Fugitive Fiancee. Kristin Gabriel
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rodents.
“I’ve been remodeling the second floor, so the bedrooms up there are a mess. I used to have a small cabin on my ranch that was used for a bunkhouse, but it burned down last month.”
“So that leaves?”
“My bed.”
“Your bed?” she echoed, certain she hadn’t heard him right.
He gazed at her through half-lidded eyes. “I think you’ll find my bed much more comfortable than my sofa.”
Maybe. But she doubted she’d get any sleep in his bed. For one brief moment, she allowed herself to imagine sleeping in Garrett Lord’s bed. In his arms. Kissing that hard, sullen mouth. A bolt of white-hot desire shot through her veins.
She closed her eyes, telling herself she shouldn’t be having erotic thoughts about another man already.
“I think I prefer the sofa,” she said at last.
“Sorry, that’s not an option.”
At the unyielding tone of his voice, her mouth fell open. Was this how he planned to get rid of her? Then she looked into Garrett’s green-gold eyes and knew she was overreacting. This wasn’t a man who played games. “Why not?”
“Because I’ll be sleeping on the sofa. It’s roomy, but not quite big enough for two.”
She shook her head. “I can’t kick you out of your own bed.”
He shrugged, then opened the door and climbed out of the pickup. “It will only be for a night or two.”
Her regret burned away at the arrogant confidence in his tone. The big jerk. Garrett Lord thought he’d be rid of her soon. Thought she was a spoiled city girl who would run back to Austin the first time she broke a nail.
She didn’t want to admit to herself that the thought of returning to Austin had crossed her mind a time or two in the last few hours. But Garrett’s doubts about her staying power strengthened her resolve.
“A night or two?” she muttered, following Garrett to the house and trying not to wince every painful step of the way. “Think again, cowboy.”
“Did you say something?” he asked as he held the door open for her.
“I said thanks for giving up your bed.” She smiled sweetly at him. “I’ll take it.”
GARRETT STRETCHED on the sofa and silently counted the chimes of the grandfather clock. Nine…ten…eleven…twelve. Midnight. He’d been lying here wide awake for almost two hours and wondering where he’d gone wrong. He had a beautiful woman in his bed. And he was on the sofa. Somehow, some way, he’d screwed up.
He bunched the pillow under his head and turned onto his side, the lonestar quilt slipping off his shoulder. Hubert slept soundly on the rug in front of the fireplace. No doubt Mimi slept soundly, too, after the day she’d put in. Hell, she’d dozed off over supper. He smiled into the darkness, remembering how he’d moved her plate away just in time to keep her hair from falling into the ketchup.
Then his smile faded. He was thinking about her too much. Way too damn much. She’d be gone in a day or two. Besides, she had a fiancé waiting for her out there somewhere.
Just like he had a mother out there somewhere. Only she wasn’t waiting for him or his brother or sisters to find her. In fact, she’d made it almost impossible. How could one woman disappear so easily? LeeAnn Larrimore. A name as unfamiliar to him as the woman he’d once called Mama.
The search for her had finally narrowed down to the last name on the list. A list that had started with the names of women who had given birth to fraternal triplets in Texas around the same time period and with the right sex: two girls, one boy. One by one, the other names on the list had been eliminated as possibilities. So had any other potential leads. That left only LeeAnn Larrimore.
According to his research, she’d given birth to triplets at a free clinic in a town near Austin. She’d lived in Austin for a while, working in a grocery store until she’d been fired from her job. That’s when the trail had turned ice cold.
He flipped onto his stomach and closed his eyes, willing sleep to overtake him. He didn’t want to think about the woman who had abandoned her children twenty-five years ago. And he definitely didn’t want to think about the woman sleeping in his bed. How her silky blond curls would spill over the pillow. Or the way her body would warm the white cotton sheets, imbuing them with her unique scent. He closed his eyes, imagining the soft, steady cadence of her breathing as she slept. Then he imagined waking her with a kiss. Sliding his hands under the sheets and touching her. Making her breathing quicken.
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