Husbands, Husbands...Everywhere!. Sharon SwanЧитать онлайн книгу.
named after her.”
“I see,” was his reply.
She didn’t doubt he would have more to say shortly, when total recall hit, which was bound to occur after she told him what she was about to tell him. Her appearance had changed over the years, she had to concede. Certainly she was no longer a starry-eyed twenty-three. But despite the fact that she now wore her hair in a neat chin-length style rather than down past her shoulders, and favored tailored blouses and slacks over more casual tops and jeans, this had to jar his memory in a big way.
Bracing herself, she said, “I’m Abby Prentice.”
All he did was continue to gaze down at her blandly. “I’m Ryan Larabee. If there does happen to be a room available, do you suppose I could come in?”
For a stark second she still couldn’t move, and then she stepped back carefully, opening the front door wide. He entered, holding the sturdy handle of a large black suitcase in one long-fingered hand. The lightly scuffed leather matched his stack-heeled boots, while the rest of him was clad in faded denim.
Still trying to get her bearings, Abby closed the rust-colored door behind him. She would have liked to lean against it, at least long enough to shut her eyes for an instant and draw in a steadying breath. Instead, she squared her shoulders, knowing full well that she had to deal with her visitor—good Lord, he was about to become a guest!—and her nerves would have to wait. Ready or not, it was time to assume her hostess duties, and she could only hope this particular visit would be short.
“Welcome to Harmony, Arizona,” she said, calling up the most politely offhand tone she could muster.
“Thanks.” He left it at that before he followed her toward a makeshift front desk to one side of the center oak staircase. No trivial conversation, she couldn’t help but note. No easy chuckles, either. Not the barest hint of the breezy charm that had seemed almost second nature to the man she’d known.
Abby groped to take in those facts and found herself frowning as the smarts she usually put to good use finally kicked in. Although she remained more than a little at sea after the shock she’d just been treated to, it was becoming increasingly clear, at least to her way of reasoning, that no one could appear so entirely indifferent to another person they had shared so much with.
It wasn’t normal. And neither, she was more than beginning to suspect, was this situation.
Abby’s frown deepened with each step forward. The man who had just arrived, the same one currently following hard on her heels, wasn’t putting on an act and pretending not to recognize her. She was all but positive of that now, mainly because there wasn’t the slightest reason to believe otherwise. In any case, it would have taken a world-class actor to pull it off. And since there was also no way she could have slipped his mind, surely not after their joint and hardly casual history, she was left to come to one conclusion.
Ryan Larabee honestly and truly didn’t have a clue as to who she was. As far as he was concerned, she was a stranger. Which could only mean that something was wrong, Abby told herself as she made her way around the small butterscotch-colored desk standing on thin, gracefully curved legs.
Yes, something had to be very wrong.
RYAN GLANCED AROUND HIM as his hostess completed the necessary paperwork to check him in, wondering if he’d ever been in a place like this before. A gingerbread house—that had been his first impression as he’d stood on a narrow sidewalk backed by a tree-lined street and viewed the large, frame home painted a bright cinnamon with rusty-red trim around gleaming windows. Strange, he knew what a gingerbread house was, could even picture a layer of white frosting decorating a pitched roof, but whether he had ever taken a bite out of one was a total mystery.
He could only damn well hope that situation would change, and soon.
“Your room is at the top of the stairs to the right, first door on the left.”
Ryan nodded in response to the soft yet briskly issued statement. He had to admit he’d expected at least a slightly warmer and less strictly business-like welcome than he’d gotten so far at Aunt Abigail’s. He’d been told that Harmony, set in a valley rimmed by low, pine-dotted mountains northeast of Phoenix and offering plenty of crisp sunshine, wasn’t just a great spot to visit location-wise, it was also a place that prided itself on its friendliness.
Friendly? For a minute there, waiting on the threshold, he’d discovered himself questioning whether the woman answering the merry doorbell would let him in at all.
Not that it had been a hardship to watch her do a decent job of staring him down with a smoky-green gaze. She was easy on the eyes, no doubt about it. If a man were partial to redheads of the tall and willowy variety, not precisely beautiful yet with skin that looked as smooth as cream, she’d fit the bill.
Something told him he was that kind of man, and it wasn’t his brain talking. No, it was his body that was letting him know in no uncertain terms exactly what sort of woman attracted him.
“A buffet breakfast is available between seven and nine-thirty, and the front door is locked for the night at ten o’clock. If you plan to be out later than that—”
“Why, of course, he plans to be out later, at least on occasion,” another soft voice, this one bubbling with good cheer, offered just then. The well-rounded woman it belonged to, one currently bustling her way down the hall from the rear of the house, might have had Everyone’s Favorite Grandmother stitched across the ruffled top of her pearly white apron. Silvery hair caught up in a high bun and sparkling gray eyes only enhanced the image.
“If this is Mr. Larabee,” she added, “which I assume it is, he’ll be here for a while. Too long for a young man to go to bed with the birds every night, I’m sure.”
His hostess hesitated a second before countering that statement with her own, one issued in a tone more blunt than cheerful. “You only wrote tonight’s date down in the register.”
“With a little dash after it, dear.” Standing at one side of the desk, the older woman pointed with a short and what seemed to be flour-dusted finger. “That means this particular guest wasn’t certain about the length of his visit.”
“Hmm.”
She wasn’t overjoyed at that news, Ryan noted. But if the redhead’s companion noticed it as well, she ignored the evidence and fixed him with a sunny smile. “I’m Ethel Freeman, and I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay here, Mr. Larabee.”
“I answer to Ryan,” he said, dredging up a smile of his own. He doubted it was half as effective as hers, but he hadn’t had much practice smiling lately.
“Yes, of course,” she continued, barely missing a beat. “Please call me Ethel. I’m sure Abby will want to be on a first-name basis, too. It’s always so much more comfortable.”
Comfortable was the last thing the woman with the deep russet hair appeared to be at the moment, but Ryan decided to do some ignoring himself. Could be that something about him bothered her, or maybe it was just men in general. Either way, hanging around right now probably wouldn’t win him any points.
He took a quick step back from the desk, grateful that his muscles readily responded even though a tight group stretching down one of his thighs was starting to give him hell. “I’ll take up my bag,” he said, “and get settled in. Can you recommend a place for dinner tonight?”
Abby, as he guessed he should call her, opened her mouth, only to snap it shut again when Ethel wasted no time in saying, “Since it’s your first night here and you’re the only guest, weekdays in spring usually being a slower time, why don’t you have dinner with us? I’m making one of my favorites—chicken and dumplings.”
He had no idea if he shared a fondness for that dish, but it sounded good. And, although he was well aware that Abby hadn’t hurried to second the invitation, not by any means, he was tired enough to give in without hesitation. “Sounds terrific. What time do we eat?”
“Six