The Love Child. Catherine MannЧитать онлайн книгу.
don’t edge her out.”
“I hear you, and I understand your point. But you do know that is exactly the sort of thing you shouldn’t say in public.”
“United front. Got it.” He tapped his temple. “We’re all supposed to ignore the fact that our families have been at war for longer than I can remember. I’m supposed to forget all the times my father called Jack Steele a ruthless crook.”
She leveled a glare at him. “Mr. Mikkelson—”
“Trystan.” His eyes were robin’s-egg blue, a beautiful, vibrant hue in this otherwise stark man. “And yes, I know that’s another thing I’m not supposed to say.”
Those. Eyes.
This. Man.
Heaven help her.
It was going to be a long month.
* * *
All for family.
That’d been Trystan’s motto his whole life. And it was why he stood, albeit begrudgingly, getting a damn makeover.
His clothes shouldn’t matter. He had a business degree and ran a multimillion-dollar ranching operation. All of which he’d accomplished in jeans and dusty boots rather than suits and polished wing tips. But his family’s livelihood was on the line.
He would do whatever it took to stabilize the newly formed Alaska Oil Barons, Inc.
Even if it meant prancing around like some show horse. Even if he hated every second of the posturing.
Although working with Isabeau Waters certainly made the task bearable.
She was a breath of fresh air. And, yeah, she was very easy on the eyes.
Her red hair shone with hints of gold streaking through. It was gathered on one side so that the rest fell over one shoulder. The natural wave swirled into one big curl that tempted him to tangle his fingers through to test the texture. He was a sensual man, a man of the outdoors who experienced life firsthand rather than sitting behind a desk sifting through the details on a computer screen.
Her eyes were the soft blue of his home state’s sky, sparkling and changeable. A deep breath filled him with the scent of her—like the wild irises that bloomed in summer, beautiful and an ironic mix of delicate petals that somehow managed to survive to bloom every year despite the harsh Alaska winters.
He stopped that thought short.
Damn.
Isabeau Waters was making him turn downright poetic.
His gaze turned to the yellow lab staring up at him with inquisitive, chocolate-brown eyes. Though he wanted to fluff the dog’s ears, he refrained because the dog was at work. Still, his soul longed for the simplicity of a canine companion here in this unfamiliar situation.
Understanding animals was easy for him. People? Not so much.
He wanted to be on the ranch, riding a horse or even reviewing inventory spreadsheets. The public scene wasn’t his forte, not like it was for his older brother Chuck. But Chuck’s marriage was on life support, and that relationship was the only thing his older brother valued more than the family business.
Chuck had learned those priorities from their parents, Charles Sr. and Jeannie, a tightly bonded couple until Charles’s death. They’d all feared for Jeannie when her husband died of a heart attack over two years ago. They’d prayed she would find a reason to live.
They just hadn’t expected her reason would be their family’s corporate enemy, Jack Steele.
Trystan had spent his teenage years hearing his father list Jack’s many flaws. And now he and his siblings were all expected to just forget that.
The movement of Isabeau’s slender body trekking over to the desk, her hair swishing, made him forget all about his family’s drama, at least for the moment. She grabbed some binders, flipping to different sections, writing on pages and adding sticky notes. A covert glance over her shoulder, back to him, had his heart pounding.
Why was the most attractive woman he’d met in ages also the person he had to work with? He wanted to flirt with her and take her to dinner instead.
But he would have to give serious thought to the consequences before mixing business and pleasure.
Family always came first.
He’d been adopted by Jeannie and Charles when his own parents had split. His biological parents had married as teens because he was on the way. Their union had been rocky and volatile from the start. After the split, when Trystan was ten, his mother, Jeannie’s sister, had been ready to turn him over to foster care. His other aunt had offered to share care of him with Jeannie, but Jeannie had insisted Trystan should have a steady home. She and Charles had welcomed him into their brood.
He knew Jeannie loved him, that she’d accepted him, but he also knew she hadn’t had a choice. His other aunt hadn’t really been an option as a single mom herself. Taking him in had been the honorable thing for Jeannie and Charles to do.
He owed the Mikkelsons more than he could repay. They’d saved him from an overburdened system where he likely would have ended up in a group home. They’d given him a place in their family. They’d treated him every bit as equally as their three biological children. Now, most people didn’t even know or remember he was adopted. Some days he could almost believe he was really one of them rather than a cast-off cousin.
Other times, like now, he was reminded of that debt.
As if she could feel his gaze, Isabeau glanced over her shoulder at him. “If you couldn’t be a rancher, what would you do with your life?”
“Why does that matter?” A shrug. No other future mattered, only the present he lived in. That was his life. Walking to the wet bar, Trystan grabbed a beer and twisted the top off. He tipped the bottle’s neck to her, inquiring.
A faint smile dusted her lips, but she shook her head, holding up a hand. “No, thank you. And as for the question, I’m just trying to get to know you better, beyond our brief meetings in the past and an internet search on the history of your family. The more I understand you, the more authentic I can be in the choices I make for your image makeover. I truly do want you to be pleased with the decisions. If it’s fake, that will show in your demeanor. People will sense it’s a facade.”
“Then we’re screwed because I’m never going to be a smooth-talking, tuxedo-wearing dude.” He took a sip of the beer—his favorite summer ale from his family-owned brewery, Icecap Brews. The crisp, medium-bodied flavor settled him, the aftertaste of wheat drawing out memories of late nights working on the ranch. His sanctuary.
“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” She gestured toward the binders—toward the organized checklists, charts and measures that ought to transform him from rugged recluse to the face of Alaska Oil Barons, Inc.
“Well, then, how would you feel if you couldn’t do your job? If someone thrust you into a role you weren’t comfortable with?” He took another swig as he leaned against the wall, noticing her confident posture, the way her brows lifted in answer to the challenge he threw at her.
A sassy smile set the corners of her mouth up, reaching those bright blue eyes. “This isn’t about me.”
“That’s a cop-out answer.”
“Fine, then. I would search for help. Like how I have my dog here to help me adapt to the curveballs life has thrown my way.”
He walked toward where she leaned against the desk, his fingers tracing the corners of the beer bottle’s label. Each movement, every step, sparked more static crackling in the air between them. Stopping beside her, he leaned against the desk to her left, aware of the lilac perfume on her skin. “Then what would you do if this profession hadn’t worked out for you?”
“I’ll answer if you will.” Her hand gravitated to his Stetson on the desk, touching the