The Maid's Daughter. Janice Maynard
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wolfed down five mini-sandwiches to her two, and drained three cups of tea. For some reason, she was infinitely fascinated by the play of muscles in his throat as he swallowed. Everything about him was intensely virile, dangerously sexual.
When a woman became aroused by watching a man eat peanut butter and honey, she was in trouble. Big trouble.
He sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the arms. “I was hateful and cruel,” he said quietly. His voice dropped an octave. “You were trying to express sympathy in the only way you knew how. I acted like a jerk.”
She could almost see his frustration. “You were a kid. It was a long time ago. Forget about it.”
“Have you?”
The sharp question caught her off guard. “I … uh … no,” she muttered. “I never forgot.”
After an awkward pause, he handed her some tablets. “These are nonprescription, but Jacob says they’ll be the best thing for muscles aches. Take them now so you’ll be comfortable in bed.”
Their fingers brushed as the medicine changed hands. The word bed hovered in the air between them. She clenched her fist. “Thank you.”
Without taking his eyes off hers, he covered her hand. “Now,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t wait. And quit being so damned polite.”
She jerked away and swallowed the pills, almost choking because of the knowledge that he had touched her. It meant nothing … She was the one freaking out, not Devlyn. He was merely being a gentleman.
Avoiding his cobralike gaze, she scooped up a shortbread cookie. It melted on her tongue like ambrosia of the gods. “I’d forgotten how good these are,” she moaned.
Devlyn reacted visibly to the involuntary sound she made. Feeling her cheeks heat in embarrassment, she bent her head and took another sip of tea. Was it just her, or was Devlyn reacting as strongly as she was to the odd sense of intimacy that shrouded the room in hushed layers?
Three
Devlyn couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent this much time in a woman’s bedroom without both of them getting naked. When Gillian made a surprisingly sexual response to cookies … goddamned sugar cookies, his sex hardened from zero to sixty in five seconds.
And she wasn’t even pretty in the traditional sense.
He adjusted himself unobtrusively and ate another sandwich. Maybe if he kept his mouth full he could quit thinking about licking his way down that swanlike white-skinned neck. Good lord …
“So tell me, Gillian. What do you do for a living … when you’re not smashing cars into trees?”
She stared at him with affront.
“Too soon?” He grinned at her, surprisingly entertained by the unexpected turn his evening had taken. The quick phone call to his investor had not been pleasant, but Devlyn was determined. The outlook might be grim, but he’d fought his way out of worse situations.
Gillian wiped her mouth daintily with a snowy cloth napkin, leaving a faint trace of pink color on the fabric. Seeing the stain from her lips, he imagined other oral scenarios. Perhaps because her lips were the only truly curvy thing about her. They belonged more to a porn star than to a quiet, wary-eyed, little mouse.
She curled her legs beneath her, drawing attention to slim thighs and a narrow waist. He wondered if he could span that waist with his two hands.
Gillian seemed blissfully oblivious to his baser instincts. “Do you joke about everything?” she asked, disapproval evident in her wide-set eyes.
He shrugged. “I’d rather laugh than cry.”
And there it was again. That pesky, awful memory. Hell. He hadn’t meant to bring it up again … or had he?
She cocked her head. “Why did I make you so angry that day?” she asked. “I’ve always wondered. Was it only because I saw you in tears?”
Any humor he’d tried to generate evaporated. He leaped to his feet and stoked the fire, throwing on another couple of logs for good measure. Leaning an arm on the mantel, he poked at the embers, wishing he didn’t feel the same prodding at a place that would never heal.
“Sure,” he said curtly. “That was it.”
“You’re lying.”
He jerked around so quickly that he knocked over one of the andirons. Replacing it clumsily, he sat down hard in his chair, staring at her with bemused eyes. “I don’t know what to make of you, Gillian Carlyle. So let’s go back to my first question. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a teacher. Third grade.” Pride glowed on her face and in her voice until something stole it away, some weary acceptance of an unpalatable truth. “Or I was,” she said, her tone subdued. “The county I worked for outside of Charlottesville cut forty positions last week. I was four years into a five-year tenure track.”
“That sucks.”
“Tell me about it.”
Their eyes met, and they both burst into laughter. Devlyn realized in that instant that he had been wrong earlier. Gillian Carlyle wasn’t plain. She was a beauty. But it was the hidden loveliness of the sea on a cloudy, windswept day. Only when the sun came out were the emeralds and sapphires and aquamarines revealed.
His brain whirred with sudden possibilities. “Is that why you’re back home in Burton?”
“Partially. I begged my mother to move to Charlottesville with me when I got the job, but she never would. She loves the house where I grew up, and oddly enough, she loves Wolff Castle. She’s very proud to be part of the staff here, and she doesn’t want to leave.”
“So why did you try to persuade her?”
“My dad was a carpenter. He died a few years ago when scaffolding at a worksite collapsed. Mama was distraught, and I wanted her where I could keep an eye on her. In case you hadn’t noticed, there are no teaching jobs around here. Not many jobs of any kind for someone with my training.”
“But she wouldn’t move.”
“No. And now she’s glad she didn’t. But that still leaves me in a tough spot, because I want to look after her, but I can’t even take care of myself at the moment.”
“Something will come up.” He had an idea or two, but now was not the time. “Would you like another cookie?”
Her lips quirked. “I’m not stupid, Devlyn. I answered your questions. Don’t you owe me the same courtesy?”
That amazing, adorably boyish smile flashed briefly. “I’m a stubborn SOB. Don’t try to analyze me. What you see is what you get.”
Her eyes widened as she caught the deliberately flirtatious innuendo. As he watched, her cheeks turned pink. And about the same time, a little frown line appeared between her brows. “I don’t think you’re a very nice man,” she said slowly.
“Nice guys finish last. Don’t you know?” He stood and messed with the fire again, irritated as hell that she put him on edge. She was a nobody. An unemployed elementary schoolteacher. A starchy, prissy, sexually repressed female.
Perhaps if he told himself often enough, he would believe it.
Gillian yawned suddenly, and he felt a lick of remorse. She’d been through a hell of a lot. It was long past time for her to be in bed. But not in his.
He stood up and held out his hand. “C’mon, little lady. You’re drooping.”
She stood and began stacking their dirty dishes.
“Leave them,” he said, a hand on her arm. “The staff will get it in the morning.”
Gillian froze, and immediately, he heard how his words must have sounded to her. Heat