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Brett whipped his head around to look at her. Her eyes were still closed but a soft, wistful smile curved her lips.
“Nine?” he repeated, unable to believe what she’d said.
“Yes, nine. I haven’t seen them in years. They’re scattered all over the United States. I’m the only one who remained in Texas.”
“Nine,” he repeated again as he turned back to the fire, wondering what it would be like to grow up with brothers and sisters. His friends had always considered him lucky, not having to put up with annoying siblings, not having to share toys or the attention of his parents. Of course, they hadn’t known what a living hell his home life had been. He’d often wished for brothers or sisters, anyone to detract from the hate that filled his parents’ home, but never more than now. If he’d been blessed with siblings, then perhaps he wouldn’t have to carry alone the load of family responsibilities that currently weighed so heavily on him.
“What do you do in Kansas City?”
Her question pulled him from his wishful thoughts. “I’m president of Sinclair Corporation, a chain of department stores that my dad owned.”
“Hmm. Sounds important. I’m impressed.”
Brett scowled at the fire, thinking of the frustrations he dealt with daily. “Don’t be. I’m president in title only. The board of directors of the corporation sees to that.”
“And that frustrates you,” she said knowingly, hearing the level of it in his voice.
“Damn right,” he muttered.
She laughed softly. “If I’d been guessing, I’d have guessed you to be a rancher, not a corporate president.”
“A rancher?” he echoed, finding himself amused by her assumption. “Why?”
“The jeans, the boots, the truck. Those are more the trappings of a rancher than a corporate executive.”
Brett couldn’t help but laugh. “My board of directors would probably agree with you. They’re always harping at me to improve my image. They’d prefer I wore starched shirts and three-piece suits.” He wagged his head regretfully. “Unfortunately, that’s not my style. I’m more comfortable in jeans and boots.”
“Ned was that way,” Gayla replied thoughtfully. “Always thumbing his nose at convention.”
Brett frowned at the comparison.
“He caught a lot of flak from the people of the town when he brought me here. There was quite a bit of gossip.”
And no wonder! Brett agreed silently. An old man taking in a young girl more than half his age? Yeah, there was plenty of room for gossip in that arrangement.
His grandfather’s relationship with Gayla was really no concern of his—or so Brett tried to tell himself. But for some reason, he couldn’t seem to shake the need to know if she was really in fact the old man’s mistress. “Did it bother you?” he asked, unable to suppress his curiosity.
“Some.” She smiled sadly, remembering. “But I was accustomed to being the topic of town gossip. Ned, he didn’t give a darn what they thought. Once a group of concerned citizens came here and lectured him on appearances and his moral responsibilities as a leader in the community. He told them they could all go to hell.”
Good for him, Brett applauded silently, then quickly squelched the traitorous thought. He wouldn’t think kind thoughts of the man who had made his own mother’s life a living hell.
“So you weren’t his mistress?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.
Slowly she turned her gaze on him. That he’d insulted her was obvious in the lift of her chin, the ice that chilled her reply. “No, but it certainly didn’t stop the talk.”
Brett felt a stab of regret for the callous question, but knew it was too late to take it back. Hoping to change the subject to a less invasive one, he asked, “How did you end up as innkeeper at Parker House?”
Gayla’s chest rose and fell in a deep, shuddering breath. She turned her gaze back to the fire. “It’s a long story.”
Brett lifted his hands. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She stared at the fire in silence for so long, Brett decided that she wasn’t going to answer his question. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “My family moved around a lot when I was growing up. There were so many of us, and Mother, well, she had a knack for picking the most worthless men for husbands. Each time she married, she promised us that this man would take care of us, that we’d have a home and food and clothes. But they usually ended up taking more than they gave. Wherever we lived, Mother would usually get a job as a waitress or a cook, but with so many of us, what she made was never enough. So we pretty much depended on the kindness and generosity of the townspeople where we lived for our needs. At least we did until we’d worn out our welcome and they ran us out of town.”
Brett heard the embarrassment in her voice, the humiliation, but more, he heard the pride that made accepting charity difficult for Gayla.
“Just before school started, my senior year,” she continued, “we moved to Braesburg and I got a job as a clerk in Ned’s hardware store downtown. Things were going great for us. Mother had married again, husband number six, and we had a little house on the edge of town within walking distance of the schools. But then her husband got laid off and we had to move again. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to finish the school year and graduate from Braesburg High.
“Ned knew how much I hated moving, so he went to my mother and stepfather and asked if they’d make Ned legal guardian for me, and allow me to live in the carriage house here at Parker House until school was out.”
