Her Hired Husband. Renee RoszelЧитать онлайн книгу.
too,” he said.
“I’m sure.” Abigail’s tone was so haughty, she might as well have said, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Sally ran a hand through her hair, wishing the time would pass more quickly. The clock on the brick mantel had only traveled fifteen minutes since her handsome partner in crime had arrived. She scanned her grandparents, willing them to disappear.
Her antagonism bubbled to the surface. Stuffy and snobbish and narrow-minded, they sat, looking as though they feared the old farmhouse that had been her family’s home, teemed with rats and roaches and all manner of vermin that might thrive in such an uncouth wilderness.
Abigail touched as little of the sofa as possible, obviously trying not to contaminate her precious, cream-colored cashmere suit. Hubert didn’t appear much more comfortable about the safety of his brass-buttoned, navy Prince of Wales blazer and gray slacks. He crossed his legs and bumped the coffee table with a foot, drawing Sally’s attention to hand-sewn leather wing tips.
When he pulled a white handkerchief from an inside pocket and wiped the leather as though contact with her table had streaked it with grime, she had to struggle to keep from screaming. So what if his darn shoes cost more than all the furniture in her parlor? Her home might be a little cluttered, but it was not dirty!
Both Abigail and Hubert patted their hair at the same time, a bizarre mutuality, as though they shared one brain. Both had perfectly coiffed silver locks—Abigail’s caplike hairdo not quite as long or thick or bouffant as Hubert’s. Since they hadn’t been part of Sally’s life, she didn’t know if they’d looked so much alike some fifty-odd years ago when they were married.
Right now, they were equally hawk-nosed and pinch-eyed. Only their mouths were noticeably different. Hubert had a little slice of a mouth and no discernible lips. Abigail’s lips were wide, and eternally turned down disapprovingly at the corners. They would have been like her mother’s, except for the arrogance they broadcast.
They were dressed for Boston’s chilly March weather, not Houston’s balmy warmth. They had to be dying of the heat, but were too cultured to show it. Besides, they would never allow themselves to acknowledge Texas existed—except in the bad dream where their headstrong daughter ran off to marry beneath her.
“Sometime when you’re here longer, we’ll give you a tour.”
Sally flicked her glance to her lounging fake-mate. What did he think he was doing?
“Excuse me?” Hubert asked.
“A tour—of Houston,” Noah repeated, with a casual host-of-the-manor smile. “We’d love to, wouldn’t we, sweetheart?”
Their eyes met. His twinkled. Twinkled! He seemed to be having fun playing the part of her deliriously happy husband. But to make such sweeping statements about taking her grandparents on a tour of Houston? That was going way over the line. She might be paying him fifty bucks for this performance, but she didn’t intend to put him on the payroll forever.
The last thing on earth she wanted was to spend more than an hour with these insufferable people. She aimed a hard-fought smile at him and nodded, unable to trust her voice.
“You know what?” Noah said, sitting forward.
Sally had no idea, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. She swallowed.
“What we need is something cool to drink.” He stood. “Honey?”
“Oh—there’s tea in the fridge.” She started to get up, but he moved to her side, pressing down on her shoulder. “Don’t trouble yourself, sweetheart.” He bent and kissed her, his lips warm and lazily seductive. The contact was brief, but the effect was dizzying. Light-headed and short of breath, she could feel a slow, tingling sensation spread outward along her limbs.
“Your ankles, remember?” His lips quirked with mild amusement. Luckily his head blocked her face from her grandparents’ view, since her expression was probably shell-shocked. Her cheeks burned, a distinct sign she was blushing. “Point me toward the kitchen,” he whispered.
The request sounded like so much static at first, but belatedly his meaning sank in and she canted her head slightly to her left. He straightened, calling over his shoulder. “Who takes sugar?”
“I do,” Sally said, then bit her tongue. A husband would know that, dummy!
His chuckle echoed around the room. “As if I could forget.”
“I don’t think we have time for tea,” Hubert called.
“Sure you do,” Noah said. “I’ll only be a minute.”
Sally hadn’t realized until after he’d left that simply having him there, master-of-the-house persona or no, was a big help. So far, he’d commanded most of the conversation. She cleared her throat and knotted her hands on her belly. “So—where are you going on your cruise?”
“The first week will include a walking tour of the pyramids of Cozumel, after that, the usual Caribbean stops.”
“Oh…” Sally didn’t know what to say. She knew about as much about Cozumel pyramids as she did about Mars. Once again, she felt like the inadequate Johnson sibling. Her big brother, Sam, was a doctor. She’d dropped out of college after one semester, to concentrate on her metal sculpture.
Sam had visited Boston once, last year. He’d laughingly told her their grandparents referred to her as “a welder,” and in a whisper, on the rare occasions they mentioned her mortifying status at all. Good old Sam thought their stuffy Victorianism was hilarious, and cast it off as unimportant. But she hadn’t. Every time she thought about it, the mental picture pecked new holes in her self-esteem. She could just see them grasping at their hearts and gasping, “A Vanderkellen—welding!” It was unthinkable.
“I understand Sam is leaving this afternoon on vacation, too,” Abigail said, drawing Sally from her morose thoughts. She nodded. “Scuba diving in—Bon—Bon—” She couldn’t remember.
“Bonaire,” came a deep, male voice.
She turned in time to see Noah stroll in, four tall glasses on a wicker tray.
“H-how did you know?” she asked, then cringed. If she wasn’t careful she’d blow this herself. After all, he did know Sam. Evidently he’d heard her brother discussing it. She blew out a breath. There was his explanation. Simple and not even a lie.
“Don’t you remember, darling?” He glanced at her as he lay the tray on the coffee table. “You told me about Bonaire this morning while we were in the shower.”
She realized her lips had dropped open in a shocked “oh” and clamped her jaws. In the shower? Had he actually said in the shower?
She cast a worried glance at her grandparents. Abigail’s eyes were a fraction wider and Hubert tugged at his collar.
Her gaze zapped back to Noah, bending over the tray. If she stretched, she could just about kick that taut backside. He probably thought he was the funniest orderly at the hospital.
Opting not to get physical, she cleared her throat meaningfully, but he didn’t seem to notice as he handed two glasses to her grandparents. A flash of orange and black told her he’d found some paper napkins. Unfortunately they were covered with Halloween witches and pumpkins. Well, they’d been cheap at the day-after-Halloween sale, and they worked just fine. She must not let herself feel like an inferior hostess for being frugal.
When Noah handed her a glass, he said, “Six teaspoons of sugar, right, honey?”
She smiled thinly. “Perfect.” She was going to die of sugar toxicity, but the show must go on. As he ambled around to seat himself on the couch, he winked at her, blatantly flaunting their illicit collaboration. She sucked in a startled breath. What if her grandparents had seen him?
Though she was highly annoyed at his audacity, and promised herself she’d strangle him the first chance