355 500 произведений, 25 200 авторов.

Электронная библиотека книг » Сьюзен Филлипс » Ain't She Sweet? » Текст книги (страница 6)
Ain't She Sweet?
  • Текст добавлен: 31 октября 2016, 03:12

Текст книги "Ain't She Sweet? "


Автор книги: Сьюзен Филлипс



сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

“Guess what,” she’d announced to the boys as she returned to the parking lot. “The girls’ locker room’s empty. Y’all’ve been threatening since sophomore year to go in there. This’ll be your last chance before we graduate.”

It hadn’t taken any persuading to get them to follow her: Deke Jasper, Bobby Jarrow, Woody Newhouse, and Ryan, of course, the most important person in her plan. Woody and Deke started scrambling for paper so they could slip notes through the vents in their girlfriends’ gym lockers. They were making too much noise, and she shushed them. “Some of the teachers might still be around.”

It happened just as she’d imagined it. Winnie stood naked by the lockers as they came in, hair plastered to her head, water still glistening on her skin, a bewildered expression on her face as she looked for the clothes and towel she’d left on the bench. But they were gone, hidden in Sugar Beth’s locker. Even the stack of towels that normally sat in the corner had disappeared, stuffed behind the equipment bin.

The boys froze. All the blood drained from Winnie’s face.

“Holy shit,” Woody whispered.

Winnie could have laughed and run back into the shower room—the whole thing would have been over. But she didn’t. Instead, she stood there, paralyzed by the poisoned arrow she hadn’t seen coming.

She wasn’t long-boned like Sugar Beth. She had short arms and legs. Her hips and thighs were a little plump for her narrow shoulders. Not fat, just fleshy enough to make her ever so slightly bottom heavy. A dab of white caught Sugar Beth’s attention, and something unpleasant quivered in the bottom of her stomach. A string poked through the damp patch of pubic hair between Winnie’s thighs. She was having her period.

Winnie’s eyes went to Ryan. Only Ryan. All the boys saw the string, but Ryan was the only one who mattered. This was exactly what Sugar Beth had anticipated, but now she felt sick, as if she were the one standing there, naked and humiliated.

Winnie let out a low, keening wail and stood in front of them, arms at her sides, the white cotton string poking through her pubic hair.

The door of the shower room burst open, and Mr. Byrne came in. “What’s going on in—”

He uttered a low curse as he saw Winnie. His hands flew to the buttons of his old black shirt. Within seconds, he’d peeled it off and wrapped it around her.

He shot the rest of them a furious look. “Get out of here! Wait for me in the hall.”

The expression in those green eyes chilled Sugar Beth. He knew this was no accident, and he also knew who was responsible.

She fled from the locker room, from the building, feeling as naked as Winnie. Her stomach cramped, just as if she were the one having her period.

Ryan called out from behind her, “Don’t run, Sugar Beth! You’re only going to make it worse.”

She ignored him and raced for her car, but she couldn’t find her keys. She sank to her knees, pulled open her purse with both hands, and dug inside, plowing through wadded tissues, makeup, pens, and a field trip permission slip she’d forgotten to turn in. A tampon that had come unwrapped lay in the bottom of her purse. She bit her lip.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Byrne coming toward her. He was bare-chested, his dark hair long and loose. “Get back in here now.”

Ryan’s eyes were pleading. “Come on, Sugar Beth. Do what he says.”

She fumbled with her purse. Tried to think what she should do. She’d lie and say she hadn’t known Winnie was in there. Their principal was a friend of Diddie’s. How much trouble could she get into?

Slowly her heartbeat returned to normal. There was no reason to be so upset. She grabbed her purse, shoved the contents back inside, and stood up. “What’s the big deal? The whole thing was an accident, Mr. Byrne. We didn’t know she was there.”

“You knew, all right.”

God, she hated him. The first day of school she’d thought he was cute—weird, but so sophisticated that he even made Ryan seem immature. But when she’d gone up to him after class to flirt a little, he’d been a jerk, completely unfriendly.

Deke, Bobby, and Woody were waiting inside the gym door. Ryan wouldn’t narc on her, and Deke and Bobby were tough, but Woody was afraid of his dad, so she shot him a hard look that told him he’d better keep his big fat mouth shut or she’d do something ten times worse than anything his dad could dream up.

“Would anyone care to explain?” Byrne had a skinny chest, and he looked stupid standing there without his shirt, but he didn’t seem self-conscious about it.

