That Old Feeling. Cara Colter
then he remembered she hated that form of her name. She preferred Brandy. Well, that was okay. He preferred almost anything to Sober-sides. A simple thing—the exchange of greetings—and yet already he could feel the friction between them.
He had not seen her for a long time, and he felt the shock of her presence, the subtle electricity of her. Of course, he had seen her in photographs, more recently in newspapers and magazines that could not seem to get enough of the oldest and youngest King girls. Just last month, he had caught a glimpse of her on the evening news after she had performed another outrageous stunt.
The cameras had caught the wild tangle of her hair, the devil-may-care quality of her grin, the jauntiness of her wave.
But had missed—as every photo and film sequence seemed to miss—her astounding essence.
Brandy King was not a pretty girl. Her features were too strong, much like her father’s, and the cameras had an almost cruel capacity to capture her lack of traditional beauty. Photographed, she always managed to look intensely ordinary, a plain Jane with an attitude. She also played down her absolutely stunning curves by dressing like a boy.
Photographs, even interviews on television, always totally failed to capture her fire, that mysterious something that was extraordinarily sensual and compelling.
Up close and personal, it was a different story. Her eyes, as sapphire as that lake when it changed color at dawn, glittered with that inner spark, an unsettling combination of mischief and passion. Her hair was dark and thick and shiny. It didn’t look as if she had run a comb through it anytime today, and when she saw him looking at it, she registered his look as disapproval, and tossed her hair with the spirited defiance of a wild horse tossing her mane. That grin was reckless and devil-may-care and totally disarming.
The simple truth was that Brandgwen King meant trouble.
She always had.
Yet when her father, Jake, had called and asked if she could stay with Clint and Becky at the lake for a little while, how could he refuse?
Jake was more than a business associate, more than his boss. He was Clint’s friend, his mentor, the closest thing he had ever had to a father. Jake had once seen something in a rough kid from the wrong side of the tracks and had believed in that something until it had come true.
Jake had offered no explanation for the imminent arrival of his eldest daughter, but Clint had assumed Brandy’s penchant for adventure mixed with mischief had left her in some kind of mess and that she needed to hide out until it blew over.
Well, there was no hideout quite like this one.
He’d been hiding successfully from the pain in his life for over a year and planned to keep on doing so.
He felt a small hand on his leg, and his daughter pulled herself to standing, swung behind his leg and then peeped out at Brandy with caution and reserve. Her diaper drooped nearly to her knees and her face showed telltale signs she had been sampling the dirt—again.
That feeling of inadequacy swept over him. He was a man accustomed to being in charge, but being entrusted with the care of his infant daughter had thrown him into an entirely different arena. He was like a man in a foreign land, lost, uncertain of which direction to take, having no grasp for the new language of his new world. He was fighting, as was his instinct, not to let it show that with his tiny daughter he came face-to-face with his own weaknesses and uncertainties every day.
But he was a disciplined man, and so he was careful not to let any of this slip onto his features. Brandy had a gift for sniffing out weakness and exploiting it. On her nineteenth birthday, just a little bit tipsy, hadn’t she seen his greatest weakness?
“So, you’re a shy one, are you?” Brandy said, still at Becky’s level, crouched easily on her haunches, her voice a rich imitation of a brogue.
The baby shrank even farther behind his knee.
Without warning, Brandy grabbed his other knee, ducked behind it, and peeped out at his daughter.
He felt shocked by her touch, the fire in her fingertips where they bit into the flesh below his knee. There was no mistaking, even from this brief encounter, that the oldest of the Misses King was not a child anymore.
And she had been a most dangerous child. How much more dangerous would she be as a full-grown, full-blooded woman?
He gazed down at her, the thick, rippling richness of the dark hair cascading over slender shoulders, the swell of her breasts under the thin fabric of a black tank top held up on the whim of two tiny little straps. She was wearing low-slung sweatpants that rode a little too low with her crouched like that and that clung to the delectable curves of her athletic legs.
She stuck out her tongue at his daughter, crossed her eyes.
Becky tried valiantly to make herself invisible, but not before he caught a ghost of a smile tickle her lips.
“Excuse me,” he said, inserting enough ice to sink the Titanic into his voice. “Would you mind letting go of my leg?”
“Becky,” Brandy said sternly, “you heard the man. Let go of your father’s leg.”
His little girl’s eyes went very round and she let go instantly.
“I meant you!” He scooped up Becky, and she buried her face in his chest.
“Oh,” Brandy said innocently, but thankfully, she unhanded his leg, rose easily, and stuck out her hand. Her eyes danced with amusement.
“Of course you meant me, Sober-sides. How are you?”
He shifted the minuscule weight of the baby from the crook of his right arm to his left and took Brandy’s proffered hand with a certain reluctance. He felt the heat and unexpected strength of her grasp, and let it go instantly.
“Fine, thank you,” he said, his tone clipped.
“A conversationalist as always,” she said. “Becky, how on earth are you learning to talk around this man of many words?’
How had she managed to hit such a sensitive spot after only seconds of being here? Was his daughter supposed to be talking more than she was? At just over a year, she had mastered da-da and poo-poo. That was it. The whole vocabulary.
“I thought I’d put you in the cottage,” he said abruptly. “It’s private.”
The thought of having her under the very same roof was a little more than he could handle.
Aware that the diaper was definitely a little far gone, Clint led the way across the clearing and down a small stone path with as much dignity as he could given that something warm and wet was leaking onto his arm. At the end of the path was a small guest cottage.
“It’s adorable,” Brandy said with genuine enthusiasm, as if she didn’t have an upscale apartment in New York and a house in Bel Air, as if she hadn’t stayed in palaces and five-star hotels all over the world. “Does it come with seven little men? And a prince?”
Seven men and a prince. He’d known she had become a dangerous woman.
“No,” he said tersely. “No men, no prince, no maids, no cook, no dishwasher, not a single amenity that you are used to.”
His voice crackled with unfriendliness.
Which, naturally, Brandy did not hear or chose not to hear.
“You have no idea what I’m used to,” she said cheerfully. “I slept with bugs as big as my fist in Brazil.”
“I remember you used to be scared of bugs,” he said, then could have kicked himself at the memory he had just conjured. Brandy, fourteen, in a much-too-skimpy bathing suit by the pool, standing on one of the deck chairs, pointing at some huge black insect that had crawled out of the filtration system.
He’d done the gentlemanly thing, dispatched the bug. When it had looked like she planned to leap into his arms in gratitude, he’d told her, coldly, her bathing