Breakfast In Bed

“What’s with you and bets?” Brooke stared at him, perplexed. “Are you a compulsive gambler or something?” Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

“What’s with you and bets?” Brooke stared at him, perplexed. “Are you a compulsive gambler or something?”

Garrett raised his brows. “Or something. I’m not afraid to take chances once in a while, if that’s what you mean. How about this—I’ll bet I can get cozy with your cats before you can make friends with my dogs. Name your own stakes. Make it easy on yourself.” He gave her a knowing wink.

She recoiled in horror. “No way!”

He ignored her protest. “So, what are the stakes? Hey, I’ve got it! This is a B and B, right? How about the winner gets breakfast in bed?”

Dear Reader.

Welcome to our exciting showcase series for 19971

Authors you’ll treasure, books you’ll want to keep!

Harlequin Romance books just keep getting better—and we enjoy bringing you the best choice of wonderful romances each month. Now, for the whole year, we’ll be highlighting a particular author in our monthly selections—a specially chosen story we know you’re going to enjoy, again and again....

This month’s recommended reading is Ruth Jean Dale’s Breakfast in Bed, a charming book full of fun and humor. Our SIMPLY THE BEST title for August will be Wild at Heart (#3468) by Susan Fox.

Happy reading!

The Editors

Breakfast In Bed

Ruth Jean Dale

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my daughter, Valerie Duran,

a world-class reader of romance—

and everything else she can get her hands on!

CHAPTER ONE

OH, CLARENCE, our love can never be, for you are promised to another....

Brooke had to blink away tears so she could read the elaborate script of the silent movie title card flickering on the enormous television screen. Not that she actually needed to read the words; she’d seen the film so many times that she knew it, and them, by heart.

Forbidden Love, filmed in 1925, had been the first movie to star the sixteen-year-old Cora Jackson. Decades later, her luminous celluloid beauty still transfixed twenty-five-year-old Brooke Hamilton, companion of the former movie star’s old age.

The glorious child-woman wafted gracefully across the shadowy screen. Brooke’s hand stilled on the back of the sleek orange cat draped across her lap—Miss Cora’s cat, one of two left in Brooke’s care under the terms of the will. Watching the woman’s first film on the VCR two months after her death, Brooke still found it impossible to believe that her friend and mentor was really gone. Even well into her eighties, Miss Cora had remained a vital and captivating woman.

The cat stirred, casting Brooke a disapproving glance over one furry shoulder. “Sorry, Gable,” she apologized, resuming a slow stroking. “I know I get carried away, but I miss her so much. I’ll bet you do, too.” She swallowed hard and read the next title card.

For honor’s sake, you must marry another upon the morrow. But you will always be my only love—no, don’t look at me so!

The on-screen Cora, the one who would remain forever young and beautiful, pressed the back of a slender wrist against her mouth dramatically, tears sparkling like diamonds on her lashes. Many times Miss Cora had explained to the enraptured Brooke that in those days of silent films, cameramen had moved heaven and earth to photograph stars in the best possible light.

“It took onions to get those tears to come and a genius with a camera to make them look sincere,” Cora insisted. “Goodness, what did I know about acting? Talent didn’t even enter into it. I was just a little girl from Illinois who found herself in Hollywood.”

That fortuitous circumstance had changed Cora’s life, and more than a half century later, Brooke’s life, as well. “Go figure,” she mused to Gable, tickling his ear with a gentle fingertip.

He responded with something that sounded vaguely like “Arough-ooo!” Brooke glanced down at him in surprise to find him staring at the door as if he expected something dreadful to spring through at any second and attack him.

The door, like everything in Glennhaven, Miss Cora’s magnificent Victorian mansion on a mountain-side overlooking Boulder, Colorado, was dark and elaborate and reminiscent of days gone by. Brooke had come here today ostensibly to “sort and organize,” but had found the prospect so depressing that she’d slipped a tape into the VCR instead.

She should have known that it would turn out to be a mistake. This house had been a second home to her, but she’d tried to avoid it since the death of the woman who’d been more family to her than her own family had ever pretended.

