The Bachelor Bid. Kate DentonЧитать онлайн книгу.
market restaurant and scurried to join them, leaving Cara to shop alone. She was weighing tomatoes when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around.
“We meet again.” It was Wyatt McCauley. “I’ve missed you,” he said. “Almost a week and no contact.”
“I’m sure you’ve been waiting with bated breath.” She set the tomatoes in her shopping cart and began examining the bell peppers, doing her darnedest to ignore the man hovering over her.
He picked up a large pepper and held it out to her. “This looks like a good one.”
“I like these better.” Rejecting the proffered pepper, she bagged two others and moved to weigh them. Wyatt was right beside her.
“Trying to snare another bachelor for the auction with a home-cooked meal?”
Cara rolled her eyes and pushed her shopping cart away. Wyatt trailed behind her. “Are you a good cook?” he asked.
Stopping the cart, Cara glared at him. “Now what are you up to?”
“Nothing sinister. Just trying to learn more about you.” Wyatt’s expression was the picture of innocence. “As I said before, you’ve captured my attention. Surely you don’t mind my tagging along while you shop.”
“But I do mind, so stop it,” she hissed.
“No fun when you’re the one pursued instead of the pursuer, hmm?”
“Is that what this is all about? Revenge for my bothering you? Then I apologize. I most humbly apologize. Now leave me alone.”
“Have dinner with me.”
“As you can see, I already have dinner plans.” Cara gestured at her half-filled shopping cart.
“Change them.”
“I can’t.”
“Some starved guy waiting for you to fix his favorite meal?”
“Matter of fact, there is.” My brother. Mark was a bottomless pit, always hungry. Thank goodness he and Meg were occupied right now. She wanted no spectators at this ridiculous scene.
“Is he someone special?” There was pure seduction in Wyatt’s voice.
“What’s it to you?”
“Just sizing up the competition.”
“Competition? Believe me, there’s no competition.”
“That’s nice to know.”
“Hold it. Let me make myself crystal clear. There is no competition because you are not in the running for anything involving me. Besides, you’ll never convince me you’re really on the level.” Cara selected three chicken breasts and waited for the butcher to wrap them.
“It might be fun trying.” Wyatt draped an arm around her shoulder.
“What’s with you?” Cara asked, shrugging free. “Friday you were brusque, Saturday offensive, and now, now... Your behavior is definitely worsening.” She pointed toward a nearby store employee. “Do I need to ask for protection against more harassment?”
“Oh, I see,” he said with a knowing nod. “Okay for me to be harassed—at work no less, but when the tables are turned, the lady’s ready to scream ‘stalker.’ Is that how it goes?”
“I’ve already apologized for bothering you. What else can I do?”
“Have dinner with me. If not tonight, then tomorrow.”
She held her palms up. “Look. I explained that—”
“Tsk, tsk. What would your employer think? Passing up a golden opportunity to boost the auction again? A chance to lobby for your cause all evening.”
“And what good would it do? You’d still say ‘no.’ Or attach strings. As far as I’m concerned, your refusal to participate is final and I have no intention of asking you again. Goodbye, Mr. McCauley.”
“Surely not goodbye.” He gazed deeply into her eyes.
It was all Cara could do not to melt into a puddle at his feet. Wyatt McCauley seemed to inspire sappy behavior. “I’ve got to be going.”
“When will I see you again?”
“How about never?” She rolled her cart toward the front of the store.
Wyatt watched Cara push up to a checkout lane, braking the urge to follow. Wandering over to the coffee bins, he tried to figure out why the woman intrigued him so. She’d been nothing but a grade-A irritation, so why had he even approached her tonight, much less invited her to dinner? He’d only stopped at Central Market for coffee beans, milk and fresh fruit. But then he’d glimpsed Cara and his senses had gone haywire.
Foolish of him abetting her shenanigans on behalf of the bachelor auction. He was asking for trouble by stirring her up. She might start a new recruiting drive... Wyatt shook his head. He didn’t really believe that. Everything about Cara said she had washed her hands of him.
He’d like to change her attitude. His earlier words weren’t simply a line. He had missed her. There was something about Cara that commanded his thoughts, excited him. And Wyatt hadn’t been excited by a woman in a long, long time.
CHAPTER THREE
WYATT tore off a page of the yellow lined tablet he’d been doodling on and wadded it up, tossing the paper in a perfect arc toward the wastebasket where it joined a pile of other crushed missiles on the floor. At that moment Frances strode in and stopped, noting the empty wastebasket and its wreath of paper discards. “Busy today, I see. And your aim is rotten.”
“Did you come in here for a purpose or to criticize my throwing skills?”
“Grumpy, too.” She sat down in Wyatt’s armchair and eyed him.
He caught her gaze. “I’m not grumpy,” he said testily.
“What, then? You’ve been distracted all morning. Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing.” He remained silent for a minute. “Is there any reason I should feel guilty about refusing to be part of that circus?”
“What circus?”
“The bachelor auction.”
Frances studied him more closely. “No reason at all.”
“Right.”
“But you do?”
“Yeah. I suppose I do.”
“Because of Cara Breedon?”
“What makes you come up with a crazy idea like that?” He didn’t give Frances a chance to answer. “The Rosemund Center is providing a service to kids who wouldn’t have a chance in life without—”
“I’m sure the center is pleased to welcome you as an advocate and benefactor. Only that’s not what we’re talking about, is it?”
Wyatt smiled ruefully. Frances could read him all too well. Still, he refused to rise to the bait. “Donations aren’t everything,” he continued. “Giving one’s time is important, too. The auction also provides good publicity for the center. That’s why I feel guilty.”
“Of course it is.”
“Even though I find the idea distasteful, the fact is, I could spare a couple of evenings if I felt like it.”
“True.”
“Well, you’re a big help. You’re supposed to tell me not to sweat it, assure me I’m too busy...blah, blah, blah, and get me off the hook. Now you’ve made it worse. Some assistant you are.”
Frances laughed. “So fire me.”
“Don’t tempt me.”