Beauty In His Bedroom. Ashley Summers
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A grin etched her mouth. There was something strangely wonderful about being near Clint Whitfield. Even when he was roaring at her. Lord, she marveled, who would have guessed he’d be so attractive?
“Stop thinking below the waist, Flynn. He really could cause trouble. That’s the important thing here— I can get you fired, lady.” She mimicked his voice.
And he just might. Chilled, Regina hugged a pillow to her chest. Indignation still sputtered inside her—she hadn’t done anything wrong! Not really. “It’s not my fault if he doesn’t bother reading his mail,” she fumed, mangling the pillow.
Tears wet her cheeks. An emotional woman, she cried easily. Too easily. I shouldn’t have blown up like that. I should have explained, tried reasoning with him. Softly, sensibly. Instead I yelled like a fishwife. He’s probably on his way to the agency right now, boiling mad, demanding my head. Or job.
Was he the kind of man who’d do a thing like that?
Regina chewed her lip as she pondered her question. “But I didn’t do anything! He needed house-sitter services and I provided them,” she hissed into the accusing silence.
Nothing wrong with that, she continued her self-argument; hadn’t she made other decisions on his behalf with just a follow-up letter? He hadn’t responded to her message, but he had been duly informed. Or so she told herself when conscience pricked pinholes in logic. Like now.
Drying her eyes, Regina got up and went to stir her spaghetti sauce before it, too, was ruined. Okay, so maybe she had overstepped a bit, she conceded, nibbling her lip. But it had seemed so sensible and harmless at the time! Who could have guessed he’d come home without telling anyone?
And who could have guessed he’d have blue, blue eyes framed by thick, dusky lashes? And a scar—wasn’t there a scar on his face? And his voice, so deep. His callused hands and long, hard fingers…
Blankly Regina stared at the wooden spoon in her hand, too distracted to remember what she meant to do with it. Shaking off her beguiled trance, she stirred the contents of the pot, round and round. Granted, her irate client didn’t have much of a case, but he could sure raise some dust. Sighing, she turned off the fire under her sauce. She wasn’t hungry. The prospect of being fired played havoc with a person’s appetite.
“Oh, nonsense, Flynn, you’re not going to be fired,” she scoffed. Clint Whitfield might have a temper, but he wouldn’t carry things that far.
Would he?
Two
Several miles away, Clint Whitfield sat at a stoplight, wrapped in baffled wonder. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t think straight—he couldn’t even see straight. For an instant the newly risen moon seemed to dance in its nest of fleecy clouds. He hadn’t even noticed that night had fallen. Apparently he’d been driving aimlessly and for quite a while.
He rubbed his eyes and blew out a long breath. He was just tired, that’s all. Bone tired. He’d been traveling for the better part of two days now, in and out of airports, on and off planes. “And still haven’t arrived at a destination,” he muttered, his irritation ballooning as he remembered he still had to find somewhere to sleep tonight.
At least he knew where the bafflement stemmed from. That Flynn woman. His run-in with her certainly hadn’t eased his fatigue. What the hell was he going to do about her?
A silly question. “Kick her out, of course,” he answered. “You know damn good and well she’s in your house illegally. Without your authorization, anyway,” he amended, adverse to using such a strong word. Maybe she really had told him about a house sitter. When you’re out in the bush or hopping from continent to continent, mail has a hard time catching up.
His disinterest in the house—his almost paranoid dislike of the house, he admitted—could have been a factor. Despite his rationalizing, he still felt something was off-kilter. But he didn’t really care. Let the agency handle the matter. Then he wouldn’t have to see her again.
That’s a relief, Clint thought, driving on. Regina Flynn was a peculiarly bothersome woman. Downright unsettling in some respects. Just as well that their paths wouldn’t cross again. He was a rolling stone, with little time for a relationship, however brief.
And it would have to be a relationship, he thought sardonically; one look into those green eyes and any man would know that. Not that he was interested. Nor could he be, even if he had wanted it. When it came to feelings, he was as arid as the desert.
So let the agency earn their money. They’d force her out; the Realtors would move in; end of story. He’d be out of here in no time. With a decided air of relief, he drove under the porte cochere of a fine hotel and reached for his Stetson.
Oh hell! Clint hit the steering wheel with his fist. His hat was still on a desk, in the house he’d slammed out of in a fit of righteous wrath.
Now what? Returning to the house would be absurdly anticlimatic. Yet he needed the hat. It was his lucky hat, a link with home that kept him focused regardless of where he laid his head. But if he did return, he’d have to face his pretty intruder again, and that thought raised hell with his ego, for he was astonishingly conflicted.
Regina. He tasted her name. A soft, dulcet name. A bit regal, like her. Gina. Even sweeter. All that gorgeous hair. Those absurd glasses perched on that aristocratic nose. Incredibly sexy. Which was neither here nor there, he reminded himself, making a U-turn. He had to have his hat.
As he retraced his route, another prickly question presented itself; what was he going to do when he reached the house? Just unlock the door and walk in? After all, it was his house.
“And give her another heart attack?” he muttered, recalling her fright.
Ring the doorbell, then. Request your hat, thank her and leave. Above all, don’t be drawn inside.
With a start, Regina realized she was sitting in the shadowy haze of dusk. Light from a tall, automatic pool lamp streamed through the Palladian windows, glossing even the most ordinary object with silvered radiance. Obstinately blind to its beauty, she snapped on a table lamp and tried to pull herself together. She hated feeling like this; she’d done no harm to Clint Whitfield. But there was no reasoning with herself. Giving up, she searched for absolution in physical activity.
Sweeping the floor, while satisfying in one respect, did not stop the thoughts surging through her mind much like the flames had surged through her house. She shivered, remembering that traumatic day.
The disaster had felt so overwhelming. Afterward, still in shock, she’d lain in her rented sofa bed at night and had little panic attacks trying to formulate a workable plan for the future…
Regina’s skin goose bumped as the image of flinty blue eyes pierced her mind. Would Clint Whitfield sympathize with her fearful anxiety? Or would he scorn it as a weak attempt to justify her decision to move into his home?
Suddenly swamped with misgivings, she dropped the broom and began pacing. When she found herself standing outside the master bedroom, she opened the door and snapped on the light. Ordinarily this was forbidden territory; she would not invade private space, although she’d peeked, of course. But tonight she felt a perverse need to do more than just peek.
Bottom lip held firmly between her teeth, Regina stepped inside his bedroom. She didn’t much like it. It was too dark, too ornate. An antique mahogany armoire dominated an entire wall. A large roll top desk held a cluster of ancestral pictures in heavy silver frames. Positioned on a somber Oriental rug, two tall, straight-back chairs upholstered in shadow-striped silk flanked a round, claw-footed table. All family heirlooms, she suspected; probably cost the earth. But she’d have nightmares sleeping in that bed. The towering four-poster with its heavy velvet canopy was straight out of a Gothic novel.
Shivering, Regina stepped back into the hall and pulled the door shut. Going into his bedroom was a mistake. What was the matter with her? She had to think about her problem,