Fortune's Prince. Allison LeighЧитать онлайн книгу.
finally got out of the truck and headed slowly toward him. Quinn watched only long enough to assure himself that she wasn’t going to collapse again, before he turned toward the house once more. He wanted her in his home about as much as he wanted holes drilled into his head.
It was hard enough to forget about her when she’d never stepped foot in his place. Now she was going to do just that. And his need to keep her out of his thoughts was going to become even more impossible.
He shoved open the front door and waited for her to finish crossing the gravel drive. Her dark hair gleamed in the moonlight, reminding him of the last time. Only then the long strands had been fanned out around her head, and her face bathed in ecstasy.
He clenched his teeth and looked at the scuffed toes of his leather boots. The second she crossed the threshold, he moved away. “Close the door behind you.”
His steps sounded hollow on the wood floor as he headed through the house to the kitchen at the back and he heard the soft latch of the front door closing behind him.
He slapped his palm against the wall switch, flooding the kitchen with unforgiving light, and grabbed the plastic-wrapped loaf of bread from where he’d last tossed it on the counter. He yanked open a drawer, grabbed a knife, slammed the drawer shut and yanked open the fridge. Pulled a few things out and slammed that door shut, too.
None of it helped.
She was still in his damned house.
Another woman he’d let himself believe in.
Didn’t matter that he knew he was to blame for that particular situation. He’d barely known Amelia. And he’d known his ex-wife, Carrie, for years. Yet he’d made the same mistake with them both.
Trusting that he was the one.
The only one.
He carelessly swiped mayonnaise on the two slices of bread, slapped a slice of cheese on top, followed by a jumble of deli-sliced turkey.
Every cell he possessed knew the minute Amelia stepped into the kitchen behind him, though she didn’t make a sound. She was as ghostly quiet as she was ghostly pale.
He dropped the other slice of bread on top of the turkey and managed not to smash it down out of sheer frustration. He tossed the knife in the sink next to his elbow and it clattered noisily.
He turned and faced her, choking down the urge to take her shoulders and urge her into a chair.
She looked worse than ill.
The shadows under her eyes were nearly purple. The oversize shirt—an uglier color than the contents of his youngest nephew’s diaper the last time he’d been stuck changing it—had slipped down one of her shoulders and her collarbone stuck out too sharp against her pale skin.
It wasn’t just a day of traveling—by means he damn sure knew she wasn’t used to—taking its toll.
“What the hell have you done to yourself?”
Her colorless lips parted slightly. She stared up at him and her eyes—dark, dark brown and enormous in her small triangular face—shimmered wetly. “You’re so angry,” she whispered.
Angry didn’t begin to cover it. He was pissed as hell. Frustrated beyond belief. And completely disillusioned with his judgment where women were concerned.
Especially this woman, because dammit all to hell, there was still a part of him that wanted to believe in her. Believe the things she’d said that night. Believe the things she’d made him feel that night.
And he knew better.
“I should have taken you to the hospital,” he said flatly. “Have you had the flu or something?” God forbid she was suffering anything worse.
Her lashes lowered and she reached out a visibly unsteady hand for one of the wood chairs situated around his small, square table. But she only braced herself; she didn’t sit. “I haven’t been sick. I told you, I just need food and a little rest.”
“A little?” He snorted and nudged her down onto the chair seat. A nudge is all it took, too, because her legs folded way too easily. He would have termed it collapsing, except she did even that with grace.
As soon as she was sitting, he took his hand away, curling his fingers against his palm.
Whether to squeeze away the feel of her fragile shoulder, or to hold on to it, he wasn’t sure.
And that just pissed him off even more.
He grabbed the sandwich, and ignoring every bit of manners his mom had ever tried to teach him, plopped it on the bare table surface in front of her. No napkin. No plate.
If she wanted to toy around with a cowboy, she’d better learn there weren’t going to be any niceties. He almost wished he chewed, because the notion of spitting tobacco juice out just then was stupidly appealing.
She, of course, not-a-princess that she was, ignored his cavalier behavior and turned her knees beneath the table, sitting with a straight back despite her obvious exhaustion. Then she picked up the sandwich with as much care as if it were crustless, cut into fancy shapes and served up on priceless silver. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
He wanted to slam his head against a wall.
Every curse he knew filled his head, all of them directed right at his own miserable hide. He grimly pulled a sturdy white plate from the cupboard and set it on the table. He didn’t have napkins, but he tore a paper towel off the roll, folded it in half and set it next to the plate. Then, feeling her big brown eyes following him, he grabbed a clean glass and filled it with cold tap water. She was surely used to the stuff that came in fancy tall bottles, but there was no better water around than what came from the Rocking-U well. Aside from water, he had milk and beer. He wasn’t sure the milk wasn’t sour by now, and she definitely wasn’t the type to drink beer.
“Thank you,” she said again, after taking a long sip of the water. “I don’t mean to put you to any trouble.”
He folded his arms across his chest and dragged his gaze away from the soft glisten of moisture lingering on her full, lower lip. “Shouldn’t have gotten on the airplane, then.” Much less a bus.
She looked away.
For about the tenth time since he’d found her hiding in his barn, he felt like he’d kicked a kitten. Then ground his boot heel down on top of it for good measure.
“Eat.” He sounded abrupt and didn’t care. “I’ll get a bed ready for you.”
She nodded, still not looking at him. “Thank—” Her voice broke off for a moment. “You,” she finished faintly.
That politeness of hers would be the end of him.
He left the kitchen with embarrassing haste and stomped up the stairs to the room at the end of the hall. He stopped in the doorway and stared at the bed.
It was the only one in the house.
It was his.
“You’re a freaking idiot,” he muttered to himself as he crossed the room and yanked the white sheets that were twisted and tangled and as much off the bed as they were on into some semblance of order. He’d have changed the sheets if he owned more than one set.
Once she was gone, he’d have to burn the damn things and buy different ones. For that matter, he might as well replace the whole bed. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since learning she’d gotten engaged to that other guy within hours of leaving his arms. He was pretty sure that sleeping was only going to get harder from here on out.
He realized he was strangling his pillow between his fists, and slapped it down on the bed.
It was summertime, so he hadn’t personally been bothering with much more than a sheet, but he unearthed the quilt that his mother had made for him years earlier from where he’d hidden it away in the