The Millionaire's Pregnant Wife. Sandra FieldЧитать онлайн книгу.
voice. “Why don’t we change the subject? I’d hate for a discussion of your sexual standards—such as they are—to ruin this delicious soup.”
There were pink patches high on her cheekbones; her skin swept in creamy curves to the corners of her mouth. But he wasn’t going to think about her mouth. “So what are you wearing to work tomorrow, Kelsey? Now that I’ve found you out.”
Her thick dark lashes hiding her eyes, she said calmly, “Jeans, I guess. What were you doing in Hong Kong last week?”
Agreeably, he began to talk about his latest real estate deals along the Pacific Rim. He didn’t elaborate on the side trip to Cambodia.
As Kelsey got up to remove the soup dishes and bring some plates from the kitchen, Luke pushed back his chair and wandered over to examine the painting on the far wall. A quite astonishing painting, he realized, his interest quickening as he tried to read the signature. It was an abstract, seething with subdued energy, color escaping from an overwhelmingly dark background in small explosions of delight.
Hearing her come back in the room, he said, “Who painted this?”
“I did,” she said reluctantly.
“You did?”
She raised her brows. “The dinner’s getting cold.”
“Recently?” he rapped.
“Six months ago.”
More and more he was inclined to believe in an ousted husband. “Do you have more?”
She had a roomful of them upstairs. “A few. Oh, look, asparagus. I adore it. And the wild rice looks scrumptious.”
Clarisse had the appetite of a sparrow, while Lindsay was allergic to just about everything. It was fun, Luke thought in faint surprise, to share a meal with someone who appreciated it. Smoothly, he began describing his latest visit to the Guggenheim.
As Kelsey swallowed the last mouthful of mousse, she sat back and said spontaneously, “That was a wonderful meal—the bistro only opened last summer, and I’ve never eaten there. Thank you, Luke.”
She was looking right at him, her eyes the glossy brown of melted chocolate. The warmth in them hitched at his breath.
“You’re welcome,” he said. She wasn’t his type. She was from the backwoods, all excited about a takeout meal. Get real, Luke. He added casually, “Can I see more of the paintings?”
She said grudgingly, “There are three others in the living room. I’ll put on some coffee.”
Picking his way past a mesh bag of soccer balls and a heap of well-worn cleats, he checked out the other paintings, and felt again the stirring of excitement that genuine creativity called up in him. Each of the three gave that same sense of something desperately striving to burst its bonds. Untutored paintings, yes, but full of raw talent.
Forgetting to watch where he was going, he knocked over a pile of textbooks. A signature leaped out at him, written in an untidy masculine scrawl: Dwayne North.
Kelsey’s husband. The reason she painted pictures frantic for release.
Not stopping to think, Luke marched into the kitchen. “What’s with the husband?”
“Husband?” she said blankly. “Whose husband?”
“Yours. The owner of the soccer gear.”
She gave an incredulous laugh. “I do not have, nor have I ever had, a husband. Ditto for fiancé or live-in lover.” And there, she thought, is the story of my life.
His eyes narrowed. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Then the guy who owns the cleats and the chemistry texts can’t be your son.”
“Gee, you’re good at math—must be handy for keeping track of all your women.”
Luke wasn’t used to being laughed at. He said abruptly, “You should be doing something with your art—what are you waiting for? I can’t believe you spend your time cleaning out closets for rich people when you’re so obviously loaded with talent.”
Her chin snapped up at his tone. “I don’t see why my paintings are remotely your business.”
“When I see work like yours hung where only you can see it, I get a little irked.”
“If this is irked, I’d hate to see angry. Coffee’s made. You can drink it now or take it with you.”
“What’s the story, Kelsey? Who owns the cleats and the chemistry books?”
Luke had just treated her to one of the best meals in her life, and she had no reason not to tell him. Other than pure cussedness. “My eldest brother, Dwayne. First year med school. Age twenty-one.”
“What’s wrong with me? I didn’t even think of a brother.”
“Like I said, the eldest. Glen’s twenty, he’s studying computer technology; the hockey gear’s his. Kirk’s eighteen, he started forestry school a week ago. He took his lacrosse gear with him.” She gave Luke a level look. “I brought them up. I’m an expert in teenage psychology and hamburgers with the works. I didn’t have the time to flit off to art school every morning once they were on the school bus—I was too busy keeping a roof over our heads.”
“They all lived here with you?” Luke said, feeling his way.
“They sure did. I’d just started cleaning out Kirk’s room the day you called. Five unmatched socks under the bed, a wedge of mummified pizza and six copies of Playboy. I did my best to civilize all three of them, but it was uphill work. And now they’re gone.” The crazy thing was that she missed them, even though she’d been counting the days until she was free.
“Your parents?”
Her voice flattened. “They both died in a train wreck when I was eighteen. No other relatives. So it fell to me to bring up my brothers.” Which was also the story of her life.
“So this was your parents’ house?”
“At the time, it seemed best to keep things as normal as possible.” With a flick of temper she added, “So now you know why my paintings are hanging on my own four walls.”
“You sacrificed ten years of your life for the sake of your brothers?” he said inimically.
“It wasn’t a sacrifice! Well, not really. Besides, what choice did I have?”
“Plenty, I’d have thought—you could have left.”
“My brothers and I had just lost both our parents,” Kelsey said tersely. “I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d abandoned them. And if you don’t understand that, I don’t know where the heck you’re coming from.”
Ferociously Luke tried to batten down the emotions roiling in his chest: bafflement, fury and pain. His mother hadn’t hung in as Kelsey had. The first eight years of his life had been a study in broken promises.
He said sharply, “How is it the three boys are all off at college and you’re still home?”
“Give me time—Kirk just left last week,” she retorted. “As you can see, step one is to clean up the house. Then I’ll put it on the market.”
Luke looked around, taking in the battered table, the faded paint, the general air of a house worn down by use and a lack of money. Hadley was a rundown fishing village; she wouldn’t get much for the property. “Then what?”
She glowered at him. “You’ll be happy to know I’m planning to go to art school on the proceeds—together with what you’re paying me.”
“So that’s why you changed your mind about working for me?”
“Pride and Practicality. Jane Austen, the modern