Falling for the Mum-to-Be. Lynne Marshall
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glanced at Leif again. Dark blond hair cut short, the kind that stuck up any which way it wanted, not the carefully styled spikes of younger men. His crystal-blue eyes had nearly drilled a hole through her head when he’d introduced himself. The guy was intense and focused on one thing—getting her where she needed to be for the next couple of months. That was fine with her. She needed this break, and the job had popped up at an opportune time. She needed the money. Granted, she’d been quite sure she had an edge in the final decision, being the great-great-granddaughter of Edgardo Hoyas, the Heartlandia town monument artist. This job would allow her to get away from home and her problems and regroup, to put a little money in her bank account so she could focus on the only thing important to her right now, the...
“You okay with staying at my house?” Leif broke into her thoughts.
She’d been told she would have her own wing in a large and beautiful home.
“Oh, yes, um, that should be fine. Thank you for offering.”
“Normally my guesthouse in the back is available, but I’m remodeling a house and the homeowners needed to store some things, and well, the woman had been renting the cottage from me for a couple of months—”
“I understand.” She cut him off, not needing to hear another word of his long and rambling explanation.
He glanced at her, then quickly returned his gaze to the highway. “I work long hours, so I won’t be around to bother you. And I keep to myself. So—”
More explanations. “We’ll work things out.” She should give the guy a break, since she could feel the sliceable tension in the cab.
She smiled, then noticed his poor excuse for a smile in return, but at least it softened his eyes. It also made a huge difference in his appearance. His wasn’t a bad face. Not by far. He had a ruggedness that appealed to her artistic instincts. The kind of face she’d like to paint, especially when he grew older. Craggy with character. That was what it was—he had character. She suspected that something besides working outdoors had stamped those premature lines in place. Being near him made her wonder—how would I depict this man on canvas?
The thought struck her. Even though Lawrence was profoundly handsome, she’d never desired to paint him. Photography was how she dealt with his classical good looks. The man belonged in pictures, not paintings, a subtle difference to most, but a deep divide in her right-dominant brain.
Why did Leif live in a huge house by himself? He didn’t wear a wedding ring. Was he yet another man unable to commit? But why the big house, then? A man wouldn’t build a big house without the intention of filling it with family, would he?
Quiet, brain. She’d been up since the crack of dawn to meet her driver to Flagstaff to catch her flight, then, because it seemed impossible to get a nonstop flight anywhere anymore, she’d spent more than six hours, including the layover, making her way to Portland. This highway was long and tedious, except for the lovely green pines. Her eyes grew heavy and she rested her head against the cool windowpane. She’d been far more tired than usual these past two months. Whirling emotions could do that to a person. And other things...
The silence in the truck and the vibration of the road soothed her, and soon she drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Leif pulled into his driveway and around the side of his house to the circular portion where he parked. Marta had slept contentedly for the past hour, which was fine with him. It gave him the opportunity to look at her without being obvious. She was hands-down beautiful, but even in sleep she tensed her brows. What was bothering her? Having to live with him? She’d said it wasn’t a problem, and these days most thirty-four-year-old women, especially an independent artist like her, would be fine with that. He tilted his head, his hunch about all not being right with her world growing stronger by the moment.
Stopping the car woke her up, which was just as well because any second now his dogs would come barreling around the corner making a happy racket.
“We’re here.”
She stretched and shook her head to knock out the sleep. “Oh, thanks. Wow. This is lovely,” she said, glancing across the yard toward the house.
He opened his door and jumped outside, and just as expected, Chip and Dale, one blond and one black, came running full out to the fence, barking as if they’d seen a wild turkey. “Hi, guys. Hush now.” They didn’t listen, just kept tossing those loud Labrador barks into the wind.
Marta crawled out of the cab, squinted and smiled. Good. She was okay with dogs. Because chances were they’d eventually break into her room and lick the living daylights out of her. Though he planned to keep them out of her studio. What a mess that would be.
He pulled her baggage from the back and they made their way up to the back door. Entering through the kitchen, he asked, “Are you hungry or thirsty? I can make you a sandwich or something to hold you over until dinner, if you’d like.”
“Water would be great, thanks.” She held her hat in her hand, and because the house was warm, she took off her poncho and folded it over her arm. Form-fitting black, straight-legged slacks hugged her curves with a simple white blouse tucked into the waistline. He’d been wrong—there wasn’t a turquoise bobble in sight. As he filled a glass with filtered tap water, she pulled the clasp from her hair and down came thick black hair curtaining her shoulders. He looked away and swallowed quietly.
“Here you go,” he said, handing her the water. “I’ll take these bags upstairs to your suite.” The sight of her standing in his kitchen made him need to put some distance between them.
* * *
Marta drank the water heartily and looked around. The kitchen was big enough for a staff of four. The huge granite-covered center island had a second sink in it, plus a food warmer and an enclosed temperature-controlled wine rack. Lawrence was rich and she was used to the finer things in life, but seeing this Architectural Digest–style kitchen in a contractor’s house surprised her.
She walked through a marbled entryway and into a grand room, again meticulously decorated, with a magnificent stairway and beautifully crafted, ornately carved dark walnut newel posts and railings. He’d made the wise decision to leave the matching hardwood steps uncovered, and the wood shone in what was left of the daylight radiating from the huge midceiling domed skylight.
Figuring she’d be sleeping upstairs, she took the steps and, once at the top, glanced around the wide and long upper-floor landing with accent tables and chairs, vases and paintings carefully chosen, not haphazardly picked from a decorator’s warehouse. Over the balcony a huge living room was tastefully furnished in relaxing sage and beige with pops of deep red and purple here and there. Wow. Impressive.
“I’m over here.”
She heard Leif’s voice coming from her left and followed it to the French doors filled with thick etched milky glass. Quality surrounded her.
“Here’s your room.”
He swung the doors open to reveal a huge bedroom complete with a fireplace in the corner with a chaise lounge in front of it, long sliding doors to an outside deck and several windows.
“But this is obviously the master bedroom. I don’t want to kick you out of your own room.”
“I sleep down there.” He pointed to the opposite end of the landing, to a single closed door. “Haven’t slept in this bedroom in three years.” He walked across the thick wool area rug to another set of French doors and opened them. “Besides, this can serve as your studio while you’re here. What do you think?”
It was an amazingly big studio with a high ceiling and three skylights, along with several other arched windows. It brought in as much light as the Oregon weather allowed in early fall.
“This space was used for quilting, reupholstering and furniture repair. You name it.”
Was?
Even with two long