Keir O'connell's Mistress. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Keir hadn’t been surprised. Until that afternoon he’d never believed in anything a man couldn’t see or touch but something—he didn’t want to call it fate—something had been at work that day.
He’d looked at the books, had data faxed to his accountant and attorney. Before the sun dipped behind the gently rolling hills, he’d become the new owner of Deer Run.
Stupid? His accountant and attorney were too polite to say so. What they did say was “impulsive.”
Keir speeded up a little and changed lanes. Maybe they were right, but he had no regrets. He needed to change his life, and now he’d done it.
Las Vegas, ten miles.
The sign flashed by before he knew it—before he was ready. He slowed the car to a crawl.
He was not a man who ever acted on impulse and yet he’d done so three times in the past few weeks, walking out on the French deal, buying a winery…kissing a woman he shouldn’t have kissed.
Why regret any of it?
The kiss was just a kiss, the five star hotel and the penthouse in New York had been wrong for him, but the winery…the winery felt right.
No, he thought, he had no regrets at all. Not even about Cassie.
Keir turned on the radio and heard the pulse of hard, pounding rock. One thing he’d learned during this trip was you could tell where you were by listening to local DJ’s. Back east there’d been lots of Dylan and Debussy. The closer he’d come to the middle of the country, the more he’d heard Garth Brooks. Now, with the desert behind him and the Vegas strip just ahead, the sounds of rock and roll were kicking in.
Actually, what he liked best were the old standards, the stuff nobody played anymore. He’d grown up listening to those songs, Embraceable You and Starlight and the rest; his parents had always seen to it that music like that was featured in at least one lounge at the Desert Song.
The band had played lots of those numbers at Gray and Dawn’s wedding, especially as evening came on. He’d been dancing with Cassie, the two of them laughing as they moved to something by the Stones, when suddenly the music had become slow and smoky.
That was when he’d gathered her into his arms, as if the whole day had been leading up to that moment.
He knew the reasons.
People did things they’d never think of doing when they went to weddings and parties where the wine flowed and inhibitions got tossed aside.
How many toasts had he drunk? How many dances had he danced with Cassie, watching the flash of her long legs, the way her dress clung to her body when the summer breeze blew? How often had he inhaled her scent when he leaned close to ask if she wanted something from the buffet?
Why wouldn’t she have suddenly seemed a beautiful, mysterious creature of every man’s hottest dreams instead of a woman who might have been around the block more times than he wanted to count?
As he’d danced her into the garden, away from the lights, away from the other guests, he’d even imagined asking her to go with him the next day. He’d thought of what it might be like to be alone with her in some quiet, romantic hideaway.
“Cassie,” he’d murmured, tilting her face to his in the darkness. And he’d kissed her. Just kissed her…
Until she made a little sound, moved against him and dammit suddenly, his hands had been all over her, molding her to him, lifting her into him, sliding under her skirt against soft, silken skin.
Keir tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
Great. He was right back where he’d been when he’d pointed his car east the night of the wedding, feeling like a damned fool for having hit on a woman who worked for him, who’d probably been afraid to say “no” or maybe figured making it with the boss would improve her chances of being something better than a cocktail waitress…
He could still feel the way she’d stiffened in his arms, hear the sound of her voice.
“Keir,” she’d said, “Keir, no.”
That was what had brought him back to sanity, the way she’d said his name, her voice shaking, her body losing its soft, warm pliancy—and maybe that had been part of the act, a game designed to make him want her all the more—except, if he’d wanted her any more, he’d have exploded.
Keir cursed, stepped on the brakes and brought the car to a skidding stop on the side of the road.
Okay. He’d made a fool of himself but he’d done that before and survived. Not with a woman. Never with a woman, but he’d done his fair share of dumb things. Like making cold phone calls as a trainee at a San Francisco brokerage house and being set up by one of the other trainees so that somehow he’d ended up phoning the wife of the firm’s CEO.
He’d sold her three hundred shares of stock.
Now there was Cassie. Well, yeah. He was sorry he’d kissed her, but seeing her again, apologizing, wasn’t going to be any problem at all. Wasn’t there some old Irish saying about a little humility lightening the load and being good for the soul?
If there wasn’t, there ought to be.
As for buying the vineyard…Keir took a deep breath and pulled the car back into traffic. Enough introspection. He was minutes from home, his mother was getting married tomorrow, and he had the feeling he was in for one hell of an old-fashioned, rowdy O’Connell family reunion.
Up ahead, a creature that looked like a small, slow-moving tank stepped out of the scrub. It looked from side to side, took a cautious step forward, then an equally cautious step back.
Keir braked, swung wide, and left the armadillo in the dust.
Half an hour later, he pulled into the employee lot at the Desert Song and parked his car in its usual space. The security guard at the back entrance gave him a big smile.
“Hey, Mr. O’Connell. You’re back.”
“How’re you doing, Howard?” Keir stuck out his hand. “How’s your wife? That baby’s due any time now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Couple of weeks. How was the vacation?”
“Terrific.”
“And now it’s back to work, huh?”
“Something like that.” Keir clapped the guard on the shoulder. “Take care, Howard. Be sure and let me add my good wishes when the baby gets here.”
Keir stopped smiling as he stepped inside the hotel and walked down the hall that led past a series of offices. He could almost feel the place swallow him up. Even dragging a breath into his lungs seemed difficult.
A month away, and now he really knew how much he wanted out.
He stabbed the freight elevator call button, tucked his hands into the pockets of his well-worn Levi’s and tipped back a little on his heels.
The duchess had made it clear that she’d understand, if he left the Song.
Would she, really?
He’d come to Vegas to help run the place after his father’s death. He was the eldest son, the O’Connell offspring who’d proven himself Responsible with a capital R. Cullen wasn’t. He’d just left college, a dozen credits short of his degree, to do God only knew what. Sean had been—well, nobody had been quite sure of what Sean had been doing or where he’d been doing it. And the girls—Megan, Fallon and Briana—had all still been away at school.
“You’ll just stay for a bit,” his mother had said, “only until I can handle things on my own.”
After a year, he’d suggested they hire a Chief Operating Officer.
“I don’t know that I’d feel comfortable with someone outside the family,” Mary had told him.