Sugar Beth told herself she hadn’t done anything that terrible. Winnie should have just run back into the shower room. God, she was such a dweeb. She should have laughed it off. That’s what Sugar Beth would have done.

She wondered if Winnie would tell Griffin. In Sugar Beth’s entire life, Griffin had never once mentioned his other daughter’s name to her.

“We didn’t know she was in there,” Deke said. “We thought the room was empty.”

Byrne had this little zit on the side of his chin. Sugar Beth focused on it because it made her feel better knowing he still got zits. “Is that right?” he said.

“Yes, sir.” They nodded.

Byrne’s gaze went from one face to the next, looking for the weak link and finding it when he came to Woody. “All of you?”

Woody gulped. His eyes went to Sugar Beth. “Uh-huh.”

“Then what happened to her clothes?”

Nobody had an answer for that.

“Sugar Beth, come with me. The rest of you can go.”

The boys scrambled away, all except Ryan, who stayed by her side.

“You, too, Galantine.”

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll stay here with Sugar Beth.”

“It’s not all the same. I wish to speak with her alone.”

Ryan got this stubborn look on his face that said he intended to stay right where he was. But he had a scholarship to worry about, and Sugar Beth was afraid Byrne might try to screw it up. Besides, she didn’t want Byrne thinking she needed her boyfriend to protect her. “Go on,” she said.

The locker room door opened just then and Winnie came out. She was wearing her gym clothes and carrying Byrne’s shirt. Her hair hung in a wet tangle, the ends dripping on her gym shirt with its bulldog mascot. She didn’t look at Sugar Beth but at Ryan, and her expression was so full of anguish that Sugar Beth wanted to shake her. Didn’t she have any pride?

“We didn’t mean anything,” Ryan said softly.

Winnie ducked her head and walked away toward the front of the building. She was still carrying Byrne’s shirt, as if she’d forgotten she had it in her hand.

Ryan gazed at Sugar Beth, his troubled expression filling her with shame. She didn’t want him here, didn’t want him to see any more. She rose on her toes and gave him a light kiss. “Call me when you get home from work.”

He didn’t look happy about it, but he finally turned away and headed for the parking lot.

Byrne opened the locker room door. “In here.”

She realized she was a little afraid of him, and she hated him even more for that.

“Open your locker,” he said as soon as they were inside.

Shit. She hadn’t thought far enough ahead. “My locker?”

He waited.

She tried a counterattack. “You shouldn’t be in here, you know. It’s the girls’ locker room.”

“Open the bloody thing, or I’ll get the janitor to cut off the lock.”

She thought about choosing another locker, Amy’s or Leeann’s, but he’d figure that out pretty fast.

Screw it. If he wanted to make a big deal out of this, that was his problem. She walked around two banks of lockers until she came to her own and twirled the combination. Her fingers were clumsy, and it took her three attempts to get it right. Finally, it clicked, but she didn’t open it.

His bare arm brushed her shoulder as he reached past her. He pulled open the small metal door.

Winnie’s clothes lay in a crumpled pile on top.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. He simply gazed at her, and she got this awful feeling that he could see right through her skin.

“Is this the kind of human being you want to be?”

She felt small and ugly. She bit off the urge to tell him how her father loved Winnie and not her, how she’d tried to be pretty enough, sweet enough, special enough, to make him notice her, but nothing had worked.

“Please inform your mother that I’ll stop by to see her this evening.”

Relief swept through Sugar Beth. Diddie would chop him into little pieces. She wanted to laugh in his face, but she couldn’t find a laugh anyplace inside her.

By the time he arrived at Frenchman’s Bride that night, Sugar Beth had done her work, not accusing him of attacking her—it would be another few weeks before she thought of that—just complaining about him to Diddie. How he put her down in class, embarrassed her in front of her friends. How his attitude had upset her so much that she’d done something really stupid. Something involving Winnie Davis.

Diddie wasn’t predisposed to feel sympathetic toward her husband’s illegitimate child, and as she met Colin Byrne, steely politeness undercut her gossamer blond beauty. “I don’t see the need to make such a fuss about a silly prank. I’m sure Sugar Beth meant no harm.”

Since Byrne wasn’t Southern, he didn’t understand how much power a softly spoken woman could wield, and unlike so many other people, he wasn’t rattled by Diddie. “She did mean harm, though. She’s been systematically persecuting Winnie Davis all year.”

His bluntness set Diddie’s teeth on edge, not to mention the fact that he had long hair, something she’d disapproved of from the beginning. “You’re an educator. I expect you to understand that the roots of this difficult situation lie not with Sugar Beth but with my husband’s lamentable bohemian lifestyle. My daughter is every bit as much a victim as . . . that girl.

