The Marine's Embrace. Beth Andrews
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her tone calm and clear. As if she’d somehow figured out he’d suffered a head injury. Then again, some people did that. Saw you were missing a piece of yourself and automatically went into nurturer mode, wanting to take care of you, offering their endless patience and sympathy.
And wouldn’t that be fun, being exposed to that every day? “I figured you wouldn’t want me hanging around. Traumatizing your kid.”
The color that had been fading from her face came back with a vengeance. “I’m so, so sorry about that,” she breathed. “I...I don’t know what got into him.”
“I scared him.”
“No. I mean...it wasn’t you. Really. Mitchell’s very, very shy. He’s not comfortable around any strangers.”
Zach snorted softly. Yeah, that was the kid’s problem. Shyness. “It’s probably best for both of us if I go somewhere else.”
“Oh, no, please, come in. Just for a few minutes. I’ll go over our amenities and rates and you can look at the room. See if it suits your needs.”
How the hell was he supposed to refuse when she was looking at him so expectantly? When she stood so close he could smell the soil dusting her clothes, and under it something sweet and light and flowery? He wanted to close the distance between them, breathe in that sweetness.
Yeah, staying here, even long enough for her to give her sales pitch, was a bad idea.
Seemed to be his day for those.
“Lead the way,” he said.
AT HIS ACQUIESCENCE, she smiled, full and warm and relieved, as if getting him to come inside was a personal victory.
Glad he could help her put a check in the win column.
“Thank you,” she said. A car drove past, the driver giving them a friendly beep of the horn. She waved without looking away from Zach. “I promise to do everything in my power to make your stay pleasant.”
He thought again of how pretty she’d looked sitting in the sunshine. How good she smelled. How long it had been since he’d felt a woman’s soft skin. Since a woman had touched him in a nonplatonic, nonmedical or nontherapeutic way.
A long time. A long, long time.
Probably not what she meant by making things pleasant.
“I’m just checking out the room,” he told her, his voice gruffer than he’d intended. Inappropriate sexual fantasies would do that. Especially ones of him rolling around in the front yard on a bright, sunny day with a woman who, moments before, had hauled her screaming kid inside. “No promises I’ll be staying.”
“Of course. But I think once you see the room, you’ll want to.”
Right now all he wanted was to sit down. Or at least get out of the sun. His head was starting to ache, a pounding to match the throbbing in his leg. He shifted to the side, gestured for her to go ahead.
She brushed past him, then waited at the end of the walkway. When he reached her, she moved onto the grass and walked with him toward the house. Took tiny, slow steps so as not to outpace him.
“Bradford House has a long and rich history in Shady Grove,” she said. Seemed this tour came with a guide. “Built over one hundred years ago by local timber baron Reginald Bradford, it was a gift to his third wife, Marjorie, a socialite from Boston thirty years his junior.”
She went on. And on. And on some more. Reginald died of a heart attack in a hooker’s bed... Marjorie passed the house down to their only child, a daughter, who married some guy with a gambling habit...yada, yada, yada...the house was lost in a high-stakes poker game and turned into an orphanage...
He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the house’s history or its past inhabitants, but he let her talk. It helped knowing she was occupied with giving her spiel and not focused on trying to catch him should he fall. Plus, he liked the soft lilt of her voice, the way she spoke so slowly, carefully, as if reciting a memorized piece for school.
“The house stood empty for over five years,” she said when they finally reached the porch, “at which point NHL star Neil Pettit purchased the house and property.”
Neil Pettit. Zach had never heard of him. Then again, he didn’t follow hockey, preferred watching baseball or basketball rather than a bunch of guys on skates. But he was curious—not about the house or its current owner. About her.
“Is that your husband?” he asked as they reached the porch.
She started, as if shaken out of her tour-guide trance. Glanced around, doing a full spin. “Where?”
He looked around, too, but they were the only two people out there. “Neil Pettit.”
“Oh. No.” She checked the street again, then her phone before looking Zach’s way. “Neil’s my brother.”
“You and he are partners?”
“Partners?”
He nodded toward the house. “Business partners.”
Something crossed her face, a flash of resentment gone so quickly he might have imagined it. “I’m not an owner.” Now her eyes widened. “I can’t believe I didn’t introduce myself,” she said, obviously horrified by her oversight. “I’m so sorry. I’m Bradford House’s manager, Fay Lindemuth.”
And she held out her right hand.
Hell.
He shrugged the duffel bag’s strap off his shoulder. As it hit the ground with a dull thud, she seemed to realize what she was doing and started lowering her arm, her eyes wide and distressed. He stabbed his left hand out, took hold of hers in an awkward, upside-down squeeze. “Zach Castro.”
He held on for a beat. Then two. Longer than necessary, but it was nice, having her warm, soft palm against his. When she started pulling away, he immediately let go. But could still feel it, that warmth. Softness.
He curled his fingers, tried to hold on to both for as long as possible.
Her hands fluttered, touching her chest again, then brushing at her hair before floating down to her sides. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Castro.”
“Zach,” he grumbled. Mr. Castro. Like he was her elder when, if he had to guess, she was around his age—thirty.
Another smile. She had an ample supply of them. “Well, let’s get you that tour, Zach.”
The sound of his name in that soft voice blew through him. He should have let her stick with Mr. Castro.
He eyed the four porch steps. Wide and deep, he’d be able to step up, get his balance before moving on to the next. But there was no handrail to hold on to.
And he had to climb them all under the watchful eye of the pretty woman next to him.
Resigned, he leaned to the side for his duffel.
“Oh, I can take that,” she said, reaching down across his body. The back of her hand brushed his knee, and he froze for a moment, her hair tickling his chin, the scent wrapping around him, while she tugged at the bag’s strap.
“I’ve got it,” he said tightly and felt her look at him, her face close enough that her soft exhale warmed his cheek.
He kept his gaze down, on the sight of their hands wrapped around that worn, rough strap, her fingers long and narrow with shiny pink nails. Her skin pale next to his, the bones of her hand delicate. He raised his eyes to hers, felt a pull of something—interest, attraction or, hell, plain old lust—deep in his stomach. Any of them would be understandable, he told himself. All of them were natural reactions. She was a pretty woman with her bright hair and clear blue eyes. Sweet with her many smiles, easy blushes and that hint of vulnerability.