The Truth About Tate. Marilyn Pappano
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Shutting out the memory of the chill in his voice and his eyes, she toyed with her fork for a moment before meeting J.T.’s gaze again. “You ask awfully personal questions, considering that we’re strangers.”
He gave that sexy little shrug. “Have I asked you anything you didn’t ask me first?”
“But I’m being paid to ask questions.”
“So this is my payment. You want answers from me? You have to provide your own answers.”
When he pushed his plate back, she stood up, gathered the dishes and carried them to the sink, where she began rinsing them.
“After-supper cleanup is Jordan’s job.” J.T.’s voice came from somewhere behind her.
She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder and instead concentrated on scrubbing away every particle of pasta, cheese and sauce before loading the dishes in the dishwasher. “I don’t mind.”
“It’s not a matter of minding. It’s his responsibility.”
“But I’m already finished.” She dried her hands, then faced him. “Can I go out with you tomorrow?”
“We start early.”
“I know. You get up at five-fifteen and have breakfast at five-thirty. When I interviewed Boyd, Jr., the oldest of your half brothers, I usually got back to the hotel around five-thirty. I doubt he’s been out of bed before noon since he graduated from high school.”
“And what did you and Boyd, Jr., do until five-thirty in the morning?”
“He partied, gambled, drank, ate, flirted. I watched. When I interviewed Kathleen, the second child, I was lucky to get four hours of sleep a night. She indulges in all of Junior’s pastimes, and is a world-class shopper, as well.”
“So they party, they play, they spend money. And your publisher actually thinks people want to read about this?”
“People are fascinated by the idle rich, especially when they attract scandal like…like Jordan’s Barbie doll attracts admirers.”
“Jordan’s—” Breaking off, J.T. grinned. It was a sight to see—white teeth, crinkled brown skin, a light in his dark eyes. “You saw Shelley’s picture at Mom’s.”
She nodded. “The most popular girl in Hickory Bluff. The cheerleader, the class president, the princess in the homecoming queen’s court, the star of the school play, the sweetest voice in the school choir. The golden girl whose life so far has been perfect, who makes other girls’ lives miserable.”
He gestured, and she preceded him into the living room. “You learned all that from a photograph? Or were you describing yourself back in high school?”
With a chuckle Natalie chose to sit on the sofa. It was one of those really comfortable overstuffed models, the perfect place to snuggle in among puffy pillows and cushions and drift off to sleep. “I was nobody’s golden girl. For me, high school was an ordeal to be endured. Graduation was one of the happiest days of my life.” Except that her father hadn’t been there. What had kept him away that time? Another terrorist attack in the Middle East? Some new crisis in Moscow or Baghdad or Belfast?
“Where did you go to high school?”
“New York. And Connecticut, Virginia and D.C.”
“I went from kindergarten through twelfth grade here in Hickory Bluff.”
“You were lucky.”
“Yeah, I was.”
When silence settled between them, she gazed around the room. There were family photographs on every wall, but none of Jordan’s mother or Tate’s father. A rusty horseshoe hung above the front door, and a sandstone fireplace filled one wall, with bookcases on either side crammed with—surprise—books. Neither the room nor its furnishings could hold a candle to the lavish residences the other Chaney siblings called home. They surrounded themselves with antiques, designer names and opulent furnishings, spending fortunes on the most exquisite items money could buy…but not one of them had a sofa that invited you to nap cozily cradled in its softness. Not one that she could recall displayed personal items with pride and affection, like the photos, the child’s sculpture of a horse or the handmade Best Dad Award that stood on the fireplace mantel.
Of course, she reminded herself, this was Tate Rawlins’s house—his pride and affection and comfort. J.T. was a temporary guest here, as she was at his mother’s house.
“So…” She brought her gaze back to J.T. He was sitting in an easy chair that looked as if it lived up to its name. His left knee was bent, with his foot propped on the coffee table. His other leg was stretched out half the length of the table. His jeans were soft and faded nearly white, his T-shirt was snug and worn thin, and his feet were bare.
Natalie liked the intimacy of bare feet. His were long and slender, not as dark as his face and arms, but shades darker than her own barely tanned skin. They were purely functional…and somehow appealing.
Oh, man, she needed a date. Badly.
Clearing her throat, she returned to a subject she suspected he wanted her to forget. “Can I go with you tomorrow?”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
She smiled. “That was another of my father’s lessons.”
“All right. But dress appropriately.”
“And what’s appropriate?”
“Jeans. A shirt—for you, with long sleeves. A hat. Sturdy shoes. Do you have any sunscreen?”
Her expression turned admonishing. “Look at me,” she said, and he did, his gaze sliding slowly over her face, down her throat and lower before lifting again. It made her voice sound funny and her heart beat faster, and she swore it raised her temperature by a degree or two. “Do I look as if I go anywhere without sunscreen?”
“No,” he agreed. “In fact, add a few more yards to that dress, and you’d look like the stereotypical Southern belle—fragile, pampered, delicate skin untouched by the sun…”
“I’m not sure whether I’ve just been complimented or insulted.”
“Frankly, neither am I.”
She glanced at her watch. It was after eight o’clock. She was tired, and no doubt J.T. would like a little time to himself before turning in. “I’d better get to bed if I’m getting up early. I’ll see you at five-thirty.”
He walked to the side door with her, leaning against the frame while she crossed the deck to her own door. There she looked back. “So you don’t like the dress.”
“As a matter of fact, I like it just fine.”
She smiled faintly, then sobered. “Don’t underestimate me, J.T. I’m neither fragile nor pampered nor delicate. I’m a survivor.” Or, at least, trying to be. “Good night.”
She went inside, closed and locked the door, then peeked through the curtains. For a long moment he remained where he was, motionless. Then, with a shake of his head, he went inside his own house and closed the door.
By the time Tate made it into the kitchen the next morning, the coffee was ready and breakfast was almost done. Jordan handed him a mug, already filled and sweetened, then turned back to the mass of eggs he was scrambling.
Tate wasn’t an easy riser. It didn’t matter whether he was getting up at five or noon, after two hours’ sleep or eight. He needed coffee, food and time before he was capable of any behavior remotely close to human.
He’d bet Ms. Alabama was perky and bright-eyed, he thought with a scowl as the doorbell rang. Leaving Jordan to his cooking, he went down the short hall, opened the side door, then silently swung around and headed back to the kitchen.
“And a good morning to you,