The Millionaire's Pregnant Wife. Sandra FieldЧитать онлайн книгу.
and me both.”
“Come to my place. I’ll cook supper—although it won’t be a gourmet meal like last night. Fish and chips. Glen always says I make the best fish and chips the length of the shore.”
Why am I doing this? she thought in horror. After what happened this morning, I’m inviting Luke into my home? Where there are four beds? That’s not just crazy, it’s suicidal.
Or is it freedom?
How was she supposed to know the difference?
CHAPTER FOUR
TRYING TO WORK the tension out of his shoulders, Luke said, “Dinner at your place? I’ll be right behind you, Kelsey, once I’ve taken a bottle of wine from the cellar. Sylvia Griffin owes me—I might bring two bottles. I tell you, if I never see Griffin’s Keep again, it won’t be a day too soon.”
“I’m with you on that,” Kelsey said with a grin, and hurried out to her car.
When Luke arrived, ten minutes after her, she had the curtains drawn against the snow flurries that were whipping past the window, candles were lit on the kitchen shelves, and a semicircle of candles flickered on the dining room table. She had laid the table for two: herself and a man who qualified in spades as tall, dark and handsome.
Which just went to show you shouldn’t tempt fate, she thought, or you might get what you asked for. And discover that nothing was quite as simple as you’d expected. She passed Luke the corkscrew. The wine was delicious, full-bodied and fruity; letting it run down her throat, she decided in a rush of rebellion to enjoy herself. Sure, she was out of her depth. But so what? She’d managed to field everything that life had thrown at her so far. Why should Luke be any different?
Swathing herself in an oversize apron that made her feel minimally safer, she began mixing the batter for the fish.
Too restless to sit down, Luke prowled around the kitchen, letting its warmth and friendliness envelop him. There was a calendar from a charity organization on the wall over the phone. He said absently, “That’s a very fine orphanage.”
Kelsey glanced up. “How do you know? Have you been there?”
“Yeah,” he said, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut. “On my last trip to Hong Kong.”
“In between real estate deals, you just happened to drop into an orphanage in Cambodia?”
“I told you I was in Cambodia when Sylvia was buried—it’s why they couldn’t reach me in time.”
“Do you support the orphanage?” she asked, frowning at him.
Her big brown eyes precluded easy lies. “I paid to have it built,” he said. “The charity runs it.”
Her hands stilled. She said shrewdly, “How many other orphanages have you built, Luke?”
“A few. Here and there.”
She waved a wooden spoon at him. “How many?”
“Twenty-four. And don’t try and make me into some kind of saint.”
“There’s already a St Luke,” she said dryly, “the position’s taken. You’re not a saint; you’re a rich man who cares…and puts the caring into action and cold hard cash.”
“Drink your wine,” Luke said, then changed the subject. “Can I peel some potatoes?”
She passed him a knife, her eyes velvety warm with approval; she’d donated to that charity for years, her heart wrung by children who by circumstance and violence had been robbed of parents. “The bag’s in the end cupboard.”
Her apron was shapeless, her sleeves were rolled up and there was a dab of batter on her chin. He wanted to kiss her, Luke thought. Another of those devastating kisses into which he sank and lost himself.
Hastily he located the bag of potatoes in the cupboard and began peeling one. The homely task was oddly relaxing; the ghosts who had been haunting him ever since he’d arrived at Griffin’s Keep were gradually receding.
Domesticated, he thought. Undemanding. Not his usual scene.
Kelsey’s wrists were slender, blue-veined. If he lowered his head, laid his lips to that little hollow in her ivory skin, he’d be able to feel her pulse, the very voice of her blood.
Even the words he was using were changing, he thought in exasperation. When had he ever felt the urge to spout poetry to any of his female companions?
The short answer was never.
Was he going to take Kelsey to bed tonight, in her own home, surrounded by all the paraphernalia of the three boys she’d raised?
He’d be back in Manhattan tomorrow. Would he then forget about her?
With vicious swipes Luke began slicing the potatoes. Ten minutes later, when they were sizzling in the hot fat, Kelsey said, “Ketchup and tartar sauce in the refrigerator—you could put them on the dining room table. Vinegar, salt and pepper on the counter.” Expertly, she flipped a fillet in the pan.
There were two colored photographs held to the refrigerator door by magnets. In one, three husky young men surrounded their sister, all four of them laughing into the camera. In the other, an older couple, also laughing, stood with their arms around each other on the porch of Kelsey’s house.
“My parents,” Kelsey said. “It’s silly, but I still miss them.” Her face softened. “They’d been married over twenty years when they died, and loved each other more with each passing day. In a way, it was a good thing they went together…”
Wincing away from all the implications of what she’d just said, unable to think of anything to add to it, Luke took out the sauces and left the kitchen. The living room was still in a state of chaos. Her three paintings drew him like a magnet; gazing at them, he was assailed by a sharp pang of conscience. Take Kelsey to bed and then abandon her without a second thought? He couldn’t do it. She wasn’t a manipulator, like Clarisse, or all on the surface like Lindsay; Kelsey was pure emotion and sensitivity. Each brushstroke proved it.
He had to have her; every cell in his body impelled him to that end. But at what cost? And on whose terms?
As he turned away, a piece of paper on top of a pile of newspapers caught his eye, partly because the writing was in bright red ink. It was headed THE FREEDOM LIST. Quickly his eyes skimmed the page. Go to art school. Travel. Paint a masterpiece. Have torrid sex.
He jolted to a stop. This last directive had been crossed out. Have an affair had been printed above it.
His pang of conscience vanished in a surge of relief. So Kelsey wanted an affair; perhaps she had left the list out so he’d read it. If the few kisses they’d exchanged were anything to go by, the sex would indeed be torrid.
Paint a masterpiece. His brain made a lightning-swift leap. His good friend Rico was a world-renowned artist.
“Dinner’s ready, Luke,” Kelsey called from the kitchen. “Come and get it.”
Come and get it… Oh, yes, he thought, and went back into the kitchen.
The fish was tender and flaky, the batter crisp and the French fries, drenched in vinegar and salt, delicious. Luke said soulfully, “Why haven’t any of the men in Hadley snapped you up? You’re gorgeous and you’ve got a body to die for—and your fish and chips are the nearest thing to heaven.”
“There was the small matter of three boys underfoot, and a dearth of eligible men.”
No wonder torrid sex had been written in red ink. Luke said, squeezing lemon juice over his fish, “I noticed your list in the living room—”
“My list?” she squeaked, blanching. “Where? I didn’t leave it out, did I? Luke, you didn’t read it!”
“You did, and I