One In A Million. Susan Mallery
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The thought of a Mr. Wynne caused Nash a twinge of guilt. He didn’t usually go around looking at other men’s wives and admiring their bare skin.
He turned the page on the paper and started to read again, only to be interrupted by the sound of footsteps racing down the hall. He looked up in time to see three boys running toward the front door.
“Walk! We have a guest.”
The command came from the kitchen. Instantly three pairs of feet slowed and three heads turned in his direction. Nash had a brief impression of towheaded boys ranging in age from ten or twelve to about eight. The two youngest were twins.
Stephanie stepped into view and gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. It’s the last week of school and they’re pretty wound up.”
“No problem.”
The boys continued to study him curiously until their mother shooed them out the door. The twins ducked back in for a quick kiss, then waved in his direction and disappeared. Stephanie stood in the foyer with the door open until a bus pulled up in front of the house. Through the window in the dining room Nash could see the boys climb onto the bus. When it pulled away, Stephanie closed the front door and walked into the dining room.
“Did you get enough to eat?” she asked as she began to clear his dishes. “There are more scones.”
“I’m fine,” he told her. “Everything was great.”
“Thank you. The original scone recipe dates back several generations. My late husband and I rented a guest house from an English couple many years ago. Mrs. Frobisher was a great one for baking. She taught me how to make the scones. I also make shortbread cookies that melt in your mouth. I would be happy to leave a few in your room if you’d like.”
Nash told himself that her mention of a “late husband” didn’t mean much more than that he didn’t have to feel guilty for noticing Stephanie’s bare stomach. The entire point of their encounter earlier that morning was that he wasn’t as dead inside as he’d thought. Good news that was not particularly meaningful.
He glanced at her face and saw the expectant expression in her blue eyes. His brain offered a replay of her conversation and he cleared his throat.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” he said.
“None at all. The boys prefer chocolate chip cookies. I guess shortbread is an acquired taste that comes with age.”
She offered a polite smile and carried his dishes out of the dining room.
Nash flipped through the sports section, then closed the paper. The news no longer interested him. Maybe he would go for that drive now and explore the area.
He rose, then paused, not sure if he should tell his hostess he was leaving. When he traveled it was usually on business and he always stayed in anonymous hotels and motels. He’d never been in a bed and breakfast before. While this was a place of business, apparently it was also Stephanie’s home.
He looked from the kitchen to the foyer, then decided she wouldn’t care what he had planned for his day. After fishing his car keys out of his pocket, he walked across the gleaming hardwood floor and out to the curb where he’d left his rental car.
Two minutes later he was back in the Victorian house. He walked into the kitchen, but it was empty. He crossed to the stairs and glanced up. Was she cleaning his room, or had she gone up to her private quarters?
A loud bang made him turn toward the back of the house. He followed the rhythmic noise past the kitchen and pantry into a large utility room. Stephanie sat on the floor in front of a washer. An open manual lay on her lap and there were tools and assorted parts all around her.
In the ten or fifteen minutes since she’d cleared his table, she’d changed her clothes. The tailored slacks and attractive sweater had been replaced by worn jeans and a sweatshirt featuring a familiar cartoon mouse. As he watched, she jabbed the side of the washer with a large wrench.
“Rat-fink cheap piece of metal trash,” she muttered. “I hate you. I will always hate you. For the rest of your life, you’re going to have to live with that.”
He cleared his throat.
Stephanie gasped and shifted on the floor so that she faced him. Her eyes widened and her mouth twisted into a half smile that was as much sheepish as amused.
“If you keep sneaking up on me like this, I’m going to be forced to put a bell around your neck.”
Nash leaned against the door frame and nodded at the washer. “Is there a problem?”
“It’s not working. I’m trying to use guilt, but I don’t think it’s helping.” She glanced from him to her jeans and back. “I thought you were heading out.”
“The battery in my rental car is dead.”
“Did you try guilting it into behaving?”
“I thought a jump would be more effective.”
“Sure.”
She tossed down the wrench and rose. Wearing athletic shoes, she barely came to his shoulder. She gave the washer one more kick, then walked toward him.
“Lead the way.”
Nash straightened. “I could take a look at that if you would like.”
Stephanie appeared doubtful. “You don’t strike me as the washer repairman type.”
“I’m not, but I’m pretty mechanical.”
“Thanks, but I’m going to get a professional in. I’ll go get my car keys. Why don’t you meet me in front?”
Stephanie waited until Nash had started down the hallway before running upstairs to get the keys out of her purse. When she reached the top floor, she told herself that her rapidly beating heart had everything to do with the effort required to climb two flights of stairs and nothing to do with her guest’s appearance. She figured she was being about sixty percent honest.
The truth was Mr. Elegant-in-a-Suit looked just as good in jeans as he had all dressed up. Daylight suited him, as well. Despite the fact that he couldn’t have gotten more than four hours of sleep, he looked tanned, handsome and rested. She, of course, had dark circles that had defied her heavy-duty concealer and a bone-deep weariness compounded by a broken washer and an as-ever challenged bank account.
She took the back stairs down to the rear entrance and climbed into her minivan. After backing out of the driveway, she positioned her car so her bumper nearly touched his.
Jumper cables proved to be something of a challenge, but after rooting around in the garage for a few minutes, she found a set behind a box of old spare parts for some mystery machine. She picked them up and turned, only to run smack into Nash.
“You all right?” he asked as he grabbed her upper arms to steady her.
All right? With her nose practically touching his chest and her hands thrust into his rock-hard stomach?
He smelled good, she thought wistfully as she inhaled the scent of soap and man. Something deep inside her, that feminine part of her dormant for the past three years, gave a slight hiccup of resurrection and slowly stirred to life. Awareness rippled through her. Awareness and sexual interest.
Telling herself that the good news was that this would be a great story to tell her friends the next time they managed to sneak away for a girls’-only dinner, she stepped back and cleared her throat.
“Okay. While I’m out today I’m definitely getting you that bell.” She handed him the jumper cables. “Hooking them up is going to be your problem. I know what a car battery looks like, but if I used those things, I would probably electrocute myself and set both our vehicles on fire.”
“No problem. I appreciate the help. Are you sure I can’t repay you by looking at the washer?”
“Thanks,