Пепельный рассвет. Антон ДемченкоЧитать онлайн книгу.
size.”
“Old? Or young?”
“He says he’s three hundred and twenty-two,” Chloe whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “But he doesn’t look even as old as Grandpa.”
Brandy marveled at Chloe’s creativity. What had she ever done to deserve such a special child? “Does he have hair?”
“’Course!” Chloe laughed again. “It’s yellow and longer than yours. And his eyes are blue. He wears white clothes and no shoes.”
Apparently, Celestian was very real to Chloe. She’d gone to great lengths to invent details about his appearance. Brandy stroked her daughter’s soft round cheek. “Punkin, is everything all right at school?”
Chloe’s narrow shoulders lifted in an eloquent shrug. “Well, the teacher does her best with what she has to work with.”
Brandy smiled. Where did she pick up that stuff? Chloe preferred her own company to that of other children and never minded playing alone. Still, niggling worry refused to die. “What about your classmates? Do you get along with them?”
“I guess so. We don’t have much in common. They’re pretty young. Most of them can’t even read.”
“They’re the same age as you,” Brandy pointed out.
Chloe nodded. “I know, but they act like little kids.”
“They are little kids.”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Just ’cause they’re five, doesn’t mean they have to act five.”
“True.”
Had her daughter ever been a baby? Mothering Chloe had been one surprise after another. Dissatisfied with the inefficiency of crawling, she had walked at nine months. In an effort to communicate, she developed her own system of sign language at ten months. By eighteen months, she was speaking in intelligible sentences. Impatient to wait for school, she taught herself to read at four and a half.
Every morning before the mad dash out the door, logical, organized Chloe made sure Brandy had everything she needed for the day. Exhibiting an intriguing combination of wisdom and innocence, her daughter had always been advanced for her age. Not only did she march to a different drummer, she followed a beat most people couldn’t even hear.
They finished their fast-food dinner in silence. Chloe didn’t mention Celestian again, but a creepy, uneasy feeling set Brandy’s nerves on edge. She needed to get out of the deserted office. Things would seem more normal once she got home. She tossed the food wrappers into the trash and gathered up her things as the printer finished the document.
Turning, she spotted a tall man standing in the open doorway, his broad shoulders nearly filling the space. She yelped in startled alarm. “Who the heck are you?”
“He came! He really came!” Chloe clapped her hands and jumped up and down, as though she’d been awaiting the intruder’s unexpected arrival. Damn that stuck lock.
Instincts surging into protective mode, she tugged Chloe close, positioning herself between her child and the man. He didn’t look particularly threatening, but there was definitely something dangerous about him.
A quick catalog of his features convinced Brandy she’d seen him before. High forehead, big brain. Smart. Strong jaw, not too square. Stubborn. Black eyes, prominent cheekbones and sleek, dark hair. Sexy. Lips that were full and firm. Sensual. Too bad they were set in such a humorless line.
“I want to see Fenton Futterman.”
His voice washed over her like a warm tide. He sounded just like the Midnight Man. No. She had heard his voice before, but not in her dreams. He was Stetson, the man she’d run into this afternoon. That explained the haven’t-we-met-before vibe. He’d ditched the hat and the sunglasses, changed clothes. He looked different, but the pay-attention voice was unmistakable. Four run-ins in one day. Her universal conspiracy theory took on new meaning, but he was no fantasy man come to life.
“Well? How about it?” he prompted impatiently. His voice was deep, his words packed with authority. He was obviously accustomed to getting what he wanted. Did he expect the attorney in question to appear in a blinding cloud of pixie dust because he so commanded?
“I’m sorry. Mr. Futterman’s gone home for the day. You’ll have to come back tomorrow. I suggest you make an appointment first. He’s a very busy man.”
“Yeah, I’ll just bet he is. Busy filing nuisance suits. Wait a minute.” His dark eyes narrowed, and his penetrating gaze seemed to really see her for the first time. “I know you.”
She felt the same way but wouldn’t admit the déjà vu he provoked. “Hardly.”
He stalked into the office, and his uninvited and overly masculine presence dominated the room. All Brandy knew about him was that he worked for Hotspur. He probably wasn’t a threat, but as he loomed between her and the door, something about him set off a shrieking alarm in her brain.
“Cripes, lady.” He reached out and ran a brown finger along her cheek. “What’s on your face this time?”
Just as it had this afternoon, his touch incited a breathless, dizzy, queasy feeling. She hadn’t experienced that combination of sensations since being struck in the stomach by a stray softball in junior high.
“What?” She stepped back, her hand clamping to her cheek where she encountered sticky residue. Branded by the ketchup-soaked French fry she’d snapped out of Chloe’s fingers. She wouldn’t act as embarrassed as she felt. “I appreciate the gesture, but really, you don’t have to follow me around to wipe my face.”
“Yeah, well apparently somebody needs to.” This time he removed a clean white handkerchief from the back pocket of his dark jeans and scrubbed the smear from her cheek. The handkerchief was warm from being pressed next to his hip, but that didn’t explain why her skin flamed in response.
Another unnerving reaction smacked her in the gut, and Brandy backed up again. Chloe slipped around her. The little girl stood in front of the man and looked up, hands planted firmly on her tiny hips.
“Celestian left the door open for you. He said you’d come, but I didn’t believe him. You’re tall.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re not.” Stetson looked down at Chloe, and his expression softened. Slightly. He had an intriguing face, full of planes and angles. Rugged. Handsome. Brandy shook the thought from her head. What was wrong with her? She never drooled over men.
“I’m five.” Chloe believed in sharing important information.
“Congratulations.” He turned back to Brandy. “Are you Ulbright?”
“No. My name is Brandy Mitchum. I’m a paralegal here.”
“You have my sincere condolences. So Futterman’s really not here?” He glanced around, his heavy dark brows drawn down in suspicion. Did he think her employer might be hiding under the desk?
Chloe answered. “Nope. Just us three.”
“Three?” The man scowled in Brandy’s direction. Scowling seemed to be a habit with him.
“Two. There’re only two of us here.” Brandy regretted the words as soon as they popped out of her mouth. She was a lousy bluffer. She brandished her cell phone. “But I have 9-1-1 on speed dial. So don’t get any ideas.”
The incredulous expression on his face told her that getting “ideas” about her was the last thing on his mind. “Why were you out on the road today?”
She bristled at his tone. “Considering how it’s a free country and a public roadway, I don’t have to answer that question. But since you asked so nicely, I was doing my job.”
“Your job? Right. Harry Peet.” He practically spat out the name. “And what the hell were you thinking leaving the front door unlocked? Any nut job off the street