A Husband Worth Waiting For. Grace GreenЧитать онлайн книгу.
Sarah unwrapped Jamie from his slicker and settled him on one of the banquettes before moving to join Emma.
The fridge was, indeed, ‘loaded.’
Sarah’s stomach felt hollow with hunger and the knowledge that Emma’s probably felt the same squashed her qualms as she rummaged among cheeses and packaged meats, cartons of milk and bottles of orange juice.
She found a bowl of homemade soup, rich with carrots and tomatoes and rice. In a chrome bread bin, she found a whole-wheat loaf.
Minutes later, she and Emma were seated at the table, the homey smell of toast and savory soup filling the kitchen as they tucked in voraciously.
“What time is it, Mom?” Emma talked in a whisper to avoid waking Jamie.
“Almost midnight!”
“Holy moly!” Gray eyes round as saucers, Emma asked, “Have I ever been up this late before?”
“Not that I recall.” Sarah’s gaze flitted to a calendar on the wall just above Emma’s head. It was bare of notations except for one on the last square of the month, where someone had hand-printed: MINERVA LEAVING.
“Mom, what are we going to do after we’ve eaten?”
Sarah directed her attention back to Emma. “We’ll find a room with a sofa—armchairs—somewhere we can sleep.”
“Can’t we sleep in a bed?”
“No. Your uncle might not like that. But I’ll go upstairs and look for some blankets so we can be cozy.”
“How come Daddy never brought us here?”
“I don’t know, honey.” Which was, and was not, the truth. She knew that Chance had kept away from Morgan’s Hope because he and his brother were estranged, but she had no idea what had caused the estrangement because Chance had always refused to discuss it.
“Where is our uncle?” Emma tugged free a strand of rain-damp hair that was stuck to her cheek.
“He can’t be far away.” The front door had, after all, been unlocked. Although that could have been an oversight. The man could be in Timbuktu! But no, if he’d gone on a trip, he’d have gotten rid of the perishables in his fridge.
Emma licked the last drops of soup from her spoon. “Maybe he went for a walk.”
“I shouldn’t think so. Not in this storm.”
But if he hadn’t gone for a walk, reflected Sarah—and it would be crazy to think he had!—then where in the world was Jedidiah Morgan?
Jedidiah Morgan swept his palm smoothly across the woman’s alabaster-white shoulders. Running a caressing fingertip over her collarbone, he let it linger in the valley between her breasts. And then, eyes narrowed, he scrutinized the breasts themselves. Tilting his head, he examined the voluptuous curves before moving his gaze to the peaks.
An ironic smile played around his mouth as he flicked an erect nipple with his thumb pad.
“Perfect,” he said.
And finished. At last.
He stretched, yawned, and squinted at his watch.
Midnight.
He’d lost all sense of time. It was always the same when his work was going well.
“Hey, Max.” He whistled to the black Lab snoozing on the mat by the woodstove. “Time to go.”
The dog lifted his head, fixed his golden-brown eyes on his master. Then he stretched, yawned and pushed himself up. Black tail wagging, he trotted to the studio door.
Jed could hear the rain drumming on the roof as it had been doing all day. Shrugging on his anorak, he scooped up his heavy-duty flashlight from the bench.
When he stepped outside, needles of rain spiked his face. Ducking his head, he made for the path through the forest. Max snuffled away into the bushes. He’d catch up soon enough, Jed reflected as he played the beam of the flashlight ahead to light his way over the muddy path. And sure enough, by the time he got to the house a few minutes later, Max was panting impatiently on the front stoop.
“Right, boy.” Jed opened the door. “Snack and then bed.” He flicked on the foyer light…and froze as a couple of things hit him like a punch on the jaw.
First…the sight of dark, wet tracks on his carpet.
Second…the smell of toast from his kitchen.
Max growled.
“Quiet!” Jed snapped his fingers. “Sit!”
The dog sat.
With soundless steps, Jedidiah headed along the shadowy corridor to the kitchen. Ahead, the kitchen door was ajar; the room in darkness.
He halted just outside the doorway and listened. He heard nothing but the faint hum of the fridge. The room had that ‘empty’ feel to it.
Nerves jumping nevertheless, he snapped on the light.
Everything looked as it had when he’d left.
He opened the fridge door. And was about to close it when he noticed that yesterday’s leftover soup was gone.
Frowning, he opened the dishwasher.
The soup bowl was in the lower rack. Along with two soup plates and two side plates. Two spoons and a knife were slotted in the cutlery rack.
Adrenaline rushed through his veins. Someone had been here. Had eaten in his kitchen—
From the foyer came the sound of Max growling. A low, menacing sound, deep in the animal’s throat, a growl that stirred the hair at Jed’s nape.
He headed back along the corridor, keeping close to the wall.
Max was in his line of sight.
The intruder was not.
The Lab’s hackles were up, and he was staring at somebody Jed couldn’t see. Max’s fangs gleamed white as he pulled his mouth back in a hostile snarl.
Warily, Jed edged forward, inch by inch, till he could peek around the corner—
The intruder was a woman. And one he had never seen before.
His astonished gaze flicked over her. Young and attractive, the stranger had a petite figure swamped in an oversize white shirt that billowed out over a pair of jeans. Her hair was honey-blond and long. Her face was heart-shaped and white. Her eyes were dark-lashed and gray.
And those dark-lashed gray eyes were fixed, with a wide look of terror, on Max.
Max was glaring, equally intensely, at her.
She took a cautious half step forward. Max growled.
She swiftly stepped back. Max barked.
She looked as if she was about to start crying.
Jed muttered, “Damn!” and walked into the foyer.
When she saw him, she almost jumped out of her skin. Good grief, he thought, she’s a bag of nerves. But what the hell was she doing in his house?
“Max, shut up!” He signaled and the dog slunk over. “Kitchen!”
The Lab departed. With obvious reluctance.
Jed turned again to the stranger and felt a jolt of alarm when he saw that her face had gone from deathly white to a sickly green. She was staring at him as if he were a specter. For the first time he noticed the purple shadows smudging the skin under her eyes—eyes that had taken on the glazed expression of somebody in deep shock.
Was she going to pass out? He poised to move and catch her if it became necessary.
She pressed the fingertips of her left hand to her throat. He saw she was wearing a plain