“What happened today was cruel.”

“Cruel?” Icicles dripped from the magnolia petals. “The lateness of the hour must have fatigued you, Mr. Byrne. I can think of no other reason a teacher would say something so unprofessional about one of the finest young women to ever attend Parrish High.”

“Perhaps it’s a cultural barrier, Mrs. Carey, but in England fine young women don’t subject others to humiliation.”

“I’ll see you out.”

In the end, Sugar Beth received nothing more than a mild reprimand from the principal, a man who owed his position to her mother’s influence. Winnie, in the meantime, let her hair grow longer and ducked to stay behind it.

Gordon raised his head from the bottom of the bed. Sugar Beth got up and went into the bathroom for a glass of water. Winnie had done well for herself. The best part of Sugar Beth—the part that believed in cheering on anyone who fought the odds and came out a winner—tried to feel good for her. But the old ghosts loomed too large, and she couldn’t manage it. One more item to add to the long list of things she still needed to do penance for.

She headed back to the bedroom, hoping for sleep. Tomorrow stood a chance of being one of the most miserable days of her life, and she needed to be ready.

“No doubt you thought I was sadly lacking in manners. You may sit down. At my feet.”

G

EORGETTE

H

EYER

,

These Old Shades

CHAPTER SIX

Sugar Beth didn’t like the butterfly rumpus going on in her stomach as she crossed the damp lawn toward Frenchman’s Bride. Unfortunately, she was already an hour late. After her uncomfortable trip down memory lane last night, she’d slept so badly that she’d turned off her alarm without thinking. Byrne wouldn’t be happy. Tough. Neither was she.

Gordon stopped to sniff a patch of grass, and a mockingbird called out. She had no intention of slinking in the back door, regardless of what he’d said, and she climbed the front steps, but when she got to the top, she saw a note stuck to the knocker. Door locked. Come in the back.

Bastard. The latch didn’t budge, and she turned her wrath on her nearest target. “Now what do you think about your choice of friends, huh? I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

Gordon gave her a snotty look, but he stayed with her as she stomped down the stairs, not out of loyalty, but because she hadn’t yet fed him. She followed the flagstone path around the side of the house, then came to a dead stop.

A sleek new addition, invisible from either the street or the carriage house, rose from the space that had once held the unused patio. The addition encompassed a spacious screened-in porch and a sunroom with long, high windows. One more desecration.

She entered through the porch into what had once been the cozy kitchen where Ellie Myers, Diddie’s cook and housekeeper, had reigned supreme. But nothing was the same. Walls had been knocked out, ceilings raised, skylights added, all of it coming together in a state-of-the-art kitchen. She took in the bird’s-eye maple cabinets and stainless steel appliances. A thick, tempered glass eating counter hung suspended over a section of the natural slate countertop. One end curved in a sculptured peninsula that separated it from the sunroom, which was decorated with an Asian flair—light walls and lacquered, oxblood furniture, along with some European pieces. An Adams sofa covered in burnished gold upholstery with brass nail-head trim sat near a decorative Victorian wooden birdcage. A few lacquered bamboo jars and earthenware ceramic pieces held a lush display of houseplants. The muted pagoda print on the chair and ottoman blended with a neighboring chinoiserie chest, which held a pile of books and an abandoned laptop computer.

The house of her childhood was gone, and it took her a moment to work up the energy to slip off her jacket. As she did, she noticed a neatly typed list propped on the slate countertop. She stopped at the first item:

Breakfast in my office: fresh orange juice, blueberry pancakes, sausage, grilled tomatoes, more coffee.

No way did Byrne eat like this every morning, not with that lean body. She knew a test when she saw it, and she gazed down at Gordon. “He thinks I’m not up to the challenge.”

Gordon’s expression indicated he had his doubts, too.

She set to work. It took a while to find the dog food, which she poured into an exquisite Waterford bowl and set on the floor near the porch doors. “Only the best for you, right, champ?”

His mouth was already full, so he didn’t reply.

She was gazing in disgust at the old-fashioned glass juicer when she heard footsteps. She didn’t like the way her stomach plunged. She was accustomed to making men nervous, not the other way around.

Byrne entered the kitchen through a newly constructed archway. As his eyes skimmed over her, she gave herself high marks for her choice of work clothes. Housekeepers were supposed to wear black, weren’t they? And didn’t she just live to please?

