His Heir, Her Secret. Janice Maynard
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Maybe we’ll have a flash of inspiration tomorrow.”
“I doubt it.”
* * *
Brody fell asleep instantly, but surfaced four hours later, completely disoriented and wide-awake. After a few seconds the fog cleared. It was midmorning back home. On a good day he’d be out on the loch with the wind in his hair and the sun on his back. He slung an arm across his face and told himself not to panic. No one could make him move to America. That was ludicrous.
Without warning, an image of Cate Everett filled his brain. He would never admit it, but even with an ocean between them, Cate had been on his mind most days over the past four months. There was something about her gentle smile and husky laughter and the way her hair spilled like warm silk across his chest when they were in bed together.
She wasn’t exactly uninhibited between the sheets. In fact, the first three times they had been intimate, she’d insisted on having the lights off. He’d thought her shyness was charming and sweet. He’d considered it a personal triumph when she’d actually let him strip her naked in broad daylight and make her scream his name.
The memory dampened his forehead and caused his jaw to clench. The house was plenty cool, but suddenly the bed felt like a prison.
Bloody hell. He pulled on a clean pair of boxers and wandered barefoot through the silent hallways to the kitchen. The generous space had been renovated a decade ago. Despite Isobel’s advanced age, she had never fit the stereotype of a little old lady. She embraced change and even loved technology. Stewart Properties was a sophisticated, cutting-edge company with an incredibly healthy bottom line.
He poured himself a glass of orange juice and downed it in three swallows. Brody owed his grandmother a great deal. She had helped him through a very painful period of his life when his parents divorced. He’d been fifteen and totally oblivious to the undercurrents in the house.
When the end came, life had become unbearable. Isobel insisted that her two boys come to North Carolina for a long visit, long enough for the worst of the trauma to ease. These mountains had provided healing.
Under the circumstances, Brody had a very serious debt to pay.
Even knowing that, his gut churned. Staying in Candlewick would mean dealing with Cate and his muddled feelings.
It was far easier to live on another continent.
After half an hour of pacing, his feet were icy, and sleep was out of the question. Without second-guessing himself, he returned to his bedroom and dressed rapidly. Duncan wouldn’t need transportation at this hour.
Brody guided the boring rental car down the winding mountain road, careful to stay on the correct side of the road. It helped that no one else was out at this hour. Soon he reached the outskirts of town. Candlewick still slept. Main Street was deserted.
He parked the car and filched a small handful of pea gravel from the nicely landscaped flower beds at the bank. Then he eyed Cate’s bookstore with a frown. The striped burgundy and green awning that covered the front of the shop was going to make this difficult.
Though he had sucked at geometry in school, even he could see that he needed a longer arc. Looking left and right and hoping local law enforcement was asleep, as well, he backed up until he stood in the middle of the street. Feeling like an idiot, he chose a piece of gravel, rotated his shoulders to loosen them up and aimed at Cate’s bedroom window.
Cate groaned and pulled the quilt up around her ears. That stupid squirrel was scratching around in the attic again.
After Isobel’s birthday dinner on the mountain, Cate had tucked the old woman into bed as she had promised. Back at her own place, she wandered aimlessly in the bookstore for a long time. She plucked a book off the shelf, read a paragraph or two, replaced it and then repeated the restless behavior.
When she finally went upstairs, it took an hour or more of tossing and turning before she was able to fall asleep. Seeing Brody had unsettled her to a disturbing degree. And now this.
Plink. Plink. The distinctive pinging sound came two more times. And then once more. At last, the veils of slumber rolled away and she understood what was really happening. Brody Stewart. She would bet her signed, first-edition copy of Gone with the Wind that it was him.
Grumbling at having to abandon the warm cocoon of covers she had created, she stumbled to the window and looked out. The wavy panes of antique glass were unadorned. There was no one to peek at her from across the street. The owners of the general store used their upstairs square footage for inventory storage. Cate’s modesty was safe from this angle, and she liked waking up with the sun.
The moment she appeared at the window, the barrage of gravel stopped. The man down below gesticulated.
Was he insane? Dawn was still hours away. Frowning—and wishing she was wearing something more alluring than flannel—she lifted the heavy wooden sash, leaned out and glared at him. “What do you want, Brody?” She shuddered as icy air poured into the room.
“Come down and unlock the front door. We need to talk.”
Was that a socially acceptable way of saying he hoped to end up in her bed? Fat chance. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I couldn’t sleep. Please, Cate. It’s important.”
Nothing else he could have said at this hour would have induced her to let the wolf into the henhouse. The truth was, though, they did need to talk. Desperately, and soon. Her secret had been weighing heavily on her, and she was running out of time.
“Fine. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Despite the virtue-protecting properties of flannel, she wasn’t about to meet Brody wearing her nightgown. Grabbing up a pair of jeans and a warm red cashmere sweater, she dressed rapidly and shoved her feet into a pair of fleece-lined slippers. Her hair was a tumbled mess, but she didn’t really care. Making herself appear alluring to Brody Stewart was what had gotten her into this wretched state of affairs to begin with.
She didn’t turn on any lights as she made her way downstairs. If any of her neighbors were awake, she’d just as soon not have them know she had a late-night guest. Gossip was the bread of life in Candlewick. Cate’s personal situation had already edged into the danger zone.
Unlocking the dead bolt and yanking open the door, she shivered and jumped back when Brody burst into the shop. “Damn, it’s cold out there,” he complained.
“Where’s your coat?” In the dark, he was bigger than she remembered from the autumn. More in-your-face masculine.
“I was in a hurry. I forgot it.”
“Come on back to the office,” she muttered, careful not to brush up against him. “I’ll get the fire going.”
He followed her down the narrow hallway without speaking and stood in silence as she lit the pile of kindling and wood chips beneath carefully stacked logs. Cate had a handyman who stopped by whenever she asked him—this time of year usually to clean out the grate and restock her woodpile. The fireplace and chimney had been cleaned and inspected regularly, so she had no qualms about using it. Another hearth upstairs in her tiny living room provided warmth and cheer for her apartment.
She wiped her hands on a cloth and indicated one of the tapestry wingback chairs in navy and gold. They were ancient and faded, but the twin antiques had come with the store. She loved them. “Have a seat, Brody. And tell me what’s so important it couldn’t wait until morning.” She would let him speak his piece, and then she would find the courage to tell him the secret she had been hiding from everyone, including him.
Brody sat, but his posture indicated unease. She had purposely not turned on the lamps. Firelight was flattering. It also lent a sense of peace and calm to a situation that was anything but.