Her Forever Man. Leanne Banks
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nodded and glanced around the room. Was there anywhere she could go? She smiled. “I’m glad I’ve got a window in my room.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. “Yeah.”
The man clearly did not have a Texas-sized sense of humor. She felt an odd flutter in her stomach at the intensity in his blue eyes.
“How long are you staying?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It depends on my lawyers’ recommendation and what I decide. I had thought the quarters would provide some needed solitude, but…” She shrugged.
He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Your lawyers’ recommendation?”
“Yes.” She thought of the mess she’d left behind in New York and felt suddenly tired. “Too complicated for this hour. Thank you for your hospitality. You’ve truly extended yourself this evening.”
He watched her for a long uncomfortable moment. “Do you have any family at all?”
Felicity felt the all-encompassing aloneness close in on her again. She stiffened herself against it. “No, but I’ll be okay,” she said. “I’m okay.” If she kept saying it, it would one day be true.
He nodded, but didn’t looked convinced. That was fine, she told herself. It was far more important that she convince herself.
She met his gaze and felt a strange undertow of recognition, as if something inside her recognized something inside him. She would almost swear she saw that same recognition in his eyes. Her heart shifted.
“Just a minute,” he said, breaking the moment and stepping into the hallway. A moment later, he returned and set bath towels and washcloths on the dresser. “If you want to take a shower, you can. The kids are asleep.”
Felicity smiled and finished his thought. “So don’t sing in the shower.”
His lips twitched almost to a grin. “Yeah.” He looked at her again, and she wondered what he saw; wondered, but wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Restless, she clasped her hands together. “Thank you for opening your home to me at such short notice.”
He dipped his head. “Good night, Felicity Chambeau.”
“Good night, Brock Logan.”
He closed the door behind him, and she was alone again, an all-too-familiar feeling. She glanced at the bed and promised herself to sleep for twenty-four hours. She vowed not to dream about anything that would disturb her, such as a disapproving financial attorney, a cockroach former financial advisor, or a tall rancher with sexy eyes and a humor deficit.
Brock still smelled her perfume after he’d showered in the master bathroom and drunk a shot of bourbon. She wasn’t exactly what he’d pictured. With a name like Felicity, he’d expected a more frivolous-looking female. Instead, her black pantsuit had whispered over her slim curves with understated ease. Her straight blond hair was pulled back into a clip at the nape of her neck. Her makeup was minimal, and he hadn’t noticed any rocks on her fingers.
She’d looked like a woman who was deliberately playing down her attributes. He frowned, wondering why. She’d almost appeared to be grieving. That wasn’t possible, Brock thought, since her parents had died a few years ago. The sadness in her green eyes had tugged at him. It still did. The erotic sight of her parted lips inches away from him when she’d fallen stirred long-buried needs. Needs best denied, he thought, feeling too aware of how long he’d been without a woman.
Damn, he didn’t need this. He poured another bourbon. He shouldn’t have asked that last question. He’d seen the glint of pain in her gaze and her brave attempt to cover it, and in that one strange moment, he’d sensed a kindred spirit. That was impossible.
Felicity slept soundly until she heard heavy footsteps outside her door. Glancing at the clock, she winced at the afternoon hour and pulled her pillow over her head. Way too early. Not twenty-four hours. She willed herself to return to sleep.
“Sheep,” she muttered, counting fluffy white animals as they jumped over a fence. She heard more heavy footsteps and pictured Brock Logan’s boots. Following the image of his boots up his long legs and muscular thighs to the rest of his impressive physique, she moaned and kicked off the sheet. She tried to think of sheep, but they morphed into cows and reality began to sink in. She was not in Manhattan. She was on a cattle ranch.
“And why are you here?” she wryly asked herself. “Because you said you wanted to think about it when your financial advisor asked you to marry him.”
The knowledge rubbed over her like a wire brush. Unable to remain still one second longer, she tossed her pillow against the wall and rolled out of bed onto the floor. Her nightgown, hair and limbs in disarray, Felicity shook her head. She’d always had a little problem with her coordination.
“A robe,” she murmured. Shoving her hair from her face, she scrambled to her feet and opened one suitcase, then another. She rustled through the contents until her hand encountered something hard, a picture frame. Her heart caught. Her housekeeper Anna had packed the treasured last picture taken of her and her parents.
Felicity pulled out the picture and stared instead into the weasel face of her former financial advisor, who had almost been her fiancé Doug.
Standing in the upstairs hallway with his daughter Bree, Brock heard a scream followed by a thump and shattering glass. He narrowed his gaze at the guest-bedroom door. “Go on to your room, honey,” he said to Bree, nudging her down the hall.
“But something broke,” she said, wide-eyed and curious despite her low-grade fever.
“I’ll take care of it. You get to bed,” he told her.
Brock waited until Bree went into her room then slowly opened the guest-bedroom door. “Miss Chambeau?” he began, then stopped abruptly at the sight that greeted him.
Felicity stood in the middle of the bedroom floor, her hair tousled over her shoulders and her slim curves covered by a soft satin nightie that plunged low enough to hint at the shadow of her cleavage and was short enough to reveal most of her shapely legs.
All it would take to lose the nightie would be to push the tiny straps over her shoulders. He could see the outline of her nipples. He wondered if she was totally naked beneath the garment. His mouth went dry.
Impatient with his response, he forced his gaze upward to her flushed face. Her green eyes sparked with temper, but her expression held a tinge of guilt that made him curious. He glanced at the busted picture frame.
“Miss Chambeau?” he repeated.
Felicity shrugged, drawing his gaze to her breasts. She was too feminine for his system at the moment, he thought, with resentment. Locking his gaze on her eyes, he stared at her expectantly.
“It’s a picture,” she said.
“Of my former financial advisor,” she continued when he remained silent. “I—uh dropped—” She broke off. “I didn’t expect to find him in my suitcase! The dirty sleazebag left the country with my money. And it’s not the money. I have enough money, but I trusted him. I trusted him. I almost—” She broke off. “I can only hope he’ll be eaten by a giant cockroach in the South American country where he’s hiding with Chi Chi the exotic dancer and die a horrible, painful death.” She finally took a breath and visibly composed herself. “But this probably isn’t the best time to discuss it. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
Brock blinked at the change. There was obviously more to this story. More than he wanted to know, he emphasized to himself. “Don’t move. You might cut your feet. I’ll get a broom and dustpan from the linen closet.” He stepped into the hallway and shook his head in disgust. This was all he needed. A kooky rich lady with a body designed to whip every male in west Texas into a state of frenzy.
Grabbing the broom and pan, he returned to find her gingerly