Cora Jackson Browne—Brooke’s beloved Miss Cora—had been like a mother to her. Or perhaps the proper term was grandmother, since the woman had been at least sixty years older than her young companion. Her death was even more shocking because it had been completely unanticipated. She’d simply gone to bed one night and never awakened. Although it was a gentle end to a memorable life, Brooke had been devastated.

And more so when she realized that Miss Cora herself had somehow seemed to sense that her time was near. In a long and detailed letter written only a few weeks earlier but not found until after her death, she’d laid out her plans and expectations.

A simple burial; no members of her family to be notified of her death until just before the reading of her will; and custody of her cats to Brooke, along with an acre of land and the guest house.

In typical Miss Cora fashion, she’d been specific in every detail. Although not all of it made sense to Brooke, she was prepared to move heaven and earth to accommodate her beloved patron.

Thus she had steeled herself to come today to Glennhaven to begin the bittersweet task of organizing Cora’s possessions, pending the eventual arrival of the new owner of this magnificent aberration. Miss Cora had entrusted Brooke with this chore, along with many others. She was glad to do these final insignificant tasks but it was hard—

Gable stiffened and sat up on Brooke’s lap. His ears pointed toward the door, which was slightly ajar, then slicked back flat against his broad head. Flexing his claws into the tough fabric of her jeans, he arched up on tiptoe.

“What is it, boy?” She tried to distract him by rubbing his tummy, which usually worked but this time fell flat. “Do you hear something?” She couldn’t imagine how, over the swelling strings of the musical accompaniment to the sad tale of love and sacrifice unreeling on the television screen.

Every bright hair on the cat’s body stood on end. Brooke, more curious than alarmed, followed the path of his hostile glare.

“What is it, Gable?” She tried again to soothe him. “There’s nobody in the house but you and me—”

The door flew open with a resounding crash and Brooke stared at the creature standing there—a dog! A small, black-and-white, terrier-looking creature who seemed to be all fangs and claws. What in the world was a dog doing inside Glennhaven, the refuge of all creatures feline?

Gable, for one, wasn’t interested in hanging around to find out. With an awful screech, he bolted from Brooke’s lap. The sudden movement startled the little dog and he let out a yelp of alarm, quickly followed by a staccato yapping that scared the woman almost as much as the cat.

With a shriek of alarm, Brooke leapt to her feet. The terrier didn’t even seem to notice her, too intent upon poor Gable, hotfooting it across the room. The straightest path between dog and cat, unfortunately, led through Brooke. Without hesitation, the dog took it.

Brooke panicked. In her haste to escape, she leapt in the wrong direction and one of her feet came down on the dog’s paw. He let out a howl, which further unnerved her.

So did the deep and unfamiliar voice coming from the hall outside. “Larry? Larry, where are you, you miserable hound?”

The cat made it to the fireplace and, without pausing, leapt to the top of the broad mantelpiece. Once there, he turned to face his attacker. Gable’s normally placid face wore a savage expression and he arched his back like a Halloween cat.

The dog, Larry, gave one final indignant yelp and threw himself at the fireplace, plowing into the elaborate stained-glass screen. It tottered, then fell, shattering on the hearth. The dog took no notice, too busy flinging himself into the air, trying—and failing—to reach his furry orange target.

And he yipped, and he yapped, making so much racket that Brooke wanted to scream. Instead, she turned and ran toward the door. She needed a weapon: a broom, a mop, anything to drive off that horrible creature threatening Cora’s beloved Clark Gable.

Instead of finding help, she found herself face-to-face with a stranger. He looked as startled as she—and then she found herself in his arms, unable to halt her forward momentum.

He held her easily against his broad chest. A whiff of his faint, woodsy aftershave surprised her, as did the strength of his impersonal embrace. Then he stood her on her feet and looked at her with a slightly puzzled smile curving his lips.

While she... stared. He was gorgeous, from his thick, midnight-dark hair to golden-hazel eyes alight with intelligence and curiosity. There was strength in the high cheekbones and square jaw, but humor in the quirk of the lips and tilt of his eyebrows when he looked at her.

And then she realized that blasted dog was still yapping and trying to climb up the fireplace to kill Miss Cora’s innocent cat, who’d been minding his own business prior to this vicious and unprovoked attack.

