The Man Behind the Pinstripes. Melissa MccloneЧитать онлайн книгу.
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“You’re the kind of guy who plays by the rules.”
“Normally, yes.” He moved closer. “But this isn’t normal.”
Becca agreed with him. She fought the urge to step back. “Being here?”
Caleb stopped in front of her, only inches away. “Being here with you. I’m tired of playing by the rules.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She should step back. Way back. Put distance between them. For her own good.
But her feet wouldn’t move. She remained rooted to the spot, waiting, hoping, anticipating.
He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. Hard.
Becca had never known what it was like to be possessed, but she felt possessed by Caleb’s kiss. She didn’t mind one bit.
About the Author
With a degree in mechanical engineering from Stanford University, the last thing MELISSA McCLONE ever thought she would be doing was write romance novels. But analyzing engines for a major US airline just couldn’t compete with her “happily-ever-afters.” When she isn’t writing, caring for her three young children or doing laundry, Melissa loves to curl up on the couch with a cup of tea, her cats and a good book. She enjoys watching home decorating shows to get ideas for her house—a 1939 cottage that is slowly being renovated. Melissa lives in Lake Oswego, Oregon, with her own real-life hero husband, two daughters, a son, two lovable but oh-so-spoiled indoor cats and a no-longer-stray outdoor kitty that has decided to call the garage home.
Melissa loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 63, Lake Oswego, OR 97034, USA, or contact her via her website, www.melissamcclone.com.
The Man Behind the Pinstripes
Melissa McClone
MILLS & BOON
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To Jan Herinckx for introducing us to Chaos and the world of dog-showing!
Special thanks to: Terri Reed, Jennifer Shirk, Jennifer Short.
And the Immersion Crew: Margie Lawson, Elizabeth Cockle and Lori Freeland.
CHAPTER ONE
THE INCESSANT BARKING from the backyard of his family’s palatial estate confirmed Caleb Fairchild’s fear. His grandmother had gone to the dogs.
Cursing under his breath, he pressed the doorbell.
A symphony of chimes filled the air, drowning out the irritating barks. Forget Mozart. Forget Bach. Only a commissioned piece from a respected New York composer would do for Gertrude Fairchild, his grandmother who had founded a billion-dollar skin care company with his late grandfather in Boise, Idaho.
Caleb was here to put an end to her frivolous infatuation with man’s best friend. It was the only way to keep Fair Face, the family company, successful and profitable.
The front door opened, greeting him with a blast of cold air and a whiff of his grandmother’s floral scent perfume.
Grams.
Short white curls bounced every which way. She looked fifty-seven not seventy-seven, thanks to decades of using her own skin care products.
“Caleb! I saw your car on the security camera so told Mrs. Harrison I would answer the door.” The words rushed from Grams’s mouth faster than lobster tails disappeared from the buffet table at the country club. “What are you doing here? Your assistant said you didn’t have any free time this week. That’s why I mailed you the dog care prototypes.”
He hadn’t expected Grams to be so excited by his visit. He kissed her cheek. “I’m never too busy for you.”
Her cornflower blue eyes danced with laughter. “This is such a lovely surprise.”
Sweat trickled down his back. Too bad he couldn’t blame the perspiration on the warm June day.
He adjusted his yellow tie then smoothed his suit jacket. But no matter how professional he looked, she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “I’m not here as your grandson. I need to speak with you as Fair Face’s CEO.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” The warmth in her voice added to his discomfort. “I raised you. You’ll always be my grandson first.”
Her words hit him like a sucker-punch. He owed Grams … everything.
She opened the door wider. “Come in.”
“Nice sari,” he said.
Grams struck a pose. “Just something I had in my closet.”
He entered the foyer. “Better add Bollywood to your bucket list.”
“Already have.” She closed the door. “Let’s go out on the patio and chat.”
Chat, not speak or discuss or talk. Not good.
Caleb glanced around. Something was … off.
Museum-worthy works of art hung in the same places. The squeaky dog toys and ravaged stuffed animals on the shiny hardwood floor were new. But the one display he expected to see, what he wanted to see, what he longed to see was missing from its usual spot.
His throat tightened. “Where are the—”
“In the living room.”
Caleb walked around the corner and saw the three-foot U.S. Navy aircraft carrier replicas showcased on a brand-new wooden display case. He touched the deck of the USS Ronald Reagan.
Familiar. Soothing. Home.
“I’ve been making some changes around here,” Grams said from behind him. “I thought they deserved a nicer place than the foyer.”
He faced her. “Gramps would like this.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Have you eaten lunch?”
“I grabbed something on my way over.”
“Then you need dessert. I have cake. Made it myself.” She touched Caleb’s arm with her thin, vein-covered hand. “Carrot, not chocolate, but still tasty.”
Grams always felt the urge to feed him. He knew she wouldn’t give up until he agreed to have a bite to eat. “I’ll have something before I leave.”
A satisfied smile graced her glossed lips.
At least one of them was happy.
Back in the foyer, he kicked a tennis ball with his foot. “It’s a miracle you don’t break a hip with all these dog toys laying around.”
“I might be old, but I’m still spry.” His grandmother’s gaze softened. She placed her hand over her heart. “Heavens. Every time I see you, you remind me more and more of your father. God rest his soul.”