The Women of Bayberry Cove. Cynthia Thomason
Читать онлайн книгу.
as he’d done the last two mornings. He knew his actions must be conspicuous, and he felt like a fool. If Louise were looking out one of the windows, she’d surely notice that he altered his pace each time he passed this particular part of the track.
She wasn’t there. In fact, she hadn’t shown her face since Sunday when, in front of half the population of Bayberry Cove, she’d hollered a greeting from her window and cheerfully wished him a good morning. And now it was Wednesday, and he hadn’t felt nearly as cheery since. He waved at his grandfather, seated, as always, on a bench, and picked up his speed, heading into his second lap. “Forget about her, Wes,” he puffed to himself on short, choppy bursts of air exploding from his laboring lungs. “Louise Duncan is the last woman on earth you should be interested in.”
At the next corner, he ran faster. Louise was still in town. He’d heard that from several sources, including Jamie Malone. In fact, Jamie couldn’t seem to talk about her without aiming a knowing grin at Wes.
Surely Jamie didn’t think he was interested in Louise. She was about as alien to Bayberry Cove as nouveau cuisine was to the Kettle. If Wes ever did settle down with one woman again, it wouldn’t be with an independent, wisecracking, sexy-as-hell city girl like Louise Duncan.
Jamie wasn’t the only one in town who’d taken a liking to Louise. Bobbi Lee referred to her as “the princess” without the slightest hint of malice in her voice. Lots of folks in town seemed to like her. Wes wasn’t at all sure how he felt about her, but as each day passed, he found himself wishing the warning bells in his head would cease their clamor so he could have the opportunity to decide how he did.
And then opportunity knocked—or dashed—right smack into his exercise regimen. In the middle of the long section of track opposite Main Street, Louise suddenly appeared next to him, jogging with all the vigor he had begun to lose. Long, lean legs extended from clinging midthigh shorts and ended in sparkling white running shoes. A form-fitting tank top revealed a slash of creamy abdomen each time her fists pumped away from her body. The material stretched tightly across her breasts, permitting just enough of a subtle bob to make his throat feel as if it were stuffed with cotton. A brazen red baseball cap completed her outfit. She wore it low on her forehead, and a swath of raven hair swung from the opening at the back, reminding him of the tail of a Thoroughbred twitching at the starting gate.
“Nice day for a run, isn’t it, Wesley?” she said, her voice even and controlled, and irritatingly unlabored.
He huffed out an answer. “A beautiful morning, Louise. I haven’t seen you run before.”
“I’ve indulged in entirely too much Southern cooking at the Kettle,” she said, patting a tummy which, now that he looked, might be straining her zippers a little. “I run three days a week at home.” She smiled at him. “Can’t let myself go just because I’m on vacation.”
Ordinarily Wes might have slowed as he approached the third curve for the second time. But he wasn’t about to exhibit a lack of endurance in front of Louise. He sucked in his diaphragm, straightened his back and kept up the pace that somehow in the last minute he’d let her establish. “So how’s that vacation thing working out for you?” he asked.
“Fine, but I’m counting on you to help make it better.”
He stumbled on absolutely nothing. In disciplined military fashion, he covered his blunder and kept running. But he knew from the quick upturn of her lips that she’d seen him falter. “Oh?” It was all he could manage to say.
“I figured, who better to show me the sights than one of the town’s most respected citizens.” She cast him a sideways glance. “And from all I’ve heard, that’s you, Commander.”
The sun glinted off a silver medallion that bounced against her chest above the scooped neckline of her top. Wes couldn’t take his eyes off it.
Her voice jolted him back from a dangerous place. “Wes? Are you interested?”
He snapped his eyes to hers. “Well, okay. Where would you like to go?”
“I thought we’d start with the candle factory.”
The candle factory? He’d expected…deep down he’d hoped she would request a boat ride on Currituck Sound. In fact, he could picture her in his speedboat or the lively little skiff he’d brought out of dry dock and kept by the shore at the cottage. Or he thought she’d ask to see Bayberry Park with its thirty-foot waterfall, an anomaly in an area that boasted few attractions above sea level. But no, she wanted to see the candle factory.
As if sensing his confusion, she elaborated. “I love candles. I have dozens in my condo in Florida. What about this afternoon? I want to see the factory from the inside out, how candles are mass-produced, all the details I wouldn’t get if I didn’t go with someone who knows the territory.”
Of course he could accommodate her. His father and the candle factory president, Justin Beauclaire, had been friends, fishing buddies and poker-playing rivals for years. The factory was certainly a safe place to take the bewildering Miss Duncan, but Wes’s thoughts kept returning to a vision of a more intimate afternoon at the park or skimming over the crystal water of the sound. “Okay, the candle factory it is,” he said, trying to hide a disappointment that surprised him with its intensity. “I’ll pick you up behind the furniture store at two?”
They’d reached the path by Main Street again, and Louise veered off toward her apartment. “Great. See you then.”
As soon as Wes was certain she couldn’t see him, he stopped running, bent his knees and placed his hands on his thighs. He expelled a long, exhausted breath and heard his grandfather chuckling. Wes looked over his shoulder, frowned and said, “What’s so funny?”
“I’m just sympathizing with you, boy,” Mason said. “That woman can knock the wind right out of you.”
HER LEGS ACHING, her heart pounding and her breathing as ragged as if she’d climbed a hundred steps instead of eighteen, Louise flung open the door to her apartment, grabbed a bottle of water from her small refrigerator and collapsed onto her sofa. “You idiot,” she said. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”
Running a mile-long track around the square was nothing like hitting the treadmill for fifteen minutes at her Fort Lauderdale gym before getting a smoothie and a massage. She gulped the water and lay on her back, propping her head on the arm of the couch. Her gaze connected immediately with her coffee table and the single item sitting there, the blue candle.
“I just love candles,” she said in a sing-song voice that mimicked her previous comment to Wes. “I have dozens in my condo.” She flung her ball cap and hit the candle dead center, hiding it from view. “Candles, my ass,” she groaned.
The only ones she’d ever bought in her life had been skinny little things to stick into birthday cakes, and those she’d bought for someone else. Louise was a firm believer in electric light—bright, soft, sexy, whatever. As long as it illuminated without threatening to set the house on fire. But what the heck? She was getting inside the candle factory, and she was going in on the arm of Wesley Fletcher.
BY TWO O’CLOCK that afternoon, Louise had showered, applied makeup and slipped into a coral shirt-waist dress with what she considered a respectable hemline. On impulse, as she went down the back staircase from her apartment, she popped open the top two buttons and spread the yoke of the dress just enough to distract Wesley from the questions she intended to ask.
He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a tan knit shirt that fit his military-sculpted chest as if it had been molded to him at the factory. He leaned on the hood of an immaculate dark green Jeep.
“Nice car,” she said, figuring a compliment to his vehicle would go a long way with a guy like Wes.
He opened the passenger door, and she slid onto a spotless tan leather bucket seat. “It gets me where I need to go,” he said.
He bolted to the other side, got in and started the engine. With one