Secret Courtship. Grace GreenЧитать онлайн книгу.
sleep that had lasted for hours. She could see moonlight filtering in through the windows, silvering the walls and furniture... and outlining the wide-shouldered frame of the man poised over her, his back to the door, his face shadowed.
“Get up!” The stranger barked out the command again. “And watch how you move, you thieving little lowlife... I pack a mean punch!”
Laura cringed as he made a sweeping gesture in her direction, but even as the breath caught in her throat she realized that he wasn’t going to hit her. All he meant to do was snatch up the crocheted blanket half covering her... which he proceeded to do before flinging it away to the floor. The movement swiveled him sideways for just a second, and during that fleeting second his profile was painted ink-black against the silver light from the moon...
And, during that fleeting second, the sight of him, and the sound of his harsh voice echoing in her ears, came together in Laura’s mind with the firm, undeniable click of computerized facts meshing into place.
This man was no stranger.
Slowly she uncurled herself from the fetal position she’d adopted while she slept. What Nicholas Diamond was doing here she wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if the man was quite mad. He thought she was the intruder, not he; and he was in no mood to listen to her explanations.
The sooner she got out of his way the better.
At that moment a cloud floated across the moon, and the room became instantly as black as pitch. Rolling off the sofa, she moved furtively, with her breath sucked into her throat, toward the French doors. If she could get outside, she could hide in the garden till-A rough hand grasped her arm, making her gasp. “Trying to get away?” The voice rasped in her ears mockingly. “Too bad you didn’t eat your carrots when you were a boy—you’d be better able to see in the dark!”
Laura resisted the urge to try to tug her arm free, knowing full well that his grip was inescapable. “Look, you—” her voice was breathless but cold “—I don’t know who you think I am, or what you think I’m doing here, but my name is Laura Grant and this cottage belongs to me. Now, if it’s not asking too much, would you please let me go?” She noticed with grim pleasure that his grasp had slackened at her words, and she jerked her arm free. “And get out of my house!”
For a moment that seemed to stretch forever there was silence in the room, punctuated only by Laura’s rough, erratic breathing. Finally, when she’d thought the man was never going to respond to her words, he said, in a voice that was husky and edged with self-deprecatory humor, “Miss Grant, please accept my apologies. I thought that—”
“I’m not the least interested in your apologies,” she snapped, “and I am even less interested in your thoughts. All I want is for you to leave, and to keep out of my way so I need never set eyes on you again. Do you think,” she added sarcastically, “that you could possibly arrange that?”
“If you really are the new owner of Sweet Briar, then I’m afraid that’s something I can’t promise to arrange.”
“And why not?” she demanded icily.
“Because,” he replied, “I am your next door neighbor. And you and I shall probably be seeing a great deal of each other in the future ... whether you like it or not.”
She heard him walking toward the French doors, and then she heard a scuffling sound, and realized that he must be pushing her backpack into the room. A second later she heard the sharp click as he pushed the French doors into place, and then, as the cloud slid past the moon and once again the garden was painted in silver, she saw him walk by the windows, his hands rammed into the pockets of his jeans.
And she also saw, with a flare of anger and resentment, that his lips were slanted in a smile.
Amazingly, she slept again after he’d left.
She hadn’t expected to. The encounter had left her trembling with frustration, and she had curled up on the couch again—promising herself that she’d get up and make some coffee once she’d stopped shaking—and next thing she knew, sunshine was tickling her eyelids, inviting her to waken up. When she looked at her watch, she saw that it was nine o’clock.
She stretched and yawned... and her stomach gave a plaintive rumble. Getting up, she scooped her backpack from the carpet and made for the bathroom.
She gave herself a cursory wash, deciding to have a shower later, after she had done some preliminary cleaning. In the meantime, after brushing it, she fashioned her hair in a ponytail and tethered it with a leather thong.
About to turn away, she stopped to examine her reflection in the fly-spotted mirror above the sink. Lord, what a wan, unattractive creature she was. Not only was her long brown hair limp, it had no highlights; her skin, though flawless and clear, as it had been all her life, was pale, and drawn too tightly across her neat, straight nose and high cheekbones. Even her lips were pale. And as for her eyes... She shook her head; her eyes-blue as the Nordic sky under which her maternal ancestors had been born—were dulled and flat, mirroring the soul they windowed.
She sighed wistfully as she tucked the tail of her beige shirt into the waistband of her jeans. Where had she gone, that vivacious teenager who had been whirled into a “fairytale” marriage by one of Toronto’s most eligible bachelors? Was she lost forever? Or was she still there-somewhere?
She paused, her hand on the doorhandle, as an odd thought flew into her head. She had decided, after Jason’s death, that she would revert to her maiden name—Laura Grant. Why, then, last night, had it been on the tip of her tongue to tell Nicholas Diamond that her name was Mrs Thorne? Was it because she’d felt she had needed protection from him, and had thought she’d be safe if he believed her to be married? But safe from what?
Oh, it was too early in the day to be puzzling about such abstract problems! Pulling open the bathroom door, she made her way to the kitchen.
It was a small, cozy room, with white walls, green linoleum, birch-veneered cupboards and ancient avocado appliances. The window faced east, toward the forest, and Laura could see the sun peeping over the jagged silhouette of the treetops. The sky was cloudless, and a pale gray-blue. Later in the day she would walk among the trees—the first, she hoped, of many, many such walks.
A coffee-maker stood on the formica countertop, and, after rinsing it out, Laura opened the package of freshly ground coffee-beans she’d brought with her. Within minutes the air was scented by the aroma of the filtering brew.
As it dripped into the pot Laura took a small loaf from her backpack, and moments later the smell of toasting bread was added to the fragrance of the coffee. Humming under her breath, she energetically wiped off the surface of the table, the countertop and one of the chairs. By the time she had cleaned them to her satisfaction her breakfast was ready, but she had just sat down, and was savoring her first sip of coffee, when she heard the doorbell chime.
She blinked. Who on earth could be coming to call? No one but Nicholas Diamond and Marvin Twigg, the estate lawyer who now handled her affairs, knew she had moved in.
Putting her mug down on the table, she got up and walked through to the hall. The front door was oak, with a window at eye-level-a window veiled with a lace curtain.
Through the curtain she could see that the person outside was a striking brunette, with strong, attractive features and curly black hair tumbling to her shoulders.
Laura unlocked the door and pulled it slightly open, and as she peeped around the edge she saw immediately that the stranger was pregnant. Very pregnant. Her maternity dress billowed out around her like a vast scarlet tent.
“Yes?” Laura’s voice was wary.
The woman’s gray eyes were friendly, her smile pleasant but rueful. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Sally Peterson from next door. I’ve ... come to apologize about last night.”
Laura shifted her weight to the other foot, and waited for the woman to go on.
“You see,”