Her stretchy black lace crisscross blouse had a plunging V neck, and her ancient black slacks still had enough life in them to hug her hips. He eyed the small turquoise butterfly that dangled from a silver chain in her cleavage. She wished she had a really spectacular rack to shove under his nose. Still, with the right bra anything was possible, and judging from the length of time it took him to move his eyes back to her face, she was doing just fine. Uniform, my ass.

In contrast to her semihooker’s attire, he wore dark slacks, a long-sleeved burgundy silk shirt, and an elegant pair of suspenders. What kind of man dressed like that to work at home? As he looked down his imperious nose at her, she knew for sure he’d been trapped in the wrong century.

“Fresh from your morning trot in Hyde Park, m’lord?” She managed a slight curtsy, although it lost some of its effectiveness, since she was behind the counter, and he couldn’t see her knees bend.

He regarded her cuttingly. “Would it be possible to have my breakfast now, or is that too much of an inconvenience?”

“Almost done.”

He took in the nearly empty countertop. “I can see that.”

“I’m learning the kitchen.”

“You’re an hour late.”

“What do you mean? I got here before eight.”

“You were supposed to be here at seven.”

“I’m positive you said eight. Didn’t he, Gordon?”

Gordon was too busy giving him love to back up her story.

She pulled an orange from a bowl on the counter. “Is it true your parents were members of the British royal family?”

“One step from the throne.” Byrne noted the Waterford dog dish as he made his way into the sunroom, but didn’t comment.

“Liar. You grew up poor.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“So I could irritate you by pointing out the differences in our backgrounds. Yours, humble and squalid. Mine, pampered and privileged. And if you want fresh juice every morning, I’m going to need an automatic juicer.”

“Tough it out.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with blisters on her palms.”

He headed back toward the archway, the book he’d retrieved in his hand, the light from the tall windows sending a sluice of mahogany through his already dramatic hair. “I’ll expect breakfast in my office in twenty minutes.” He disappeared into the hall.

“Good luck,” she muttered.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

She shot around the end of the counter and stuck her head through the archway. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

His chuckle drifted back to her, low and diabolical. “The Cinderella story in reverse. I only wish there were ashes in the fireplace so I could order you to sweep them out. Come along, Gordon.”

She watched in disgust as her turncoat dog slipped after him into the office.

Half an hour later, she’d assembled a semidecent breakfast of two poached eggs on toast, a bowl of old-fashioned oatmeal topped with a mountain of brown sugar, and an admittedly tiny glass of fresh juice. Unfortunately, she was already pushing open the old library door when it occurred to her that she should spit in it.

Like the rest of the house, the library bore no resemblance to the dark, walnut-paneled room she remembered. White plantation shutters, open to the lawn on the west side of the house, let in the light. The hodgepodge of antiques she’d grown up with had been replaced by sleekly styled glass and granite furniture. Gordon lay on the abstract rug not far from Byrne’s feet, along with paper wads that had missed the wastebasket. She set the tray on the end of the desk. Byrne turned away from his computer screen and studied his breakfast through a pair of Richard Gere rimless glasses. “I assumed you could read.”

She was getting more than a little tired of his inferences that she was stupid. “There weren’t any cookbooks in the kitchen, and I don’t seem to have a pancake recipe memorized.”

“Cookbooks are on the top shelf of the pantry.” He studied the oatmeal. “I detest porridge, and where are my grilled tomatoes?”

He pronounced it toe-mah-toes, which sounded pretentious as hell, even coming from a Brit.

“I know you’re technically an American citizen, but if you keep talkin’ like that, you’re goin’ to get your sorry ass kicked right out of Mississippi. And what kind of person wants to eat toe-mah-toes for breakfast? Hell, I can barely get one of those suckers down for dinner.” She pointed to the bowl. “And that, my friend, is good ol’ fashioned Quaker Oats. Nobody over the age of three says porridge.

“Are you done?”

“I think so.” She grabbed the oatmeal bowl, along with his spoon, and carried it to the couch, where she perched on the arm and dug into the brown sugar. “It’s better with raisins, but I couldn’t find any. Or blueberries, for that matter, so those pancakes were problematic from the beginning.” She rolled the oatmeal on her tongue, savoring its warm, comforting glue. It had been forever since she’d had anything decent to eat, but she never seemed to get around to cooking for herself.

He pulled off the Richard Geres. “Go grocery shopping. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? And did I invite you to sit down?”

She dragged the spoon upside down from her mouth. “We need to discuss my paycheck.”

“We already discussed it.”