“Is that your dog?” She almost gasped the words while pointing a trembling finger. “Make him stop!”

The handsome stranger frowned. “Yeah, what’s got him so worked up?” His gaze swung smoothly from Brooke to the barking dog, then up to the big orange cat hissing and spitting his fury from on high. He recoiled. “That’s a cat!”

“Well, yes, of course it’s a cat.” Brooke edged around until the tall stranger was between her and the animals. She’d face any cat anytime, anywhere, but dogs sent her into shock—even quiet ones, which this one certainly wasn’t.

“What’s a cat doing here?” the man demanded. His golden eyes narrowed. “For that matter, what are you doing here—not that I object, you understand.”

“I’m taking care of things until the new owner—” She stared at him while understanding dawned. “Oh, dear.”

“Exactly.” Smiling, he offered his hand. “I’m Garrett Jackson. And you must be... Brooke Hamilton?”

“Yes.” She touched his hand with hers, too lightly to be called a handshake. She hadn’t meant to be unfriendly but she felt a jolt of electricity at even that slight touch. Not too unusual in bone-dry Colorado, she assured herself; nothing to worry about. “Please,” she pleaded, “will you do something about that dog? I don’t think he can reach Gable but—”

“As in Clark?”

She nodded. “That barking is making a nervous wreck of me.”

Garrett shrugged. “Guess I’m used to him.” Kneeling, he snapped his fingers and spoke in a coaxing voice. “C’mon, Larry, old boy, come to papa.”

Larry didn’t do any such thing; in fact, after one derisive glance over his shoulder, he yipped louder.

“Larry! Get over here!” Garrett spoke firmly, pointing to the priceless Oriental rug upon which he knelt.

Larry didn’t even bother to look around this time, just kept trying to scramble up the fireplace stones.

“Damn!” Garrett rose to his feet. “What’s wrong with that mutt? He’s obnoxious but he’s never been this bad before.”

“Maybe that’s not Larry at all,” Brooke couldn’t stop herself from suggesting. “Maybe it’s his evil twin.”

Garrett laughed, little smile lines curving at the corners of his generous mouth. He was extraordinarily attractive when he smiled. Well, in all honesty, he was extraordinarily attractive when he didn’t smile.

“Very funny,” he admitted. “But I know how to handle him.”

“This I’ve got to see,” Brooke muttered dubiously. She glanced anxiously at Gable, who no longer seemed so much frightened as annoyed. In fact, he seemed as curious as she to discover what would happen next.

“You doubt me?” Garrett’s golden eyes narrowed speculatively. “You wouldn’t want to put your money where your mouth is, would you?”

“Huh?”

“Wanna bet?”

“Not a chance! I’m not a gambling woman.” Too true; Brooke didn’t take chances when she could avoid them. “All I want is for you to get that beast away from my cat.”

“Okay, okay, I can take a hint.” Stepping around her, he stuck his head into the hallway. He was wearing sky-blue shorts and a white T-shirt, with white leather sneakers. His body was as attractive as his face, which hardly seemed possible.

Or fair.

“Molly!” he called. “Will you come in here, honey?”

Brooke’s brows rose. “Wife? Girlfriend? Significant other?”

His grin broadened, became almost challenging. “Daughter.”

Brooke felt a little jolt of relief. “I see.”

“You don’t, but that’s okay.”

A small form appeared in the doorway and his smile became less predatory, more gentle. “There you are, sweetheart. Think you can call old Larry off the lady’s cat?”

The little girl nodded gravely, then looked at Brooke with solemn curiosity. “Hello,” she said. “My name is Molly Jackson.”

“My name is Brooke Hamilton. I’m pleased to meet you, Molly.”

“Thank you very much.” Such a serious little thing; not so much as the hint of a smile. “I’m five years old,” she continued. “How old are you?”

Brooke melted. The child was exquisite, dainty and blond, golden-eyed like her father. She waited a moment for Garrett to intervene; instead he simply looked interested so she said, “I’m twenty-five.”

“That’s almost grown-up,” Molly observed.

Brooke stifled laughter. “Sometimes I wonder.”

“Gart is thirty-two,” the child offered.

