Wife On His Doorstep. Alice SharpeЧитать онлайн книгу.
to her cap of yellow hair, the way different parts of her anatomy filled out the cloth in ways the tailor hadn’t intended.
“That was very kind of you,” she said.
Looking into her eyes was like glimpsing two blue gems buried in the depths of a mountain spring. He had to make himself turn away and liberate more lobster for the cat. “I can call you a cab—”
“I have nowhere to go,” she said.
John delivered the lobster, took a long swallow of champagne and eyed her above the rim of the glass. Then he said, “But your mother—”
“You don’t understand,” she said as she pushed herself away from the table and began pacing. “My mother is crazy about Robert Winslow. She thinks the sun rises and sets on his bank account. All she ever talks about is how much he’s like my late father.”
“Is he?” John heard himself ask.
She shrugged. “Yes. Oh, I don’t know. Dad was strong-willed and blustery, but he was also kind. I can’t even imagine him attacking a harmless animal like that. Anyway, he died when I was just a little kid.” She blinked away the past and added, “Mom will spend the entire night trying to get me to see the stupidity of my ways. I can’t face her.”
John’s gaze had dropped to her smooth, shapely legs. Looking up, he said, “Then that uncle of yours—”
“If anything, he loves Robert even more than Mom does. Robert has given Uncle Adrian money for bailing out a sick business. My uncle’s first thought is going to be that I’m jeopardizing the business by jilting Robert. I can’t go to him, I just can’t.”
“Friends?”
“Don’t you see? Everyone likes Robert Winslow. He throws money around like there’s no tomorrow. He buys people’s affections.”
John surprised himself by asking, “Did he buy yours, too?”
She stopped pacing and stared at him. More tears filled her eyes as she said, “No, of course not.” But she ruined the validity of her denial by immediately adding, “At least I don’t think he did.”
Right... John thought. She kind of reminded him of Betsy, his first love, his ex-wife, who had married him on a whim, intrigued by his wealth. Within six months she’d grown bored with his work ethic and taken up extracurricular activities of her own. It had cost him a hefty one-time payment to rid his life of Betsy, and though she’d cheated and lied to him, he’d still felt like the world had been torn asunder when she closed the door behind her. That had been two years ago, and it was only within the past eight or nine months that he’d begun to see that her leaving was really him escaping. Who needed women? They were fickle and hard on the old heart—a man was better off without them.
“I wish you’d say something,” Megan said uneasily.
“I don’t know what to say,” he told her.
Grasping the back of a chair with both hands and leaning slightly forward, she fixed him with an intent stare. “Do you think I was silly today? Do you think I acted irrationally?”
He grinned. “Let’s just say that if you hadn’t pushed that idiot off my boat, I would have.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“Wait, did you say this was your boat? Does that mean you won’t lose your job because of me?” The relief in her voice touched John. She’d been worried about his fate in this mess—that was kind of sweet.
He laughed and said, “No such luck. Now, like I said, it’s getting late—”
“I don’t have a job,” she said suddenly, as though just realizing that even that part of her life was screwed up.
“You quit your job?”
Though her voice grew husky and her chin trembled, she held her head high, apparently straining for control. “I quit it as of two weeks ago. After all, I was marrying Robert Winslow, what did I need to work at a hospital for? I was going to work with him—at least, that was my plan. I found out this morning that that wasn’t his plan, however. He didn’t want me anywhere near his business or his precious money.”
John remained silent. He suspected her shattered life had derailed her tongue.
“I don’t know where to go or what to do,” she said softly.
John rubbed his jaw as he thought. Heck, where she went wasn’t his problem, was it? He was a skipper of a stern-wheeler, not director of a lonely heart’s club. What did she expect of him? He said, “Maybe a hotel?”
A brief look of hope was extinguished by a frown that tugged on the corners of her lips. Sighing heavily, she shook her head. “I might as well go to Mom’s house. I’ll have to face her sooner or later. Maybe she’ll take pity and let me be for one night.”
“I’m sure that’s the logical thing to do,” he told her, relieved she’d come to her senses. He’d been afraid of what might have happened if she’d insisted on staying the night.
“Is there a phone on board so I can call a cab?”
“Better than that,” he said, generosity filling his heart. “I’ll give you a lift on my way home.”
She looked startled. Gesturing at the table and the sideboard, the bed and the console that held a stereo and TV-VCR combination, she said, “Don’t you live here, in this room, on this boat?”
Standing, he looked down at her. “Sometimes I spend the night, but not often. I’m building a little house along the river, an hour or so from here, and that’s where I live. For now, until I find someone else to skipper this boat, I’m commuting back and forth every day.”
“Even on a Sunday?”
“Especially on a Sunday.”
The mention of work reminded him that Mrs. Colpepper had abandoned ship, supposedly for good. As much as she drove him crazy, he wasn’t prepared to lose her just weeks before a big media dinner-dance she’d booked.
Well, she’d made threats before and she’d always come back—whether it was because of her generous salary, dedication to her obligations or just plain love of driving him nuts, John didn’t know and didn’t much care.
“Your offer is very generous,” Megan murmured. “Thank you.”
“No problem. I know this day hasn’t exactly gone the way you’d planned...”
His voice petered out as Megan’s eyes grew soft with tears she seemed determined to curtail. He’d said the wrong thing again. Mumbling something about fetching her clothes, John got to his feet and crossed the cabin, enjoying the shot of cool river air that hit his face when he opened the door.
You should have just called her a cab, you blasted fool, he grumbled to himself.
Foggy Dew had followed him outside. She made an odd noise as she rubbed his ankles. To John, it sounded as though she was agreeing.
Chapter Three
“Over there,” Megan said, pointing to a hamburger stand visible through the rain as a blur of rainbow-colored lights. It had started drizzling as they’d left the stern-wheeler and had picked up gusto as they’d driven through town. Now it fell in relentless buckets. Megan imagined Captain Vermont was anxious to take her home and be rid of her, but there was no way she was going to face her mother on an empty stomach.
He stopped his truck in front of a smiling clown face and opened the window the old-fashioned way, with a handle. For an instant Megan flashed back to the steel cocoon of a cloud gray BMW, Robert beside her, lowering his window with a touch of a finger. This act never happened at a fast-food restaurant, banish the thought. Robert Winslow wouldn’t be caught dead at anything as “ordinary” as a fast-food place—which