Morgan's Secret Son. SARA WOODЧитать онлайн книгу.
oak beams to make a fleet of ships.
‘I can’t believe this!’ she whispered.
With trembling fingers she switched off the lights and the engine and leapt out, her body tensed in expectancy.
And then she heard a furious barking. She shrank back, terrified to see a Collie hurtling towards her.
‘Help!’ she croaked, freezing to the spot. Her terror-stricken gaze was pinned to the dog’s white fangs. ‘G-g-good, dog!’ she squeaked unconvincingly.
‘He’s friendly,’ snapped a hard male voice. ‘His tail’s wagging, can’t you see?’
Her father! Forgetting the animal, she looked hopefully towards the house, a warm, happy smile bursting forth and illuminating her eyes. It faded almost immediately. This couldn’t be him. He was too young. This was…who?
She swallowed nervously. The dishevelled, raven-haired man was glaring at her suspiciously from the shadowy doorway. Darkness surrounded him, a mere chink of light coming from the door he’d pulled to, as if he were defending his castle from intruders.
Extreme tiredness made her head swim with odd, fanciful images—the black-watered moat, the medieval manor and with its looming, jettied upper storey, and the sinister stranger.
She noted that his hair was wild and wind-tousled, his black brows thick and fierce and the angular jaw covered in five o’clock shadow. Wide-eyed with apprehension, she took in his hostile stare, crumpled crew-neck sweater and jeans and wondered if she’d come to the wrong house.
‘Great…Luscombe Hall?’ she queried shakily.
‘Yes!’ he clipped.
No mistake, then. And he was just a man, she reminded herself. Bad-tempered, unfriendly and unwittingly threatening, but nothing more. It was time her adrenaline climbed down to normal.
‘Then, hi!’ she called, rallying her spirits. When she took a step forward she felt the dog’s nose against her thigh and her courage faltered. ‘You’re sure I can move without losing a leg or two?’ she asked, worried.
Searingly dark eyes brooded on her poppy-coated lips and she felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck. He’d just stared, that was all. But a flash of something almost sexual had slid briefly through her body.
‘He’s eaten already,’ he dismissed. His mouth remained hard, as if hacked from granite by a sculptor who didn’t know how to do curves. ‘You want something?’ he shot.
It wasn’t the most gracious welcome she’d ever had! Jodie thought he sounded as if he’d got out of the wrong side of bed—and not long ago, judging by his rumpled state. Who could he be—the gardener? No—he’d been indoors. And the house might look grand enough for a butler, but not one who looked so untidy and…dangerous.
Handyman perhaps. He could have been under the floor-boards fixing something, hence his mussed-up hair.
Mystified, Jodie risked walking to the house. The dog bounded about her, circling as if she were a wayward sheep to be brought into line, and she smiled at its antics—though her city upbringing stopped her from trusting it enough to offer it a friendly pat.
‘Here, Satan!’ ordered the man sharply.
She hid a grin. Satan! That said volumes about his owner! She watched thoughtfully as the dog whirled around and flew over to its master, sitting to heel and gazing up anxiously. How severely had the dog been chastised till that level of obedience had been achieved? Fresh from living with a bully of her own, she felt her dislike of the man rack up a notch.
Close up, he seemed to tower over her slender frame, and she felt almost smothered by the tense atmosphere which surrounded him. It was clear from his manner that he was harassed and impatient, suggesting he had better things to do. Boilers to repair, pipes to lag, she thought with a sublime ignorance about maintenance. So she got to the point.
‘I’ve come to see my father,’ she told him briskly, though her joy suddenly shone through as she thought of their imminent meeting. Her fears vanished completely and she beamed, suddenly awash with happiness. This was a moment to cherish.
The man drew in his breath sharply and his eyebrows collided fiercely over his nose, as if she’d just confirmed his worst suspicions.
‘Your…father?’ he repeated ominously.
‘Sam Frazer,’ she confirmed, before the frown screwed up the man’s entire face.
‘Sam!’
He looked devastated. He’d gone quite pale beneath his olive complexion. Jodie took pity on him. Thinking only that she was seconds away from seeing her father for the first time, she gave an ecstatic grin and said, ‘Yes! It’s going to surprise a lot of people, I imagine. I’m pretty knocked out too—this house isn’t what I’d expected at all. I’d imagined my father in a little cottage with roses over the door, and wearing tweedy things with leather patches on the elbows. This is really grand!’
‘Is it?’
Jodie’s voice faltered a little at the contempt in the man’s eyes. But she wasn’t to be put off. ‘Sure it is. Now, if you’re wondering, I’m his long-lost daughter from New York,’ she explained. ‘You’ll want credentials, I suppose. Understandable. You can’t let anyone in, can you? Somewhere…I have his letter…’ Eagerly she scrabbled in her bag and produced it. ‘It’s a bit blurred in places because I cried over it,’ she pointed out hurriedly. ‘And it’s coming apart at the folds because—’
‘I get the picture,’ he said tightly.
He shot her an unreadable look from under his brows then switched on the porch light and bent his tousled head to study the first few lines. Jodie restrained her urge to leap about from one foot to the other and yell, Let me in—now! and contented herself with idly observing him as an exercise in self-discipline.
It surprised her to see that his hair was gorgeous: thick and silky, gleaming with the brilliance of a raven’s wing in the light. Her thick brown lashes fluttered with unwilling feminine admiration as her gaze took in his killer looks and the sheer masculinity of his angled jaw and powerful shoulders. Then her eyes widened in wonder. There were some creamy stains on his black sweater.
She was just pondering on this odd fact when the hairs began to rise on the back of her neck and she sensed that he must be studying her again, with that bone-slicing stare. She looked up and gasped. His expression was one of utter repugnance.
‘He wrote this six months ago,’ he said icily.
‘I know that! I replied immediately—’
‘Really?’
‘Yes!’ Her face went hot at his disbelief. ‘I did!’ Her brow furrowed when she realised what his doubt must mean. ‘Are you telling me that my father didn’t get my letters?’ she asked in dismay.
‘Correct.’
Exasperated by the monosyllabic responses, she drew her brows into an even deeper frown.
‘That’s impossible. I wrote several times in quick succession—and I telephoned twice—’ she said with dignity.
‘If that were true—if,’ he interrupted coldly, ‘why did you come?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Because I want to see him, of course! Something doesn’t add up here. I sent those letters. They can’t all have been lost.’
‘I agree. He had no letters from you. So you must be lying. I think you’d better leave.’
She glared and clenched her fists in angry distress, her mouth beginning to tremble. Hot tears pricked the backs of her eyes. It would be tragic if this was as far as she got! So near, so far…
‘I’m not going till I see my father! I did write!’ she insisted in desperation. ‘Something’s happened to the mail. A wrong zip code, maybe. I spoke