Beauty In His Bedroom. Ashley Summers
Katie,” she answered with a soft smile.
Clint looked startled. “Your daughter?”
“No, my sister,” Regina answered, chuckling. “She’s fifteen. I know she looks much younger, but she’s a tiny thing, very petite, barely five feet tall. She’s away at school right now.”
His eyebrows rose. “Private school?”
“Yes.” Regina began clearing the counter. “I’ll be through here in just a minute. You finish your wine in the den—we need to talk.”
Hard blue eyes collided with hers but made no headway against her imperious regard. A smile flickered around his mouth. Inclining his dark head, Clint picked up his glass and removed himself to the den.
Music still whispered, more imagination than reality. Rain played on the windowpanes as if in counterpoint. He felt angry, perplexed. Being here should be harder than this, shouldn’t it? But his wife hadn’t lived long enough to occupy their new home.
He sat down on the couch, then impulsively stretched out his legs full length on the soft, cushiony surface. It’s my couch, he thought irritably. If I want to put my feet up, I’ll damn well do it. He set aside his wine. A moment later his head fell back against the stack of jewel-colored cushions. Slowly his thick lashes fanned down….
“Oh, dear,” Regina murmured as she entered the room and stopped beside him. He was asleep. The tremor that started in her heart coursed through her legs as she looked down at him.
Decision time. A simple decision, really, she thought; wake him, and be through with it, or just let him sleep and ride whatever horse the morning brings.
Regina sighed, knowing her flippancy was just a cover for an awareness she’d rather not probe too deeply. Her friends all considered her to be a warm, giving, loving person, often to a fault. She didn’t agree with this last assessment; the world was in such desperate need of love, how could one possibly give too much? This part of her character she attributed to, and honored for, her Italian mother. Still, while it might be admirable to have a big heart, she thought with gentle self-mockery, it wasn’t all that smart.
Because it left her terribly vulnerable.
And because Clint Whitfield was the most dangerous man she’d ever met, the kind of man who touched every instinct known to womankind.
Regina pressed a hand against her breasts. She was nearly thirty and never married. She’d come close once. But when her fiancé learned that she’d assumed responsibility for Katie after their mother’s death, he’d bailed out.
“He dumped you,” she corrected with brutal self-honesty.
Although she still enjoyed the sensual art of flirtation, she’d become wary of deeper involvement. She doubted any man would willingly take on such a burden. A burden she could never lay down. So she’d decided she didn’t need romance in her life. Friendship would do.
But this man had stirred something deep inside her, something innocent of prior experience. And he’d done it without the usual social exchanges, with little verbal or physical communication, and without using an ounce of masculine charm.
Baffled by his effect on her, Regina studied the sculpted features now softened by slumber, the challenging, provocative scar. “Yep, dangerous,” she murmured, a smile touching her mouth. “Wonderfully dangerous.”
Her decision having made itself, she unfolded a cashmere afghan and spread it over his long body. Vulnerable she might be, and sensibly cautious, but she was also Irish as well as Italian, which made her courageous as well as warmhearted. She wasn’t afraid to take chances—as long as it didn’t hurt Katie.
Regina turned off the lamp. Only the moonlight illumined his dark face, glossing it with mystery and sadness. “Good night, Mr. Whitfield, sleep well,” she whispered, and tiptoed from the room.
Three
Clint Whitfield brushed at his face as if clearing away the sunlight teasing him to wakefulness. In his years of roaming the globe, rarely did he awake confused as to his whereabouts. But this wasn’t the veld, the jungle or the dun-colored plains with animals flowing across its soft folds like streams of dark water. He was in his own house—and for a fraction of a second, he expected his wife to come in….
No, no. She was gone and he was alone.
Still confused, he gazed around the sunlit room, noting plants and flowers, a snowy knit shawl flung over a chair, framed snapshots on the mantel, none of them his. The center picture, a small girl riding a hand-guided pony, pricked his memory, rousing him to his new reality despite an intense desire to avoid it.
Even worse, once confusion vanished, he was left with a sense of stupidity that made him groan aloud.
Regina Flynn. Clint groaned again as her sweet face formed in his mind. He had meant to sit down, exchange a few sensible words with the woman and leave none the worse for the encounter. Instead, he’d fallen asleep. How could he have let that happen?
I’ve got to get out of here! Reacting to an urgency he didn’t fully understand, he threw off the afghan, bounded to his feet and grabbed his hat off the desk—
“Good morning.”
The low, musical greeting affected Clint like a shout. He froze, then whirled, eyes narrowing as he noted the tiny smile sweetening her lips. Yeah, just as he thought—amusement, so faint he’d have missed it had he not been immediately suspicious!
She sat at the bar, coffee cup in hand, head still tilted in humorous regard. “Sleep okay?” she asked.
Clint grunted. She wore something long and pink and looked absurdly delicious with all those messy curls streaming around her face and down her neck.
“I slept fine,” he said. “I didn’t intend to,” he added tersely when she gifted him with another smile. “Falling asleep here was definitely not in my plans.”
“You were exhausted,” she said easily. “There’s hot coffee—pour yourself a cup. Then go shower if you’d like. Meantime I’ll get dressed. We can talk over breakfast. Nothing fancy, just bagels. Frozen, unfortunately.” She dimpled. “But there’s homemade strawberry jam to even things out.”
She stood up. “Coffee’s there, cups over here, sugar and cream by the sink,” she said, and left him standing there still forming a polite but tellingly curt refusal.
Clint couldn’t resist the appeal of a hot shower. After downing a cup of black coffee, he fetched his bag from the rental car and headed for his bedroom.
Opening the door was good for one of those gut-kicking pangs that life gifted him with whenever he dared think he was finally immune. Once inside, he paused for a quick look around. He’d never cared for the plush decor. But Barbara had liked it. So he’d put up with all this red velvet and carved mahogany.
But that bed… He’d never sleep in it again. Well, there were plenty of other bedrooms in the-house-that-Clint-built. Grimacing, he made a mental note to return this heirloom furniture to her family. “Should have done that a long time ago,” he berated himself. Tight-lipped, he walked on to his personal bathroom, an uncluttered expanse of white tile, forest-green porcelain and sparkling glass.
The shower felt as wonderful as anticipated. After a satisfying interval, he turned it off and grabbed a towel. Wrapping it around his hips, he wiped the fogged mirror and studied himself with a crooked smile. He looked dark, dangerous, tough as nails, a well-fitting mask that had gradually formed around his features as the darkness squeezed all joy and humor out of him.
He’d lived behind the mask so long and it had served him so well, that he doubted he’d ever be free of its cynical benefits.
“Just as well,” he muttered, lathering on shaving cream. He had no use for romantic illusions. Any dreams he might have had were dead, crushed by the weight of gritty reality.
Such