Mackenzie's Promise. Catherine SpencerЧитать онлайн книгу.
should discuss financial arrangements,” she said, obviously focusing on the practical to avoid giving in to the emotional.
“Money isn’t an issue. I’m taking on this crusade for personal reasons.”
“Nevertheless, if there are expenses, I’m the one who should pay them.”
“Whatever.” He shrugged. “We’ll start in the morning, when you’re more rested. But be warned: you’ll have to be patient. I’m no miracle worker. This might take some time.”
Her face fell. “Oh, I hope not, Mac! It’s been seven weeks already. Kirk Thayer could be anywhere by now.”
“And hopefully feeling secure enough that he’s stopped running.” Against his better judgment, he reached for her hand. It felt small and warm and soft in his. Like a curled up flower. “If we’re going to work together on this, you’re going to have to trust me, cookie.”
The tears glimmered again. “I know,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“And I’m not offering any guarantees. Remember that.”
“I will.” She sniffed delicately. “If you’re really going to let me stay here tonight, I should bring in my bag from the car.”
“I’ll change the bed linen while you do that.”
“No, please don’t. I can sleep perfectly well on the couch.”
“I’ll change the bed linen,” he repeated, emphasizing each word distinctly.
She backed off at once. “Yes. All right. Whatever you say. And thank you.”
“Quit thanking me. Once is enough.” He removed her untouched drink and set it on the coffee table. “Go get your stuff.”
She made it as far as the front door, then stopped and looked back at him, uncertainty in every line of her slender body. “Mac? You won’t change your mind and lock me out?”
“I don’t go back on my word,” he told her curtly, refusing to let her vulnerability touch him. “I’ll open the garage for you. Bring your car down and park it with mine, then come in through the side door next to the laundry room.”
The wind had dropped. Above the tall evergreens edging the side of his driveway, a million stars spattered the sky. The roar of the surf had died to a low murmur, which rolled through the otherwise quiet night like a lullaby.
Before climbing into her car, she stopped and inhaled deeply, letting the cold, clean air fill her lungs and sweep her soul with relief. He was going to help her, and even though he’d said he might not succeed, she knew that he would. He was that kind of man.
A personal crusade, he’d called it, which described perfectly what he’d promised to undertake because, in her view, he was a modern-day knight. Brave, fearless, honorable—and driven. He would allow nothing to come between him and his objective. She knew that, too. With absolute certainty.
As promised, he’d raised the doors to the big triple garage. The space between his massive four-wheel-drive truck and sleek Jaguar convertible was just wide enough for her to slide her little two-seater hatchback between them.
“I checked the kitchen and you do good work,” he told her, when she let herself into the house again. “Keeping you around might turn out to be a smarter move than I first thought.”
“I can’t imagine why you’d want anyone staying here, if it means you have to move out of your bedroom,” she said, noting the quilt and extra pillows he’d piled on the fireside chair. “It bothers me that I’m inconveniencing you like this.”
“I’ve survived a lot worse than sleeping on an eight-foot-long couch,” he said. “This is nothing compared to spending the night on a stakeout in an unmarked patrol car. And what makes you think I necessarily sleep alone every time I have a houseguest? How do you know tonight’s not the exception to the rule?”
She didn’t, any more than she needed to be reminded he was no monk. One glance into those eyes, at that mouth, was enough to feel the simmering sensuality of the man. “I’m sure you have your share of female admirers,” she said, sounding as stiff-necked as a dried-up old schoolmarm.
“Don’t pout,” he ordered. “And don’t try to tell me you haven’t shared your bed with some guy or other before now. No normal woman gets to be twenty-eight these days, and still be as sexually innocent as the day she was born.”
“Well, I guess that puts me in my place, then,” she said. “Color me not normal and glad of it!”
He stopped in the process of spreading the quilt over the cushions and flung her an astonished stare. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“Wrong! As wrong as your outdated notion that today’s woman can’t wait to leap into bed with the first man who crosses her path. Quite a lot of us prefer to wait until the right man shows up.”
“Hold out for marriage, you mean?”
“Yes,” she said, deciding he didn’t need to know that the only reason she remained a virgin was by default. “Do you have a problem with that?”
“Theoretically not,” he replied, beaming cheerfully. “But in practice, I have to say I prefer—”
She had no wish to hear. Bad enough that his grin left her weak at the knees, without having him make further inroads on her moral fortitude. She hadn’t defended her virginity against Alberto Tartaglia’s failed seduction to surrender it now to someone who found it laughably outdated. “Never mind! It’s none of my business.”
“Not interested, huh?”
“Not in the least. The only thing I care about right now is a hot bath and getting some sleep, so if you’ll show me where—”
“Down there.” He pointed to a curving stairwell. “You can’t miss it.”
Indeed not! Rather than the conventional arrangement found in other homes, his bedroom was a mirror image of the main story; a wide, spacious open area, with one entire wall of windows facing the sea, and a king-size bed positioned in the middle of the floor so that its occupant could look out at the view.
The only difference was that, whereas the kitchen was separated from the more formal living and dining areas by an open archway on the main floor, the en suite bathroom attached to his bedroom did at least offer the privacy of a door.
Laying her open suitcase on a bench at the foot of the bed, she took out her toiletries, a nightgown, and a light cotton robe. He’d left clean towels folded on the deck of the big soaker tub, a bar of soap, and half a jar of expensive bath crystals. Not his, she was sure—he didn’t strike her as the type to wallow in gardenia-scented water—which probably meant they belonged to one of his lady loves.
“Thanks, but no thanks!” she muttered, and decided to take a shower instead. It seemed altogether less intimate. And keeping her association with him strictly impersonal, she decided, as the hot water streamed over her travel-weary body, was the only sensible route to take. It made everything so much less complicated.
Yet for all that she’d put in a sixteen-hour day, and a good part of it spent driving at that, when at last she crawled into bed, she was too restless to sleep. The strange house, its disturbingly attractive owner, the possibility that, before much longer, June might have her baby back—these thoughts kept her mind active long after her body had nested under the goose down quilt and snuggled into luxurious relaxation.
Finally, after long minutes of tossing and turning, she flung aside the covers, switched on the lamp again and, desperate for something to divert her, pulled open the drawer in the bedside table. Surely he kept a paperback handy for those nights when insomnia struck?
In fact, she found two: one a science fiction novel, which definitely was not to her taste, and the other a law enforcement manual of some sort which looked equally uninteresting. But tucked between them