Пепельный рассвет. Антон ДемченкоЧитать онлайн книгу.
The next night, he became bolder. He sat on the bed beside her, so close his comforting presence invaded her senses and paralyzed her with pleasure. His voice was stronger than before, like distant thunder gaining power as a storm approached. He murmured, Brandy, Brandy, Brandy, turning her name into a song.
Last night when the stranger appeared in her room, he knelt beside her bed and touched her cheek. His dark head bent close, and his warm breath bathed her skin with need. Desperate to feel his lips on hers, she tried to turn her head, but couldn’t. She could only sense and feel and hear. He whispered a yearning expression of love in her ear. Brandy. Don’t sleepwalk through life. Wake up.
And so she had, to an empty bedroom filled with gray morning light, echoes of regret and the faint scent of cinnamon.
Brandy Mitchum squinted as her eyes readjusted to the bright afternoon sunlight and tamped down memories of the troubling dreams. She steered her old car down the washboard country road. She was running late. If Harry Peet hadn’t insisted on reading the thick sheaf of legal documents before signing, her mind wouldn’t have had so much time to wander. To dwell. She had to focus. The Midnight Man might be ruining her sleep on a recurring basis, but she couldn’t let him interfere with work. Futterman wouldn’t accept less than her best.
She glanced at her watch. The unscheduled trip to the Milk of Human Kindness Dairy had chomped a two-hour chunk out of her afternoon. Time was tight, but if no additional glitches arose, she could still hustle back to Odessa in time to pick up Chloe from the after-school program.
Her stomach rumbled. No lunch. She just couldn’t seem to break that darned three-meal-a-day habit. Hoping to find candy stashed in her oversize mommy purse, she kept her eyes on the road and fished among the jumble of Happy Meal toys, moist towelettes and clean size five Powerpuff Girls underwear. The catch of the day was a Hershey bar that had succumbed to heatstroke, but what the heck? A sugar hit was a sugar hit. Steering with one hand, she opened the wrapper and licked warm goo off the paper.
Melting as fast as the chocolate, Brandy switched on the air conditioner, but the fan grumbled and blew hot humid air in her face. Mid-September, and the outside temperature hovered near ninety. Not a good day for the A/C to conk. But then, no day in West Texas was a good day to lose climate control. She cranked down the window and leaned across the seat to lower the glass in the passenger door. Might as well roast evenly on both sides.
“Hey, lady! Wake up!”
She glanced up at the shouted warning and expelled a curse that would never have escaped her lips had her five-year-old daughter been present. She pumped the brakes, and the car slid in loose gravel before skidding to a teeth-rattling stop. The shoulder restraint locked in, preventing a close encounter between her head and the steering wheel.
Disaster averted. Barely. If the car had skidded another yard, it would have struck the truck angled across the road. Brandy sucked in a deep breath to calm her pounding heart.
A tall man in a black Stetson and mirrored sunglasses yelled as he approached. “What’s the matter with you, lady? You asleep?”
Not exactly. She’d been daydreaming about a nighttime dream, and the distraction had almost gotten her killed.
When she didn’t answer, the man stooped down and scowled at close range. “You nearly hit my trailer.”
“I noticed.” A large truck pulling a flatbed loaded with heavy equipment had failed to negotiate the turn onto the narrow country road. The dual wheels on the trailer’s left side had slid into the rocky ditch beside the road, blocking entry onto the highway. Four men stood in the sun as though awaiting orders from the scowler.
“You all right?” Stetson’s words couldn’t have contained less concern. “Not hurt, are you?”
“No. Scared spitless, but the condition isn’t fatal.” Brandy noticed the logo spelled out in big flaming letters on the side of the truck. Hotspur Well Control. Now there was a fine piece of small-world rotten luck. She had almost plowed into a truck owned by the very company her boss was suing on Harry Peet’s behalf. At least she didn’t feel too bad about the litigation. The company was a nuisance, and its employees weren’t exactly courteous, either.
“Then I’d appreciate it if you’d get out of the way so my men can hook a mini-crane to that trailer.”
“Sure. No problem.” Her heart rate returned to normal, but every time the man spoke, it kicked up again. There was something familiar about that voice. When Brandy shifted the car into reverse, it coughed like an asthmatic senior citizen, then rattled and died. She groaned. Not now. She couldn’t afford a tune-up until payday. Please, please, please start.
Muttering a prayer to the patron saint of old engines, she performed her standard good luck ritual. Three taps on the dash. Rearview mirror realign. Kiss blown in the direction of Chloe’s picture swinging from her key chain.
“Today would be good,” Stetson grumbled.
“Fine!” When she tried again the engine wheezed to life. Thank you, St. Combustion. She backed the car several yards, churning up enough dirt to make the tall man cough. Served him right for snapping her head off. He hadn’t bothered removing the aviator-style sunglasses, and the wide hat brim cast his face in shadows. She couldn’t get a good look at his face, but the rest of him wasn’t too bad. Of course, the state was full of hunky cowboys.
This one had a major case of the four Ts.
Tall. Tan. Tough. Texan.
He stomped off without another word, his scuffed boots kicking up angry little clouds of dust. Add a fifth T. Testy. Brandy watched him walk away. There was something familiar about the set of his wide shoulders. Had they met before? No. She’d remember him. Confidence without swagger. Firm step. Slim hips. Faded jeans hugging all the right places. She would definitely remember.
Close but no cigar. She didn’t need another difficult man in her life and wasn’t willing to go there. Following her divorce four years ago, her mother had warned her about dating again. “Be careful you don’t come down with frog-kiss fever.” She’d explained the condition whereby a woman feels compelled to give even unsuitable men a chance in the hopes of finding the right one. Well, not her. She was holding out for Prince Charming. Only nice guys need apply.
Brandy parked at the side of the road, got out and leaned against her car in the slanting afternoon sun. She used her cell phone to call the law office and let the receptionist know where she was and why. Then she punched in the number for the after-school program. They had a strict tardy policy and every minute past six o’clock would cost her. Still, she should warn them she might be late. Chloe was such a worrier.
After making the calls, she waited impatiently as the men unhitched the disabled trailer from the truck. The flat, dry pastureland wasn’t much to look at, but Stetson had plenty of eye appeal. Too bad he didn’t have a personality to match. If he weren’t so bossy, his deep voice might have been sexy. If he weren’t so fiercely masculine, his long-legged, loose-hipped stride might have been graceful. There was economy in his movements. This was a man who didn’t waste time or energy. Such intensity would make him equally at home in a brawl or on a dance floor. In the boardroom or the bedroom.
Disgusted with her errant thoughts, Brandy removed her suit jacket and tossed it in the back seat. The inside of the car was roughly the temperature of a pottery kiln. Sunstroke would explain why she was having feverish thoughts about a stranger who couldn’t work up enough interest to glance her way. Which was worse? Daytime delusions or nocturnal fantasies? No doubt, both were side effects of self-inflicted celibacy. Four years was a long time to be alone.
She glanced at her watch and groaned. The afternoon was slipping away. She’d never get to town by six if she didn’t hit the road soon.
“Hey, mister!”
The man in the black Stetson looked up. “Yeah?”
She held out her arm and jabbed her wristwatch. “How much longer is this going to take?”
“As