“Gart?” Brooke glanced at the man beside her. “She calls you Gart?”

He shrugged. “She can’t handle Garrett, for some reason.” Kneeling before the child, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Can you call Larry off now, Molly? That barking is driving us all nuts.”

“Yes, sir.” Snapping her fingers smartly, if silently, she said in an imperious tone, “Larry! Come, Larry! Come!”

Larry stopped yapping and cocked his head, his ears standing up straight. Then he turned and trotted back to his pint-size mistress.

All Brooke could see was the dog’s vicious white teeth and powerful jaws. Frightened, she edged around Garrett, always keeping him between herself and that creature. When the coast was clear, she darted to the fireplace to snatch Gable to safety.

The cat curled himself around her shoulder and neck, his expression indignant in the extreme. “Gee, Gable,” she murmured, rubbing his chest. “I’m sorry. It’s not my fault, honest.”

Garrett rolled his eyes. “You’re apologizing to a cat?”

The way he said cat sent a warning shiver down her spine. “Why not? I got him into this mess when I let him coax me into coming along today. Of course...” She glanced significantly at the broken glass, which was all that remained of the fire screen. “I’m not entirely to blame. Do you have any idea how much that piece of stained glass was worth?”

“No idea whatsoever.” He looked around the room. “Or anything else in this mausoleum, for that matter. What a tomb!”

“A tomb!” Aghast, she stared at him. “It’s not a tomb. It’s a beautiful Victorian mansion brimming with fabulous old treasures and priceless antiques.”

“I like young stuff myself.” His glance skimmed over her lightly but insolently, head to toe. He had the most intimate way of looking at her, as if he already knew something she didn’t. It made her wish she’d put on something more impressive than jeans and a plaid shirt this morning.

“You inherited very little young stuff,” she said tartly. “We’re old-fashioned around here. We do, however, have telephones.”

“Is that a crack?” If it was, he didn’t appear to be put off by it.

“I wasn’t expecting you until next week,” she reminded him.

“I’ve been trying to call for four days, ever since Molly and I left Chicago.” He ruffled the little girl’s soft curls, but he was watching Brooke.

“You drove?” But of course they drove. How else would they be accompanied by that obnoxious little dog now licking his young owner’s hand?

He nodded. “Had a nice time, too, didn’t we Molly, old girl? The dogs were a bit of trouble but—”

“Dogs, as in plural?” She glanced around with fresh alarm. “You mean, there’s more than one?”

“Had to bring old Baron.” He gave a whimsical shrug. “He’s a German shepherd and not nearly as noisy as Larry.”

Brooke couldn’t stifle her groan. “I suppose he bites first and asks questions later.”

Garrett frowned. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t care for dogs?”

“I’m trying to tell you that I don’t see how anybody could care for dogs. They’re big and mean and they bite people and dig holes and—” she glanced significantly at the shattered glass on the hearth. “—break things.”

“Unlike cats,” he inserted smoothly, “who are little and mean and sneaky, with sharp teeth and claws made for shredding furniture and clothes—”

“Of all the nerve!” She glared at him, instinctively clutching Gable more tightly. That ungrateful wretch responded by jerking away. Leaping from her shoulder onto the cut-velvet sofa, he proceeded to dig his claws into the upholstery even as she defended him from such scurrilous charges.

Garrett’s quick smile was mischievous. “Sorry, I got carried away. I take back the part about the furniture.”

She gave him a sheepish grin. “Apology accepted.” She added, “Stop that, Gable!”

“Can I pet your cat?” inquired an anxious little voice.

Brooke glanced from the child to the father, asking a question with her eyes. Is it all right?

He nodded. “But first let me put Larry out into the hall.”

“Good idea.” Brooke drew Molly forward. “Did you ever have a cat?”

The little girl shook her head. There was something so solemn about her, as if she didn’t laugh nearly enough. “Only dogs,” she said. “I got Larry when he was a little puppy.”

Brooke’s heart sank. Molly’s ownership would give that miserable mutt privileged status. “Cats are nicer,” she said staunchly. “Now, you must remember never to try to grab a cat. They don’t like that. You have to make them think that everything’s their own idea....”

