The Bride's Second Thought. Elizabeth August
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Bane had eaten at the same time they had and now he was sleeping in front of the fire while Peter sat in a nearby chair reading. She’d noticed the book earlier. It was a massive tome about the Mayan civilization. He didn’t exactly strike her as the scholarly type, but then she wasn’t the best judge of men, she thought acidly.
“I noticed a large assortment of books in the study. Would it be all right if I chose one to read?” she asked.
“Consider yourself at home,” Peter replied without looking up from the page. He’d been trying to concentrate on a map of the ancient Mayan empire, especially that portion that had spread into Guatemala, but his unexpected guest had proved to be a distraction. He’d found himself covertly watching her and enjoying the view. Hopefully, she’d find a book, sit down and he’d be able to ignore her.
Bane lifted his head, looked disgruntled at having had his rest disturbed, then again laid his head down and went back to sleep.
Clearly, I’m the sort of woman who can’t hold any male’s attention, Ellen mused dryly, going into the study. A handsome, blue-eyed, blond-haired man’s image filled her mind. Her stomach knotted and she felt sick. Pushing the image from her mind, she concentrated on the shelves of books. Most were nonfiction. Some were histories. The majority dealt with Native Americans. On closer inspection, she found that several pertaining to the healing arts practiced by the various Indian nations were written by Jack Greenriver. He’d also written one concerning the Eskimos. Choosing a book at random, she considered remaining in the study, but being alone made it too easy to remember what had sent her on this trek.
So far, her host and Bane had proved to be enough of a distraction to keep her mind off last night, and with any luck they would continue to be.
“You said this place belonged to Jack Greenriver?” she asked, returning to the living room.
Peter looked up. Her hair had dried into a mass of tiny ringlets. It looked cute, he thought, then frowned impatiently at himself. “Yes.”
She got the distinct impression he didn’t want to talk. “I just wondered,” she said crisply. “I found a shelf of books with that name as the author.”
She’s taken, Peter reminded himself curdy. “Jack wrote them. He’s in Arizona visiting family and doing some research for a new book at the moment.”
A blast of wind rattled the window in the kitchen area. “He’s probably having a lot better weather there than we are here. Warmer, at least,” she murmured.
Not any warmer than the heat she was kindling inside of him, Peter admitted silently. Apparently, he had been spending too much time alone. He returned his gaze to the page in front of him. “I suppose.”
Again sensing that her host was not in the mood. for conversation, Ellen told herself to keep quiet. She seated herself on the couch and began to read. But as interesting as the subject matter was, it could not hold her attention. Instead, she found herself covertly studying her host and comparing him to Charles.
Charles was thirty-five. She’d placed her host somewhere near that age. They were also near the same height and build. But they were clearly men of different ilks. Peter obviously did not make regular trips to the barber. She also guessed that the jeans and flannel shirt were his normal attire. Charles, on the other hand, had a standing weekly appointment with his hair stylist, and he never wore jeans. She tried to picture him in them but the image felt wrong. Denim didn’t suit his personality. At work, he was always in a suit. At play, he wore designer slacks or shorts. He was a sophisticated, well-educated man with impeccable manners. But he wasn’t a snob...just a louse.
She turned her attention back to her host. He’d displayed pleasant manners while they’d eaten. He hadn’t belched or slurped. As for education, she knew he could read.
Peter had been attempting to ignore his guest. But her gaze was causing an uncomfortable prickling sensation. He cast an irritated scowl her way.
Quickly Ellen feigned intense interest in the page in front of her. But again her mind didn’t focus on the words, instead the blue of her host’s eyes intrigued her. Charles’s eyes were blue as well, but they were more pale in color. Peter Whitley’s eyes reminded her of sky darkened just before a storm.
Admitting that trying to relax was useless, she put the book aside, rose and went to the window to look out. In the dim light of the porch lamp she could see the huge flakes still falling, and the sound of the wind told her the storm was continuing to rage. “Shouldn’t we call the nearest garage and make an appointment to have their wrecker come pull me out as soon as the storm subsides?” she asked, abruptly breaking the silence hanging over the room.
“I did that while you were washing the dishes,” Peter replied.
She assumed that, like before, he would immediately return his attention to his book, but a prickling on her neck suggested otherwise. She turned and was met by a pair of cool blue eyes. “Thanks.” That seemed, she thought, to be the major extent of her vocabulary since they’d met.
Hoping to rid himself of all temptation, Peter said, “If you’re anxious to get out of here because you want to make amends with your fiancé, you could call him.”
Her jaw tensed. “I can’t talk to him. Not yet, anyway.”
Her nervousness was making him edgy. Worse, though, was her moving around the room. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her. Deciding that, seated, she would be much less dangerous to his control, he said, “I apologize for not being a good host. If you’d like, we could play a game of chess or cards.”
His offer, she could tell, was genuine, but the thought of sitting made her legs ache. “What I’d really like to do is scream.”
“Go ahead. I’d be grateful for anything that would reduce the tension in this room.”
That her distress was affecting him surprised her. She’d been sure her presence was no more noticeable to him than one of the chairs or some other inanimate object. “I’m sorry.”
Peter found himself focusing on her lips and wondering how they would taste. He needed a diversion, something that would discourage such thoughts. Talking about her fiancé should do the trick. “I make it a rule never to pry into anyone else’s private life. However, if it would be helpful for you to talk about whatever sent you on this excursion, I’m willing to listen.”
The image of Charles wearing nothing but a bathrobe, caused Ellen’s anger to rekindle. “Being a man, you’ll probably think it’s amusing.”
He frowned at the implication that all men were insensitive clods. “I find nothing amusing about a person placing themself in danger.”
Realizing she’d lashed out unfairly at him, she flushed. “I apologize. It’s just that I trusted Charles. Now I’m wondering if I can trust any man.”
“No one is perfect.”
Too tense to remain in one place, she paced across the room. Coming to a halt behind the couch, she met his gaze squarely. “I never expected perfection. And I was perfectly willing to forget about any liaisons he’d had before we started dating. But once he’d declared his love for me and we became engaged, I did expect fidelity.” The anger in her eyes flared hotter. “Last night I caught him with another woman. I’m a mechanical engineer. He thought I was going to be at the plant all night working out a problem we were having with one of the robotic arms. But I solved it more quickly than I thought I would and stopped by his place with Chinese takeout. I figured we could have a late dinner together.”
Peter found himself thinking that Charles must be a real idiot. “He was probably having one last fling before he marched down the aisle. Some men feel that need.”
“You make it sound so frivolous, as if he’d done nothing worse than go out for a night with the guys.” She studied him coldly. “Are you men so shallow you don’t know the meaning of commitment?”
Again he