Brett frowned, thinking of his mother. The old man had kicked out his own daughter, but taken in Gayla, a stranger. The irony of that didn’t escape him. “And they agreed?”
“Yes. I was just one less mouth to feed.”
Brett could see that Gayla held no ill feelings about the arrangement. “But that was years ago and you’re still here.”
“Yes, I know. After I finished school, I didn’t want to leave. I loved it here. Mr. Parker offered me a full-time job and I worked for him for about three more years. Then he got sick and had to close the store. I couldn’t leave then-not when he didn’t have anyone to look after him—so I stayed on as his housekeeper and nurse.”
“For the same salary, I hope.”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t accept his money. After all, he provided me a home and never asked anything of me in return.”
Brett couldn’t decide if she was that foolish or that kind, but either way he figured Ned had come out ahead. “What about the bed-and-breakfast? How did that come about?”
“Need. Mr. Parker’s business had been on the decline for years before he was forced by his health to close it down. Bills had stacked up and he was having a hard time making ends meet.”
“Why didn’t he just sell the place?”
“Mr. Parker would never sell Parker House,” she said adamantly. “Turning it into a bed-and-breakfast offered us income without sacrificing the house.”
Brett snorted. “Stubborn old cuss, if you ask me. He should have sold the property.”
“Yes, he was stubborn, all right. But Parker House meant more to him than the money it would bring. It was his home. And in a way, mine, too.”
To Brett’s way of thinking, Ned Parker was a fool, and Gayla a bigger one for going along with him. He turned to tell her just that, but stopped when he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. As he watched, the tears brimmed over her eyelids and streaked down her face.
“I’m sorry,” he said, ashamed that he’d made her cry again. He lifted a hand to cover hers. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” Heat from her hand seeped through his fingers, setting every nerve ending in his body to pulsing. Quickly, he snatched his hand back.
Unaware of the effect she had on him, she shook her head. “No. What you said is true. Ned Parker was a stubborn old cuss. But I loved him,” she said, her voice hitching. She turned to face Brett fully, tears streaming down her face. “He offered me what I’d always dreamed of. A home. Family and roots. And now he’s gone.”
Her tears grew in intensity until her shoulders racked with heartbreaking sobs. Brett felt wholly responsible, for he was the one who’d dredged up the memories by delving into her past. He knelt in front of her chair, but he kept his hands glued to his thighs, reluctant to touch her again.
“Gayla, I’m sorry,” he said, for those were the only words of comfort he knew to offer. A wisp of hair blocked his view of her face. Careful not to touch her, he caught it and tucked it behind her ear. “Please, don’t cry,” he begged her.
Brett couldn’t stand the sight of her suffering any longer. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her against his chest. His eyes widened in surprise when, on a broken sob, she threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against his cheek. She clung to him like he was a life raft in a storm-tossed sea. Unsure what to do, he self-consciously rubbed a hand up and down her back, trying to calm her.
“Shh,” he soothed, his cheek moving against her hair. The silky tresses whispered against his unshaven cheek, unleashing the scent of roses. The combination of silk and roses was irresistible. He buried his nose deeper into her hair, filling his senses with the intoxicating fragrance. “Please, don’t cry anymore,” he murmured softly.
But her sobbing continued, growing in depth and intensity. She felt so small in his arms, so fragile. He knew she didn’t deserve this misery, any more than his mother had deserved what she’d suffered at the hand of Ned Parker. An unexpected need to protect Gayla welled within him. He gathered her closer, slowly rocking her back and forth.
She tightened her arms around him, and the swell of her breasts pressed seductively against his chest. His body responded in the most elemental way. Heat curled lazily in his groin, then surged upward to spread through his chest. His breath came in increasingly shorter bursts, stirring her hair.
He turned his lips to her temple. It was only a natural progression to her cheek. Her skin was soft beneath his lips, and flavored with the salt of her tears. Needing to see her, to anchor himself both emotionally and physically, he caught her chin in his hand and tipped her face up to his.
Her gaze met his—brown eyes flooded with tears, appearing like circles of molten chocolate against her pale skin. The utter hopelessness in her expression stabbed at his heart. So young, he thought sadly, to have the weight of the world heaped on her shoulders. All she’d done was care for an old man, and in doing so, had seemingly sacrificed her youth and her future.
She shouldn’t have looked desirable to him at that moment, with her eyes all red and puffy and her cheeks wet with tears, dressed in a tattered blue terry robe. Yet, she did. More desirable than anyone he’d met in a long time.
Full and moist, her lips were slightly parted and a breath away from his own, tempting him to draw closer. Without thinking of anything beyond the moment, he lowered his head.