“I want a raise.” She gestured toward the poached eggs. “Eat before they get cold. The point is, you get what you pay for, and what you’re paying for right now doesn’t get you much.”

He eyed the half-filled juice glass. “I seem to be getting exactly what you’re worth.”

Just to be mean, she leaned far enough forward to shoot him a view of her well-supported cleavage. “You have no idea what I’m worth, bucko.”

He took his time looking, leaning back in his chair and not even bothering to be subtle about it. In the end, she was the one who got uncomfortable, and she used her oatmeal as an excuse to straighten back up, which he found too darned amusing for words.

“You should be careful how you showcase your wares, Sugar Beth. I might think you want to expand your job duties.”

“You couldn’t be that lucky.”

“Perhaps now is the time to tell you that I have a weakness for agreeable women.”

“Well, that sure does leave me out.”

“Exactly. With agreeable women, I’m unendingly considerate. Gallant even.”

“But with tarts like me, the gloves are off, is that it?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call you a tart. But then, I tend to be broad-minded.”

She suppressed the urge to dump her porridge in his lap.

He turned his attention to his eggs, which gave her a chance to look him over, not exactly hazardous duty. He wasn’t a pretty boy like her first two husbands. Darren had been a dazzler, and Cy had posed for Mr. January in the stuntman calendar. But there was something about Colin Byrne . . .

Lethal cheekbones, lips too carnal for that long blade of a nose. His feet were huge but not clunky, because they were so narrow. She studied his hands. They should have been slender and elegant, but they looked as though they’d been designed to dig ditches. A dangerous bolt of heat shot through her. He might be the demon personified, but he was also too sexy for her peace of mind. Apparently, she hadn’t gotten rid of all her old suicidal instincts when it came to unsuitable men.

Her gaze returned to those blunt, competent fingers. She blinked. “You’re the one who put that chain across my driveway.”

“You knew that.”

“No, I mean you did it yourself. You didn’t hire anyone. You poured the concrete and set the posts.”

“It’s hardly brain surgery.”

“I wasn’t even gone for two hours. And when I saw you afterward, you were wearing Armani.”

“I believe it was Hugo Boss.”

“You actually know how to do manual labor?”

“How do you think I supported myself after I lost my teaching job?”

“With your writing.” If she made it sound like a statement, maybe it would be true.

“I’m afraid my ability to write anything worth reading was put on hold after you had your fun.”

She lost her appetite.

“My father was a bricklayer,” he said. “Irish. And my mother was English. Rather an amusing story. She came from an upper-class family that spent the last of its dwindling fortune making certain their only daughter could make a brilliant marriage. Instead, she fell in love with my father. Tears, threats, disownment. The stuff of great romance.”

“How did it work out?”

“They hated each other within a year.”

She knew what that was like.

“I got my love of literature and the arts from my mother, but I’m more like my father in personality. Mean, unforgiving bastard. Still, he taught me a useful trade.”

“You worked as a bricklayer after you went back to England?”

“In this country, too. The novel I wrote before Last Whistle-stop wasn’t quite the best-seller I’d hoped it would be. Luckily, I enjoy working with my hands, and I had no trouble supporting myself.”

But he shouldn’t have had to do it laying brick, and some of the starch went out of her. “You aren’t ever going to forgive me, are you?”

“Let’s just say I’m in no hurry.” He flicked his hand toward the door. “Run along and find something degrading to do.”

The telephone rang. He reached out, but she was pissed again, so she beat him to it. “Byrne residence.”

“Give me that.”

“A freebie,” she whispered.

“I need to speak with Colin,” the woman at the other end said.

He held out his hand for the phone, clearly expecting the worst from her. It was tempting to give it to him, but she had a point to make, so she turned her back. “Mr. Byrne is working now. May I take a message?”

“Tell him it’s Madeline.” The woman on the other end made no attempt to hide her displeasure at being put off. “I’m sure he’ll take my call.”

“Madeline?” She turned back to Byrne. He vigorously shook his head. She settled back on the arm of the couch and reclaimed her oatmeal, finally beginning to enjoy herself. “I’m sorry, but I have orders not to interrupt him.”

“He won’t mind. I promise you.”

“I’ll make certain to deliver your message.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand. I’m Madeline Farr.”

Sugar Beth vaguely recognized the name of a New York socialite and put a little more magnolia into her accent. “Are you really? My, this certainly is an honor. I can’t wait to tell all my friends I’ve spoken with you in person. Let me have your number.”

