Lies And Lullabies. Yvonne LindsayЧитать онлайн книгу.
If she really had dreams for expansion, she would have to take her game up a notch.
The one thing that needled her now was Case’s total lack of communication. Given his past behavior, she’d expected some kind of cheeky text from him in return. All she’d gotten was No problem, and that was it. Even this morning when she had messaged him to say she was returning to the B Hive Ranch, there had been no response.
Was he miffed with her for putting him off? Did he think a man in his position deserved to be kept at the top of the list? Maybe it wasn’t egalitarian, but the truth was, he did. The significant fee he was paying her, combined with the cachet of having him on her client list, made keeping Case happy a priority.
It was barely nine when she arrived at the ranch. She saw some activity out in the fields and down at the barn, but the house looked much as it always did. Case had probably been up at first light doing whatever he did when he wasn’t tormenting unsuspecting housekeepers.
Though she would have died before admitting it, her heart beat faster than normal as she ascended the front steps. Another weather front had moved in. The morning air was damp and cold, reminding her that Thanksgiving was not far off on the horizon. The date fell early this year.
Hesitating at the front door, she held her key in her hand. Case still hadn’t replied to her text saying she was on the way. But he hadn’t said not to come.
What if he was in bed with a woman? What if he hadn’t seen or heard her text? To stumble upon her client in a very personal moment would be humiliating in the extreme.
Muttering beneath her breath, she closed her eyes and wrinkled her nose, berating herself silently for having such a ridiculously over-the-top imagination.
At last, she knocked firmly, listened and finally opened the door. The house seemed empty. Besides, she’d heard the rumors about Case’s famous rules. He didn’t entertain females at his place.
After hovering in the foyer for several moments, she told herself she was being foolish. Today she was going to tackle Case’s kitchen. The sooner she started, the sooner she could escape, and maybe she wouldn’t have to deal with the aggravating rancher.
The house was cold, but she didn’t adjust the heat. By the time she’d been working for an hour she would be plenty warm. The windows in the yellow-toned kitchen were designed to let in lots of light, creating a cheery center to the house. But today the skies over Royal were gray and sullen.
November could go either way in Maverick County. At the moment, the weather was depressing and chilly to the bone.
Mellie left her jacket on, shivering in spite of herself. Her usual routine was to clean from the top down. Which meant unloading all the cabinets above the beautiful amber-toned granite countertop. In the utility cabinet she found a stepladder that was just tall enough to give her access all the way to the ceiling.
Cleaning the tops and outer surfaces of the cabinets was not so hard. But when she opened the first one, she grimaced. Dishes and other items were crammed in with no regard for maximizing space. There wasn’t even the barest nod toward order.
The best thing would be to empty everything and then come up with a system for replacing items in a manner that would make them easy for anyone to find. The contents of the first couple of cabinets were puzzling. On the very top shelves she found exquisite antique china...lots of it, cream-colored with an intricate pattern of yellow and gold. Farther down were ultramodern dishes in black and white.
She frowned. She was no designer, but the monochrome set looked as if it belonged in a high-end loft in SoHo, not a historic ranch house in Texas. Maybe Case thought the old stuff was not masculine enough for his taste. That was a shame, because there was a good possibility that the stacks of delicate porcelain were something that had been handed down through his family for generations.
Glassware was heavy. By the time she had emptied three cabinets—three shelves each—her back was aching. The little bottle of ibuprofen she kept in her purse was empty, but she remembered seeing some in Case’s bathroom.
In the elegant hallway with its hardwood floor and celadon walls, she stopped dead when she heard a sound. A groan. Not the house creaking as old houses often did, but something human.
She hurried her steps. “Mr. Baxter... Case?”
Another sound, this one muffled.
By the time she reached the open doorway to Case’s bedroom, she half expected to find him passed out on the floor, felled by a blow from a burglar. Her imagination ran rampant.
But the truth was equally distressing. Case lay facedown on his bed, wearing nothing except a white button-down shirt and gray boxer briefs.
Thank goodness he was facedown. Her first response was honest and self-revelatory but not pertinent to the situation.
Was he drunk? Surely not on a weekday before noon. She said his name again, approaching the bed with all the caution of a zookeeper entering the cage of a sleeping lion.
When she was close enough to touch him, her brain processed the available info. His head was turned toward her, his face flushed with color. Thick eyelashes lay against his cheeks. His lips were parted, his breathing harsh.
Ever so gently, she laid her hand against his forehead. The man was burning up with fever. Case Baxter had the flu. Or at least something equally serious.
He moaned again as she touched him. When he turned on his side toward her, she stroked his hair before she realized what she was doing. It was the same caress she would have used with a hurting child.
But Case was no child. His big masculine body shook uncontrollably, though his tanned chest was sheened with sweat. She probably shouldn’t have noticed his chest, but with his shirt completely unbuttoned, his flat belly and the dusting of dark hair at his midriff were hard to miss.
Her knees were less than steady, and she felt a bit woozy. Even passed out cold, Case did something to her. Something not entirely comfortable.
Ignoring her inappropriate reactions to the half-naked man, she pushed and pulled at him until she had him covered all the way to the neck. Case’s limbs were deadweight. The rest of him was equally heavy.
She sat down at the edge of the bed. On top of the covers. “Case?” she said. “Can you hear me?”
He muttered and stirred restlessly.
“Case.” She put a hand on his shoulder, injecting a note of authority, hoping to pierce the layers of illness that shrouded him.
His eyelids fluttered. “What?” The word was slurred.
How long had he been like this? People died from the flu. Not that Case was elderly or an infant, but still. “You need a doctor,” she said firmly. “Who can I call?”
The patient scrunched up his face. “Head hurts.”
Those two words destroyed her defenses entirely. Her newest client might be handsome and rich and arrogant as heck, but right now he was just a man in need of help. “I’ll get you some medicine,” she said. “But I need to check with your doctor.”
“Call Parker.” The command was almost inaudible.
She knew who he meant. Parker Reese was a gifted doctor who had saved more than one newborn at Royal Memorial Hospital. Parker and Case were friends. But for the flu?
“Don’t you have a regular doctor?”
“Call Parker...”
This time she could barely hear the words. “Sure,” she groused. “I’ll call a very busy specialist in the middle of the day to talk about a case of the flu.” But she didn’t really have much choice. Picking up Case’s phone from the bedside table, she sighed when she realized she couldn’t access his contacts.
She shook his shoulder again. “I need your code, Case.”
“2...2...2...2.”
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