The warmth of his breath touched Gayla first, followed quickly by the searing heat of his lips on hers. At the initial contact, she stiffened, then slowly she let herself go, melting into him, accepting his kiss, drawing from it.
He offered an easy path from grief to passion, one Gayla navigated without even realizing she’d made the step.
She needed his warmth, his comfort, the distraction from her grief, her worries. She clung to him, desperately absorbing the strength he offered so willingly, needing to feel the thrum of youth and vitality that pumped through his veins and the life that warmed her hands. The touch of his lips on hers was tender and giving. The shared breath, a renewal of life she needed in order to go on.
His arms tightened around her, the muscles in his back bunching and shifting beneath her hands, and their intimacy climbed to another level. She clawed at him, her nails digging into his back, flesh against flesh, heat drawing heat.
Her actions incited Brett, fanning the flames that already heated his blood to near boiling. He drew her closer still, until he’d dragged her from the chair and she lay sprawled across his knees, her face turned up to his, allowing him easier access to her lips. With her crushed against his chest, his lips on hers, he tugged the afghan free of her legs and tossed it in front of the fire. He followed, carrying her with him, gently laying her in front of the fire, then dragging his lips down the smooth column of her neck to the skin exposed in the veed opening formed by her robe’s collar. He soothed her not with words, but with his hands and his mouth, kissing away the salty tears, lighting fires where the chill of grief had threatened before.
Before he realized what was happening, he’d nudged the panels of her robe farther apart, exposing more and more skin for his ministrations until he’d bared a breast. Bathed a rosy hue by the glow of the fire, the delicate translucency of her skin lured him on. He touched a finger to the budded nipple that had taunted him through the thin robe, and felt the shudder of desire course through her. On a groan, he closed his mouth over the pebbled orb, drawing it deep within his mouth. Gayla arched beneath him, framing his face to hold him close.
Desire became something fierce, threatening to consume them if not sated. Moving quickly, Brett caught the tie of her robe and yanked it free, pushing the folds of her robe away. Shucking out of his jeans, he angled himself between her legs. His gaze locked on her face, slowly, rhythmically, he rubbed his groin against the pillowed softness of her femininity, teasing her, taunting her until her chest heaved and her breath came in ragged gasps.
“Oh, God, please,” she whispered, begging for release.
He rose above her, sliding his hands down her back until her buttocks rested in the breadth of his hands. He lifted, his own breath rasping, and guided her to him.
Her breath caught at the joining, and then escaped in a low, guttural moan as he moved inside her, carrying her farther and farther away from the sadness, the grief, the fears.
She slept like an angel.
Brett lay beside Gayla, watching her, his head propped on his bent arm, his elbow buried in the tangled folds of her robe. With a gentleness that was totally uncharacteristic of him, he caught a wisp of blond hair and tucked it behind her ear to better see her face. Her features were well-defined, patrician almost in their design, yet totally and undeniably feminine. He traced the lines, beginning at her forehead, trailing down her nose, across the slash of cheekbone to the delicate curve of her ear.
His chest rose and fell in a deep sigh as he let his palm cradle the elegant contour of her jaw. He’d never felt so…so soft toward a woman before, almost as if his heart had melted in his chest. How had this happened? he wondered again. How had his offer of comfort to this woman turned into the wild play of lovemaking that had resulted?
He brushed a knuckle along the thick curl of lashes that fanned beneath her eyes. At the moment, he didn’t care what had transpired. He was too weak, too sated to care much about anything.
A shiver shook him and he cut a glance at the dying embers in the fireplace. Not knowing where more firewood was stored, he heaved a resigned sigh. If he didn’t get them to a bed and under some covers, they were liable to both catch their death of cold. Pushing to his feet, he pulled on his jeans, then carefully tucked Gayla’s robe around her shoulders.
Kneeling, he gathered her into his arms, then stood. Moaning softly, she nestled against him, seeking the warmth of his chest, but her eyes remained closed, her sleep undisturbed.
His heart swelled at her unconscious seeking of him as her fingers curled into a soft fist against his chest. Smiling tenderly down at Gayla, Brett carried her up the stairs to his room.
Gayla awakened with a start, her heart hammering in her chest. Disoriented, she pushed to her elbows, and the bedcovers slipped to her waist. Mrs. Parker’s room? she wondered in confusion. What was she doing here? Suddenly chilled, she looked down and was shocked to find herself naked. A movement beside her made her whip her head around. Brett lay on the bed at her side, groping for the covers she’d robbed from him when she’d bolted upright.
