. Inside, as they mounted the steps, B.J. could see Chastity, sitting alone by the fire, reading a paperback book, an orange tabby cat curled in her lap.
Buck opened the door and ushered B.J. in—still without saying a word. Evidently, he’d decided against explaining why he’d forced her to head for the hills with him.
Fine. She was having second thoughts, anyway, wondering what had possessed her to ask him why in the first place. Whatever his reasoning, she didn’t need to hear it.
And it had been a long day. She’d go upstairs, enjoy a soak in her own private claw-footed bathtub and then watch some TV. Maybe jot a few notes for the story. Play a computer game. Read a book.
Whatever.
The keyword here was disengage. When it came to Buck, prolonged contact inevitably meant trouble. If she didn’t watch herself, she’d start obsessing over how attractive he was, how smart, how funny. In no time she’d be thinking that maybe they could get something going, after all.
It could end up just like that night in September—with her naked on top of him, demanding more. Or beneath him, begging for more. Or…
Now, see? See what she was doing? All it took was dinner and a little semi-friendly conversation, and she was back with the vivid images of the two of them doing things they were never going to do again. Italics intended.
Chastity looked up from her book. “Did you two have a nice