That Old Feeling. Cara Colter
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that car, ease her way back out that long driveway, save herself.
“Save myself,” she muttered. “Sheesh.”
She took a deep breath and walked around the front of the house on a beautiful black flagstone pathway that curved around and then spilled into a huge patio, of the same stone, that ran the entire length of the house. The front was even more impressive than the back. Outside living was obviously the priority here, a wide-timbered staircase led to a multitiered deck. On the first tier was a hot tub, on the second, lounge chairs with thick, colorful, yellow-striped cushions. Outside the French-paned doors leading into the house were a stainless-steel barbecue, a bright yellow umbrella table and matching cushioned chairs. Buckets of flowers were everywhere.
Then she spotted a lone pink bunny, and it seemed sadly out of place among all the sophisticated deck furnishings.
She turned away from the house, shaded her eyes against the brilliance of the sun glinting off the water, and scanned the yard.
A movement in the deep shadows in the farthest corner of the green grass caught her eye and stopped her heart.
Him.
Clint McPherson in the flesh.
Apparently he had not heard her arrival. He was in shorts, crouched over one of the flower beds, a spade in one hand, a bedding plant in the other.
If part of her had hoped that age had been cruel to him, that part of her was thwarted. Even from here she could see the power of his build, the grace and ease of his movement. He was wearing crisp khaki shorts and a navy-blue sports shirt. She could see the muscular line of his legs, the broad sweep of his shoulders, the muscles in his forearms leap and cord with each minute movement.
His hair was longer than she ever remembered it being, touching the collar of his short-sleeved shirt.
But she remembered that hair, thick and wavy, its color a burnished bronze that turned to spun gold in the sun.
The hair had always made her think of him as a throwback to some ancient and fierce Scottish warrior. For even in his business attire—knife-creased pants; white, starched shirt; conservative tie; black, polished shoes—even then, she had always seen that he was not what the rest of them were.
It was not just that he was not flabby or soft; it was that, in the most subtle of ways, he was not completely civilized. There was a look in his eyes of a man who had seen things, felt things, been at the center of things, that were hard and crude, perhaps even cruel. He had carried himself, back then, with the unconscious grace of a predator, alert, powerful, guarded.
He straightened suddenly, and she knew that part of him was unchanged—his instinct had warned him he was no longer alone. He stood and swung around, and Brandy saw the familiar grace and power in every line of his magnificent body.
Her breath caught in her throat and her foolish heart beat too fast.
His face was a study in unrelenting masculine angles. He had a strong nose, pronounced cheekbones; the line of his jawbone was straight and true. His chin, shadowed faintly with whiskers that were bronze tipped, hinted at a cleft. His lips were firm and sensuous.
His eyes were the tawny gold of a lion’s eyes, and every bit as watchful, every bit as ready, as they swept his property now.
She sensed two things immediately.
Her father had been right. Something was wrong. Despite the look of ordered perfection around the lake house, the light that had always flared in those eyes, brilliant and fierce, had an element in it she did not understand. It was as if ice and fire battled within him, and ice was winning.
The second thing she sensed and could not ignore was that her skin was tingling treacherously. She knew that she had wasted her time chanting her mantra all the way here. She loved Clint McPherson in some fierce and primal way she was not sure she could ever tame.
Nonsense, she told herself. Utter hogwash.
She drew in a deep breath and reprimanded herself firmly for her moment of weakness. She had been taming the untamable her whole life!
She was here on assignment for her father. Her assignment was to bring back the Clint they knew. But regarding him now, across the space of his well-manicured yard, she wondered if anyone had ever known him—or ever would.
But she had a third realization. She was also on assignment for herself.
Get over it, once and for all. It was probably this silly infatuation with Clint that was preventing her from jumping at Jason’s proposal.
She would lay her childish heartbreaks and hopes to rest. She would see Clint McPherson through the realistic eyes of a mature woman and tame that thing inside of her that wanted him.
Her exact words on her nineteenth birthday, if she recalled, and of course she did, in every excruciating and humiliating detail.
He looked at her for a long time, his expression unreadable, but certainly in no way welcoming. There was an impenetrable shield in his eyes, and his lips remained in a firm line. He folded his arms over the expanse of his chest, formidable, the lines of his face and body totally uninviting. Yet for all the rugged barriers set up by his body language, the unyielding expression on his face, the question that crowded her mind was How could a man approaching forty look so damned good?
Well, all you had to do was look at the men in Hollywood: Harrison, Tom, the other Clint. Some men aged well, like wine, and he was one of them.
Unfortunately.
She forced herself to move forward. She was good at this—looking over the side of a cliff or off the edge of the fiftieth floor of a skyscraper—and grinning with reckless abandon, as if nothing mattered to her, as if she knew no fear.
She strode toward him. “Hey,” she said. “Sobersides! Long time, no see.”
He inclined his head toward her, acknowledgment; his eyes narrowed, no smile. Not that she had expected one. He hated being called Sober-sides almost as much as she hated being called Brandgwen.
Before they could really take up their battle stations, the shrubs parted beside him and a gurgle emerged, followed by a baby, on all fours, her face dirty, her diaper swollen.
Brandy slowed her advance, entranced. Thirteen months. She knew the baby’s age, exactly.
Clint’s focus had shifted to his baby, too. That hard light in his eyes and the grim lines of his face softened, and for the briefest moment she caught sight of a vulnerability so immense it shook her to her core. But his face closed again, almost instantly, and she looked quickly away, almost terrified by the fact she might have glimpsed tenderness in him.
It seemed to be a good strategy, given the insanely wild beating of her heart. Brandy got down on her knees before his daughter.
The child was beautiful, her eyes the same tawny color as his, her shoulder-length hair a riot of messy red curls, freckles spattered across her fair skin. She put her thumb in her mouth and drew enthusiastically on it, her eyes narrowed.
Brandy glanced from the father to the daughter.
They were eyeing her with identical expressions of wariness, as if an enemy had trespassed the sanctuary of the clan camp.
“Brandgwen.”
She winced when he said her name, and at first he thought it was the gravel in his voice, but then he remembered she hated that form of her name. She preferred Brandy. Well, that was okay. He preferred almost anything to Sober-sides. A simple thing—the exchange of greetings—and yet already he could feel the friction between them.
He had not seen her for a long time, and he felt the shock of her presence, the subtle electricity of her. Of course, he had seen her in photographs, more recently in newspapers and magazines that could not seem to get enough of the oldest and youngest King girls. Just last month, he had caught a glimpse of her on the evening news after she had performed another outrageous stunt.
The cameras had