Although she had no memory of coming to this room, the events of the previous night came rushing back.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered against trembling fingers. “What have I done?”
Inching carefully to the edge of the mattress, she slipped from beneath the covers and grabbed her robe from the foot of the bed where Brett must have draped it after carrying her to his room. Ramming her arms through the sleeves, she yanked the belt tight around her waist and all but ran to the door. Opening it slowly, she slipped through the narrow opening and closed it softly behind her. Once free of the room, she collapsed against the wall and covered her mouth with trembling hands.
How will I ever be able to face him in the morning? she wailed inwardly.
Three
Brett rolled onto his back, stretching his hands to the headboard and his toes to the foot of the bed. With a growl and a shudder, he sank back against the pillow and reached for Gayla. His hands came up with only air. Opening one eye, he lifted his head and cut a glance to the other side of the bed and found it empty. Her absence both angered and saddened him.
He dropped his head back onto the pillow and covered his face with his hands. You fool, you fool, you fool, he cursed himself inwardly, as he dragged his hands roughly down his face. What were you thinking!
He tried to convince himself that she was as guilty as he, for he certainly hadn’t forced her—but he knew that was only half the truth. She couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. He’d taken advantage of her grief-stricken state. He’d played on her vulnerability, taken what she’d so innocently offered, and given her—What? he demanded of himself. What had he given her in return?
Nothing, he told himself, but a momentary escape from her misery. And to add insult to injury, now he was about to strip her of her home.
But he could give her one thing, he told himself as he levered himself from the bed. He would save her the embarrassment of having to face him in the light of day. He would take a quick shower, pack his bag and slip out before she knew he was gone. He could grab some breakfast at the diner he’d eaten at the day before, put in a call to his grandfather’s attorney, take care of the legalities of settling the estate, and get out of town.
He strode to the window and pushed back the drapes. Sun glistened off the trees’ ice-covered branches, already melting away winter’s ravages of the night before. But he knew bad weather wouldn’t have stopped him from doing what he had to do. Nothing could.
Gayla stood in the doorway to the room where Brett had slept, one hand braced against the doorjamb to keep herself from succumbing to the dizzying sensation that dragged at her. The bedcoverings hung crazily from one side of the bed. His duffel bag was gone, as were the clothes and boots she’d stepped over as she’d stolen from his room in the middle of the night. The bathroom door stood ajar, allowing scents of soap and a manly after-shave to mingle with the fragrance of the lavender potpourri she kept in a crystal bowl on the dresser.
That he was gone was obvious.
She’d suspected as much when he hadn’t responded to her call for breakfast, had even prayed he had left so that she wouldn’t have to face him after what had happened the night before. But the proof of his hasty departure saddened her in a way she couldn’t explain.
She entered the room slowly, stooping to pick up a damp towel from the floor. She drew it to her face, inhaling the scent of him as she crossed to the bed. Tears of regret burned her eyes as she accepted the fact that he was gone and she would never see him again. In leaving, he took with him any hope that Gayla might secretly have harbored for a second taste of their passion.
Her fingertips trailed the high, polished footboard, remembering the comfort, the passion she’d experienced in his arms, knowing that in the lonely nights to come, she would resurrect that memory and draw comfort from it again.
With a sigh, she scooped up the bedspread and tangle of blankets and tossed them back across the bed. A flutter of paper on the pillow caught her eye and she froze as she stared at the crisp bills that settled in the dent on the pillow left by Brett’s head. Two one-hundred-dollar bills. More than twice the price she’d named for the room. Humiliation seared her cheeks and burned through her chest as she realized he’d left the money for more than the cost of his lodging.
He was paying for services rendered by the innkeeper of Parker House.
Brett dropped a quarter in the slot and dialed the number he’d scrawled on the back of a business card. “I need to speak with John Thomas, please,” he told the receptionist who answered the phone.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Brett Sinclair.”
“Just a moment, please.”
He didn’t have to wait long before a man’s voice came across the line.
“John Thomas. May I help you?”
“I hope so. My name’s Brett Sinclair. I’m Christine Parker Sinclair’s son.”
There was a pregnant pause, then the lawyer said dryly, “I had hoped to hear from Christine, herself.”
Brett could hear the censure in the man’s voice, and fought down the anger it spawned. “I’m calling on her behalf.”
“She couldn’t trouble herself to make the call personally?”
“Christine Sinclair died six months ago,” Brett replied impatiently. “As her son and only living heir, I’m the executor of her estate.”
“I see.” There was another pause. “So that would make you sole heir to your grandfather’s property, as well?”
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