She took a bite of oatmeal while an irritated Madeline reeled off a telephone number Sugar Beth didn’t bother to write down. “Got it,” she said when the woman paused for breath.

“It’s very important for Colin to call me back by the end of the day.”

“I’ll tell him the minute I see him, but he still has messages backed up from last week, and he’s been working so hard he barely comes out of the office, the poor ol’ sod.” She gave Colin a thumbs-up, making the point that she could talk his lingo anytime she pleased.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Do your best,” the woman snapped.

“I sure will,” she replied. “So lovely talkin’ with you, Ms. Farr.”

She hung up and regarded Byrne with satisfaction. “Note that I didn’t tell her to go screw herself, even though she’s obviously a bitch. I remained polite, fawning almost. At the same time, I didn’t commit you to anything. In case you’re not bright enough to figure it out, there’s a real upside to having a sinner like me answer your phone. I lie, and your conscience stays clear.” She rose from the couch. “Now, about that raise . . .”

He took a sip of coffee, unaffected by her outburst. “I’m having a dinner party in ten days to thank some of the people from the university who helped me with my new book. My agent and editor are flying in. A few others will be here, maybe thirty total, I’ll let you know. The caterer’s phone number is on your list. See what you have to do to get the house ready. And you’ll need to serve, of course. After that, we’ll discuss how much you’re worth.”

“You bet your sweet heinie we will.”

She grabbed her oatmeal and headed out the door.

Colin listened to the taps of her ridiculously inappropriate heels retreating down the hallway. His writer’s imagination could be a blessing or a curse, and right now he was cursed with the image of those tight black slacks hugging her bottom, and that little turquoise butterfly bouncing between her breasts. He needed to look for a uniform company as soon as possible.

It was ironic. When he’d arrived at Parrish High, he’d been twenty-two, in the throes of his own hormonal overload, and it had taken all his self-control to keep his eyes from lingering too long on so many short skirts and supple breasts. But Sugar Beth had never tempted him. So how was it that now, older and infinitely wiser, he found himself bombarded with mental images of her lying naked and feisty in his bed?

He knew better. Painful experience had taught him to keep his sexual relationships uncomplicated, but he still sometimes had to fight that instinctive part of him that was attracted to dramatic women. This was clearly one of those occasions. Still, age had taught him how to control his old weakness, and he wouldn’t let it worry him.

He’d inherited his foolish romanticism from his mother. When he was a boy, it had made him far too caught up in dreams of slaying dragons and rescuing princesses for his father to tolerate, and after a few beatings, Colin had learned to confine that part of himself to the stories he wrote in his head. Still, it had taken his disastrous five-year marriage to a deeply neurotic American poet with raven hair, milky white skin, and haunted eyes to make him understand that he could never again express that secret part of himself anywhere but on paper. He’d loved Lara desperately, but there hadn’t been enough love in the world to satisfy her kind of neediness. One rainy New Orleans night nine years ago, she’d run their car into a concrete abutment, ending her own life and taking the life of their unborn child. It had been the worst time of his life, a black hell that had swallowed him whole for nearly two years. He’d vowed never to put himself through anything like that again.

Once again, he considered the wisdom of having the ultimate high-maintenance female working in his house, but the opportunity for revenge had been too sweet to resist. Still, he wouldn’t let her distract him again. From now on, he’d direct every bit of his energy where it belonged. Into his new novel.

He heard the faint sound of running water in the kitchen. Last night it had taken him nearly an hour to come up with that overloaded list of things for her to do today. The dinner party had been in the works for a month, so that was pure serendipity. He smiled and checked his conscience to see if he was ashamed of himself, but the romantic boy who’d once dreamed of slaying dragons and rescuing princesses had developed the heart of a cynic, and his conscience didn’t say a word.

Sugar Beth tossed aside Colin’s list long before she got to the end and concentrated on the essentials. As she’d expected, his freezer was stuffed with frost-encrusted casseroles from the good women of Parrish, but the rest of his refrigerator was nearly as empty as hers. He’d tossed a pile of clothes destined for the dry cleaner on the couch, and a package addressed to a New York literary agency needed to go to the post office. He’d also left a note about some books waiting to be picked up at the bookstore. If she got enough done, maybe she’d be able to start searching the house this afternoon.

She polished off her coffee, set her oatmeal bowl in the sink to soak, then grabbed the keys to his Lexus. No way was she using her gas to run his errands. As an afterthought, she tossed the keys to her old Volvo on the counter, just in case he had an emergency. She was nothing if not considerate.


    Ваша оценка произведения:

Популярные книги за неделю