Justin's Bride. Susan Mallery
Читать онлайн книгу.
Posters of wanted men hung on the bare wood. Dappled sunshine highlighted the floor scarred by boot heels, spurs and tobacco burns. Three desks, two smaller ones on each side and a larger one in the center of the room, took up most of the space. There were two doors leading into the back. Both of them were closed. Except for the furniture and herself, the room was empty.
She stepped inside and breathed a sigh of relief. There was no one to witness her potential humiliation at the hands of Justin Kincaid. Of course, there wasn’t any Justin Kincaid, either.
She moved closer to the large desk. A box sat on top. The cover had been pushed aside and she could see pencils and papers, along with a pair of handcuffs. She saw the edge of a pocketknife at the bottom of the box. Initials had been carved into the side, but she couldn’t read them. She didn’t have to. Justin had always put his initials on his pocketknife. No doubt the JK carved on this knife would match the one she kept in the bottom drawer of her jewelry box.
It was him. He’d come back.
“This is a surprise.”
She jumped when she heard the man’s voice, and her head jerked up. He stood by the back door, beyond the afternoon light filtering through the windows behind her. She had trouble making out his individual features. Even so, she knew the man. She recognized the broadness of his shoulders, the tilt of his head and the easy grace of his stride.
As he walked toward her, he moved in and out of the shadows. For a second, his face was clear to her, then hidden, then clear again. She hadn’t realized she was backing up until the desk was between them. It should have made her feel safer, but it didn’t. She took one more step to the side and the sun illuminated him fully. She wished she’d left him in shade.
His hair was as dark as she remembered, and as long as ever. The dark brown layered lengths reached to the bottom of his white shirt collar. Equally dark eyes flickered over her face and body with all the impersonal appraisal of a horse buyer inspecting a brood mare. But she was too intent on her own study to take much offense. The lines by his eyes had deepened. Was it from the weather or had he had reason to laugh and smile these last seven years? The hollows of his cheeks made his mouth look fuller than she remembered. His square chin and angular jaw were still thrust forward in stubborn defiance. She’d told him that once. He’d asked what other kind of defiance was there.
She’d laughed then, and he’d joined in. Their laughter had led to kisses, and then he’d touched her waist. His hand had slipped higher and—
“So. You’ve come to welcome me back,” he said, taking the straight-backed chair in his hands. He turned it neatly and straddled the seat, folding his arms along the top of the back. “I’m honored. Is it me, or do you welcome all newcomers to town?”
She stared, not quite able to believe that he’d actually taken a seat without offering her one. She shook her head. Why was she shocked? He was behaving exactly like the Justin she remembered.
“Come now, Megan, are you here simply to stare at me? Has it been that long since the carnival came through town? I don’t remember your being this quiet.”
She gave him her best glare. “Welcome back, Justin. No, thank you for the kind offer of a chair, but I prefer to stand.”
He raised his dark eyebrows. “Oh, a temper. I don’t remember that, either. Did you want me to get you a seat? You’ll have to forgive me. Being the town bastard, I tend to forget my manners.”
She flinched as if he’d struck her. Before she could gather herself together enough to think about leaving, he rose to his feet and grabbed a chair from behind the desk on his right. He carried it over and placed it next to her.
“Please.” He motioned to the chair, giving her a mocking half bow.
They stood close, now. Close enough for her to see the pure color of his eyes. No flecks of gold or green marred the deep brown irises. She’d never been able to see what he was thinking, and today was no exception. She was close enough to count the individual whiskers on his cheeks. Close enough to study the scar on his chin. Her fingers curled tightly against her palms as she remembered what it was like to touch that chin. The contrast of textures. The rasp of the stubble, the hard line of the scar, then the damp heat of his lower lip.
His scent surrounded her. The fragrance of his body, a unique blend of man and temptation, filled her lungs and made her knees tremble. It had been so long, she thought as she swayed toward him. So very long. His eyes locked on hers. She felt her fear fade as a fiery weakness invaded her. Her breath caught in her throat and she exhaled his name.
“Sit down, Megan,” he growled, holding the chair in one hand and pushing her shoulder with the other. “Sit down and tell me what the hell you’re doing in my office.”
His anger completed the job his nearness had already begun. Her knees gave way and she sank onto the seat.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Embarrassment flooded her, making her duck her head in shame. How could she have reacted to him that way? She stared at her hands, twisting them together on her lap.
She didn’t hear him move, but when she finally gathered the courage to look up, he was back behind his desk, straddling his chair. Nothing in his expression gave away his feelings, but his anger lingered in the room. She could smell it when she breathed.
“This was a mistake,” she said. “I should never have come here.”
“Why did you?” he asked and folded his arms on the back of the chair.
He wore a black vest over a white shirt. Convention required that all the buttons be fastened, even on the warmest of days. There was still a bite of winter in the air, but Justin wore his shirt open at his throat. She could see the hollow there, his tanned skin and the hint of the dark hairs on his chest. Once, when they’d sat on the edge of the creek on a summer night, once, when she’d sipped from his flask and felt the heat in her belly and the languor in her limbs, she’d kissed that spot. She’d tasted his skin and felt his heat. Once, he’d moaned in her arms.
Foolish memories best forgotten, she told herself. He was angry at her. She couldn’t blame him, of course. He had every right to be angry, more than angry. He should hate her.
“I came to find out if you were really back.” Megan reached up and unfastened her cloak. It slid off her shoulders and onto the chair back. “And you are.”
His gaze narrowed. “Don’t play your games with me, Megan. You could have asked any number of people if I was back,” he said. “Why are you here? What do you want from me?”
“Oh, I couldn’t have asked about you. People would have wanted to know why. I couldn’t have them think—”
She bit back the rest of her sentence, but it was too late. For the second time, he rose from his seat. He didn’t bother concealing his anger. It flared out from him, tightening the line of his jaw and pulling his mouth into a straight line. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but his hands were balled into fists. She shrank back as he approached.
“What couldn’t you have them think?” he asked. He came to a stop in front of the desk.
“I—I didn’t mean to say that, exactly.”
“What did you mean? Exactly.”
She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t bear to see the censure in his eyes. He did hate her. She saw it as clearly as she saw the man before her.
She buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry for all the things I said.”
“But not for what you did.”
He spoke so softly that at first she thought she’d imagined the words. She looked up. He sat on the corner of the desk in front of her.
“You’re sorry you called me the town bastard, but you’re not sorry you didn’t come with me.”
He said the words flatly, as if they had no meaning. She searched