Breakfast In Bed. Ruth Dale Jean
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couldn’t believe that Clark Gable would stab her in the back, yet when she reentered the sitting room she found the big orange cat draped across the lap of the enemy. Garrett was stroking the creature with great sweeping motions obviously perfected on some dog somewhere.
“What are you doing?” she demanded in an outraged whisper, starting forward to rescue her pet.
“Shh!” He glanced significantly at Molly. “Don’t worry about old Clark, here. We’re best buddies.”
Another healthy stroke; a cloud of orange-and brown-tipped cat hairs rose on a beam of light and sifted back down to settle on man and ottoman.
Brooke frowned. “What did you do to my cat?” she demanded. “Did you drug him?”
“This isn’t your cat, it’s his evil twin.” Garrett gave back her earlier words, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I told you, you can’t trust cats. They just lay around waiting for a chance to make a fool of you. Dogs, on the other hand—”
Throwing up her hands in disbelief, Brooke turned and walked into the kitchen. What in the world was going on here? She didn’t even know this man, yet her heart was pounding and her mind racing as if...as if she were really attracted to him.
Which, of course, she wasn’t. He’d come here to dismantle an entire way of life left in his care by a wonderful woman he’d never even bothered to get to know. Brooke wouldn’t, couldn’t, let herself succumb to the temptations he presented.
Naturally, he followed her, he had a penchant for that. She gave him an unhappy glance. “So you used old Gable to make a point and then dumped him,” she accused.
“Hey, that’s life. Love ’em and leave ’em.” He leaned his elbows on the center work island, resting his chin on his hands. The amber eyes he turned toward her sparkled with some indefinable devilry. “But you have to admit, cats love me. I won our bet hands down. That’s the important thing.”
“To you, maybe.”
He looked surprised. “Winning’s important to everyone, in case you hadn’t heard.”
“No, being happy is important to everyone.”
“That’s a woman’s point of view.”
“I am a woman, or hadn’t you—” She stopped short, appalled. She knew he’d noticed she was a woman, and it was that knowledge which had her so on edge. Because him noticing made her notice, which left her somehow vulnerable.
He straightened slowly away from the counter. “I noticed, all right.” A sexy little smile curved his lips. “You owe me a prize.”
“I don’t owe you a thing.”
“Oh, yes, you do.” He advanced on her, still slowly. “Nobody likes a welsher. You’ll have to pay up.”
Feeling like a bird hypnotized by a snake, she retreated, also slowly. “Stop right where you are, Garrett Jackson.”
“I wanted breakfast in bed but you seem strangely reluctant to go for that,” he reminded her. “So what’s it gonna be?”
She backed into the refrigerator, she had nowhere else to go, so she braced her hands at her sides and glared at him. “This is silly. Stop it at once!”
He ignored her command. “Let’s see, what shall I claim as my prize? It wasn’t a very big or important bet so I’m just looking for a little prize, some little something you’ll never miss...but which will remind you that nobody gets the best of Garrett Jackson.”
He leaned closer. Although he wasn’t touching her, she felt his physical presence as if he held her in his arms. Her breathing was erratic, and she couldn’t get enough oxygen to think straight.
If she’d been thinking straight, she would never have said in that faint little voice, “How about a cookie? That’s a little something I’ll never m-miss.”
His smile, she was beginning to realize, was simply glorious when he unfolded it slowly and deliberately, as he did now.
“How about a kiss?” he countered, still not touching her but leaning very near. “Surely that would remind you that I’m a man who likes to win...and does.”
And as the final word faded away, he pressed his lips to hers.
CHAPTER THREE
GARRETT pressed his lips against hers...cool and smooth and thrilling. Stiff with shock, she simply stood there as if paralyzed and let him kiss her.
It was the most powerfully erotic kiss she’d ever received, perhaps because there was only that single point of contact between them. He didn’t put his arms around her or even lean toward her, although trapped between his body and the refrigerator, she couldn’t have retreated any farther if she’d tried.
Her every sense was centered in the growing warmth of his mouth so persuasively controlling hers, the growing warmth of her blood singing through her veins with the sparkle of champagne.
Only slowly did it dawn on her that someone was calling his name. She opened her eyes, unsure when she might have closed them, and blinked, trying to find her bearings.
When she succeeded, she shoved him away and stepped aside, surprised she could stand on legs that trembled this violently. My goodness, that man could kiss! She’d never encountered anything so seductive in her entire life.
But why was he frowning? She hadn’t put any moves on him! Before she could ask, that unfamiliar female voice intruded again.
“Mr. Jackson? Are you there? Where is everybody? Honestly, if you think I’ve come all this way to wander around in some forest—”
My goodness, Brooke thought groggily, her gaze meeting Garrett’s, what a strident voice. It was one he apparently recognized, however, for his look of shock and displeasure was quickly replaced by one closely resembling resignation.
“Mrs. Sisk,” he announced with a significant glance at Brooke, as if that were explanation enough.
“Who’s Mrs. Sisk?” Brooke found she had trouble using her voice and swallowed hard.
“Molly’s nanny.” He watched her closely, as if trying to gauge her reaction to his recent sneaky advances. “I forgot all about her.”
From the annoyed tone of the woman’s voice, Brooke didn’t blame him for at least trying. “Nevertheless, I’d say she arrived in the nick of time,” she replied tartly. “If you think you can go around stealing kisses any time you feel like it—”
“Hey, that wasn’t highway robbery or anything. I won that kiss fair and square.” A roguish grin tilted his mouth at one corner. “In fact, I was robbed. I didn’t get to finish it.”
“Oh, yes, you did.” Brooke squared her shoulders and pointed toward the door. “You’re really finished. Now you’ve got to face the music.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, but this only delays the inevitable. Your time will come, Ms. Brooke Hamilton.”
Which was exactly what worried her, she admitted, following him into the other room. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Mrs. Sisk!
All gratitude quickly fled, however, for Mrs. Sisk was not the kind of woman who evoked such tender emotion. In fact, Brooke thought, poor Molly had a nanny who looked more like an aging Amazon than a nurturer.
A large woman, she stood beside the sofa where Molly still dozed with Lombard curled up beside her. Fists firmly planted on her hips, the nanny stared down at child and cat with patent disapproval. Dressed in a shapeless gray dress and boxy gray wool jacket, with her jet-black hair pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, she looked exactly like somebody’s idea of an old maid schoolteacher of a century ago.
“What is the meaning of this?” She indicated the pair on the sofa.