Callan's Proposition. Barbara McCauley
why do your aunts think that you and I are engaged?”
“Well, I told them we were, of course. Why else would they think such a thing?”
Well, of course. Silly me. He counted to five, then drew in a slow breath. “And why did you tell them we were engaged?”
“What else was I supposed to do? They would have canceled their cruise, maybe even insisted on moving in with me here. I had to do something.”
“They would have canceled their cruise and moved in with you if we weren’t engaged?” He shook his head in confusion. “Why?”
Leaning in close to him, she whispered, “They think I need a man.”
Ah. He almost—just almost—thought he was beginning to understand. “They do?”
She nodded. “We lived together for two years in New York after I finished college, but it got so bad I finally moved here to Bloomfield County.”
He saw her eyeing the wineglass in front of him, and he scooted it out of her reach. “What got so bad?”
“The men. Every week they’d bring home their latest catch for me. Sometimes if my aunts didn’t coordinate, there would be two men at the same time.” She held up two fingers to emphasize, and her eyes crossed as she stared at them. “Imagine every time you turned around there were women all over the place. How would you feel?”
He thought about that for a moment and decided she really didn’t want an answer to that question. “Why can’t you just tell your aunts the truth?”
She snorted in laughter, then covered her mouth. “You don’t know my aunts. They’ve been mother hens since my own mother—their sister—died six years ago. They won’t rest until I’m married and have a family of my own. The only reason they’ve left me alone so long was because of you.”
“Me?”
“Our engagement.”
“Oh, yes.” He’d nearly forgotten about that. “And how did you happen to pick me to be the lucky guy?”
“Well, I had to have someone,” she said as if he’d missed the obvious. “I don’t know anyone else here.”
How flattering to know he’d been chosen because there wasn’t anyone else. “You could have made someone up,” he suggested.
“That would be a big lie. I’m not good with big lies. There’s too much to remember, and I always trip myself up. I’m much better with little lies.”
He didn’t exactly think that Abigail telling her aunts they were engaged was a “little” lie, but that wasn’t important right now. Getting her back to work for him was.
“You could have told me this, Abigail.” Callan took her hands in his. He was amazed at how soft and warm they were. “We would have figured something out.”
She stared down at their joined hands. “You think I’m pathetic.”
Oh, no, Callan groaned inwardly. The feminine mind sober was a perilous thing, but on a Long Island iced tea, it was downright dangerous. The only thing more dangerous could be his response. “Of course I don’t think you’re pathetic.”
“Yes, you do.” She yanked her hands from his and stood, though unsteadily. “You think I’m a pathetic prude.”
Shoulders squared, she moved past him. She was halfway through her living room when he caught her arm and turned her around to face him. “Abigail, please—”
She shrugged off his hand. “For your information, Mr. Sinclair, if I really wanted a man, I could find one. I’m not as big a prude as you think I am.”
“Abigail, I don’t—”
She tugged off her jacket and threw it on the floor. “I have a nice enough body.” She reached for the buttons on her already-half-opened blouse.
“Abigail—”
“See?” She opened her blouse and stared down at herself. Her mint-green bra was lace and satin. “They aren’t so bad.”
So bad? His blood shot to his head, then straight down below his waist. Good Lord, she was beautiful. He was only human, for God’s sake. He stared wide-eyed for a full two seconds, then closed his open mouth and pulled the front of her blouse together. His hands were shaking as he closed the top button.
She slumped against him. “Who am I trying to kid?” she said softly, closing her eyes. “I am a prude. I’ve always been a prude. I’ll always be a prude. Abigail Thomas, Queen of the Prudes.”
With a sigh, Callan cupped her chin in his hands and lifted her face to his. “Abigail, I don’t think you’re a prude.”
Her eyes, glazed-green, opened slowly. “You don’t?”
She looked at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips wide and lush. How could he have never noticed those lips before? he thought. They were incredible. He felt a strange kick in his pulse as he stared down at her. Her skin was pale against his, so smooth and soft. When her eyes closed and her lips parted ever so slightly, he found himself drawn downward, closer…closer…
Good Lord!
He pulled back. This was Abigail, for Heaven’s sake. He couldn’t kiss Abigail.
It had to be the stress of her quitting and his exhaustion from working all day, Callan decided. He wasn’t firing on all his cylinders at the moment. Abigail was his secretary, or at least, she had been his secretary. Which reminded him why he was here in the first place.
He wanted her back.
“Abigail.”
“Hmm?” she murmured, her eyes still closed.
“We need to talk.”
“You want to talk?” Her eyes fluttered open again.
When she swayed against him, he walked her to the sofa and pulled her down onto the soft cushions. He was too dirty to sit, but when he spotted a cotton afghan on the arm of the couch, he spread it out, then sat down on top of it.
“I need you, Abigail,” he said gently.
She looked at him, then blinked. “You do?”
“You’re the best secretary I ever had. I don’t want to lose you.”
“Oh. I see.” She laid her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sinclair, but I can’t come back. I just can’t.”
Callan watched Abigail’s head drift to the side. He would let her rest for a few minutes, he decided, then they’d finish this conversation. Before this night was over, she’d say yes. He was certain of that.
He wasn’t about to let her go. Whatever it took, Callan intended to have Miss Abigail Thomas back where she belonged.
Abigail woke slowly. She couldn’t imagine where the cotton in her mouth had come from. Or the subtle pounding in her temple. That was odd, as well. But certainly not as odd as the steady heartbeat she heard rising from her pillow.
Eyes closed, she listened for a moment. There it was, as loud as if she were listening through a stethoscope. Ba-bump…ba-bump…ba-bump… Deep and steady, it pounded in her ear.
She felt a little stiff and sore, and though it took a moment for her eyes to register the command from her foggy brain, they opened slowly. Blue cotton and white buttons stared back at her.
What in the world?
That’s when she heard the voices. Soft whispers. They seemed very distant, and distinctly familiar.
“He’s a handsome one, don’t you think?”
“Oh, dear me, yes. He looks a lot like Emmett, my leading man from Oklahoma. Heavens, that must have