Slowly and smoothly she reached for Gable, who permitted himself to be lifted from the couch and into Brooke’s familiar embrace. “Sit down,” she instructed the little girl, “and I’ll put him on your lap. If you don’t startle him, he may decide to stay. But if he wants to go, don’t try to hang on to him, okay?”

“Okay.” Molly sat down on the sofa, sliding back until her legs were straight out before her on the wide cushion. Carefully she smoothed her blue cotton skirt over her lap, then looked up expectantly.

Brooke leaned close to Gable’s ear. “You be nice now, you hear?” she murmured. Gently she deposited the cat on Molly’s lap.

Gable sank down like a puddle of orange pudding, turning his head to look into Molly’s eyes with a “How’m I doin’?” expression. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he began to purr.

“He’s making noises,” Molly exclaimed, looking up at Brooke anxiously.

“That’s because he likes you,” Brooke interpreted. “You can scratch his ears, if you’re very gentle, or underneath his chin. He likes that.”

“I like him,” Molly declared fiercely. “Oh, Gable!” Unable to restrain her enthusiasm, she leaned forward and gave him a big hug.

Which was way too much for any self-respecting cat. He slipped out of her embrace as quickly and easily as smoke from a clenched fist. Before she could recover, he’d shinnied up the heavy brocade drapes to perch atop a tall bookcase.

Molly looked close to tears. “Make him come back,” she pleaded.

Brooke slipped her arm around the child’s shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze. “I can’t, honey. Nobody can make cats do anything they don’t want to do. The trick is to make them think you don’t really care, and that what you want them to do is really what they want to do.”

Garrett, leaning against the closed door with his arms crossed over his chest, gave a derisive peal of laughter. “Are we talking about cats here, or women?”

Brooke pursed her lips. “Very funny.”

“So are you, if you think I don’t mean it.”

“Are we talking about women here, or cats?”

“Touché!” His laughter this time sounded delighted. “Although I know as much as I care to know—about cats.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. To Molly, he added, “We don’t have time for cats now anyway. You said you were hungry, so let’s see if we can find the kitchen. If we do, maybe we’ll also find something for you to eat.”

Brooke felt a little fissure of alarm. “It’s after one o’clock. Are you saying this child hasn’t had lunch?”

He shook his head. “But that’s all right. There’s probably something around...anything at all. We’re not particular.”

“There’s not a bite to eat in this house.” Why did he have to look so...pitiful? “The cook cleaned everything out of the kitchen before she left.”

“Ouch.” He crossed to Molly’s side. “I guess that means we’ll have to drive all the way down the mountain to feed you, you poor little thing.”

Brooke was being set up and she fought it. “If you had called, I could have stocked the kitchen for you,” she said defiantly.

“I tried—didn’t you hear what I said before? I think the telephone lines must have been down or something.”

Brooke groaned. He had mentioned that. Although she didn’t know of any trouble, the telephone service way up here in the middle of nowhere was so iffy that she never knew from one minute to the next if they had contact with the outside world. Knowing she shouldn’t, she still heard herself saying, “Okay, if you meant it when you said you’re not too particular, I suppose I could find something for—”

“Hey, thanks!” He didn’t even wait for her to finish the invitation. Grabbing Molly by the hand, he lifted her to her feet.

“But no dogs,” Brooke said sternly. Picking up the television remote, she clicked off the set before facing him. “You and Molly can come but no dogs.” Maybe that would dissuade him; she could but hope.

Instead of objecting, he nodded. “I’ve got food for the dogs,” he said cheerfully. “It’s Molly and me who are starving, right, sweetheart?”

The little girl nodded, keeping all her attention focused on Brooke, who knew when she was licked.

There was nothing to do but coax Gable down from his perch and onto her shoulder, then lead the invaders to her own sanctuary.

Which, she had a strong premonition, would never be the same after Garrett Jackson invaded it.

Garrett hated to tie his dogs to a tree out front of his late great-aunt’s moldy old mansion, but he really didn’t have much choice. With the toothsome Ms. Hamilton looking on, he did the dastardly deed quickly and efficiently. When he turned back to his little audience of woman, child and cat, he’d have sworn the furry four-legged observer was smiling with evil satisfaction.