A Father's Secret. Yvonne LindsayЧитать онлайн книгу.
wouldn’t put it past herself to have forgotten something important.
But no. The room was perfect and, with the afternoon sun streaming through the steel-paned windows, welcoming. Fresh lavender-scented linens graced the wide bed, a selection of roses from the garden, casually arranged in a crystal vase, decorated the tallboy against the wall, and the wide-plank flooring gleamed with polish. The en suite bathroom was equally pristine, with fresh towels on the rail all thick and fluffy, and a newly dry-cleaned robe on a hanger behind the door with its belt neatly knotted. Soaps, shampoos, yes, everything was there in abundance.
She’d arranged for the room across the hall from this one to be converted into a study at her guest’s request. He was, apparently, working on a book and had expressed a desire for privacy during his stay. Well, there’d be no problem with that, Erin conceded. He would be the one and only visitor here for the duration. In fact, he would be the first visitor she’d had here in months. His enquiry through their website had come at just the right time.
She’d missed this—the pride in getting a room ready for guests, wondering what they’d be like, whether they’d return. It was good to be getting back to business. During James’s illness they’d stopped taking guests and let their staff go. It had been too much for her to handle—being pregnant, caring for James, and having to look after everything on her own.
Erin mentally ran through her checklist and gauged what she had still to do before five o’clock. Yep, despite her mini-breakdown over the mail, she was still on track. And, provided the guest was punctual, she’d have time to get him settled in, and his evening meal warmed and served, before Riley woke for his feeding, playtime and bath. As she made her way back downstairs, her feet cushioned by the ornate carpet runner that snaked from top to bottom, she found herself feeling happy for the first time in a long time. Maybe things were starting to look up after all.
Sam Thornton let himself out of the car and gasped a little at the old familiar pain in his right leg and hip. Sitting for as long as he had during the four-plus hour drive from San Francisco certainly hadn’t done his frustratingly slow-to-heal body any favors. He should have flown into Reno, but then he would have been stuck with a driver he neither knew nor trusted. So Sam had convinced himself he was better off being driven the whole distance. He straightened, breathing through the pain and slowly stretching out his muscles.
“You all right, sir?” his driver asked, coming around the side of the car.
“I’ll be fine, Ray, thanks. I should have listened to you and let you stop more often along the way—for your sake if not for mine.”
Ray cocked an eyebrow. “Was that an admission of fault, sir?”
“You know it was, now shut up and help me with my bag.” Sam smiled to take any sting from his words. It didn’t matter, though. Even when Sam had been at his worst, and there’d been many days like that, Ray had merely endured whatever his irritable boss had flung at him and carried on doing his job. After all they’d weathered together, Sam considered Ray a friend as much as an employee—and he was silently grateful to have a friend with him at this particular moment as he braced himself for what he was about to do.
Sam looked at the imposing old English-style country house ahead of him. Two-storied, the concrete stucco exterior hosted multiple vines of some kind of creeper. The growth was a little unkempt, as if it hadn’t been pruned in a while. In fact, the whole property had the air of something beginning a slow, inexorable slide into neglect.
He shook his head slightly. It wasn’t the house that interested him, and he couldn’t care less about how well it was maintained. He was here with a far more important agenda.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you for a day or two, sir?” Ray asked as he handed Sam his bag and laptop case.
“I don’t need babysitting,” Sam responded, a little sharply. He closed his eyes a moment and sighed. “I’m sorry, Ray. What I meant to say is, no, thank you. I’ll be fine. You head on off and go vacation at your daughter’s as you arranged. I’ll call you when I need you. Hopefully that won’t be for a while.”
“Sure thing.”
Ray gave him a nod, then climbed back into the sleek black Audi A6. He guided the car around the circle of the drive and out onto the road. Alone now in the driveway, Sam knew there was no going back. He bent to pick up his bag and started to walk toward the lodge just as a tall, slender woman with short dark hair opened the wide front door and stepped out onto the shaded portico.
The private investigator he’d hired to track her down had failed to mention just how attractive the young widow was.
“Good afternoon,” she said, “Welcome to Connell Lodge. You must be Mr. Thornton.”
Sam stopped in his tracks. His hand gripped the handle of his carry bag so tightly it made his knuckles ache. This wasn’t happening. He was not attracted to this woman—he wasn’t allowed to be. He pushed against the hot thud of desire that beat through his veins, hard. But his body, traitorous thing that it was, was on fire. Flames licked through parts of his physique that he’d ignored now for so long that he thought he’d grown numb. Welcomingly numb.
“Mr. Thornton?”
He was caught by the worried look in her eyes—eyes that were a chocolate-brown so deep a man could get lost inside their depths and never care. He gave himself a swift mental shake. He was not attracted to this woman. Not on any level. He would not allow it.
“Yes, I’m Sam Thornton. Please, call me Sam.”
He stepped forward, his gait still uneven after his car journey, and held out his hand.
“I’m Erin, Erin Connell, your hostess.”
She took his hand in hers, and in that instant he knew he’d lost his battle with himself. A sizzle of awareness started at the point where their palms met and shot up his arm. To his surprise, she uttered a small “Oh!” before releasing his hand and taking a step back. So she was affected, too. Great. Bloody great, he thought dourly. This should not be happening.
“Please, come inside and let me show you your room,” she said, her voice a little huskier than it had been before. “Can I help you with your things?”
“No, I’ll manage on my own, thanks.”
She turned and preceded him into the lodge, affording him an excellent view of her rigid spine and the way it led in a straight line to the gentle arcs of her hips and bottom. Hips and bottom that were firmly clad in white denim that would probably be outlawed in some countries for the way it clung to her curves. Another clench of desire hit him hard and low and he forced himself to breathe through it.
This was insane. Erin Connell wasn’t even his type, he thought, as he followed her up the old wooden staircase to the next floor. He didn’t have a type. Didn’t want one, ever again. And yet, despite his silent protestations, there was still that nagging interest.
“Are you visiting from overseas?” she asked.
He got that a lot. “No, I’m from New Zealand originally, but I’ve been based in the States for about eight years now.”
“Oh, really? I’ve always wanted to go there. I hear it’s beautiful. Maybe one day,” she said airily as they reached the top of the stairs.
He was relieved not to have her enticing shape smack bang in his line of vision any longer. He followed her a short distance along the carpeted corridor and into a large, well-lit room that faced formal gardens to the rear of the property. Well, he supposed they must have been formal once. Again, there was that sense of neglect. He looked around the room. Whatever neglect there was outdoors, it didn’t extend to the inside.
“This is your room. I’m sure you’ll find you have everything you need here,” she said, moving through the space and across to open another door that clearly led to his private bathroom. “But if there’s anything else you require, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
Her