Peggy Moreland – The Texan's Contested Claim: The Texan's Contested Claim / The Greek Tycoon's Secret Heir (страница 3)
He’d almost slipped and told her his reason for staring, and would have if he hadn’t been distracted by the jolt he’d received when he’d taken her hand. He’d seen the surprise that had flared in her eyes, sensed her unease in the quickness with which she had broken the contact, and knew she must have felt it, too.
He thought he’d done a decent job of recovering, then she’d made that comment about everybody having a twin and thrown him for another loop. If she hadn’t appeared so genuinely guileless, he might have thought she was purposely trying to trip him up. As it was, he believed he’d successfully penetrated the enemy’s camp.
Snorting a laugh, he tossed his shaving kit onto the vanity. Hell, he was even beginning to
With a rueful shake of his head, he turned for the bedroom, but stopped when he caught a glimpse of the tub she’d mentioned. Placed on a raised platform of tumbled stone tiles, it resembled an old-fashioned claw-foot in design, but its size and modern fixtures placed it solidly in the twenty-first century.
Remembering her comment about the tub being perfect for soaking, he crossed to examine it more closely. It definitely looked inviting, he noted, with its extra long length and gently sloped ends. He glanced up at the large picture window above it. And the uninterrupted view of lake and sky it offered its occupant wasn’t too shabby, either, he noted. Personally he preferred a shower, but he could see how a person might enjoy taking a long, relaxing bath in a setup like this. Add a woman to the mix and even
He squinted his eyes at the view beyond the window, easily able to imagine the scene at night. Moonlight reflecting off the lake’s surface. A sky full of glittering stars. Toss in some soft piano music and a mountain of scented bubbles and it would provide the perfect setting for a seduction.
He dropped his gaze to the tub again, wondering if the Vista’s innkeeper ever took advantage of the amenities the bath offered when she had the house all to herself. She seemed the bubble-bath type. Feminine. Sensual. In fact, he found it easy to picture her here, her head tipped back against the tub’s rolled rim, her eyes closed, only her knees and head visible above mounds of iridescent bubbles.
Even easier—and a great deal more pleasurable—was to picture her there with
Puckering his lips thoughtfully, he dragged a finger along the rim, imagining them in the tub together, her back against his chest, her hips wedged between his thighs, his hands tracing her curves. She was stacked. He’d made that realization within seconds of her opening the door. And she had a mouth made for kissing. Full, moist lips that seemed curved in an ever-present smile.
With one memorable exception.
He chuckled softly, as he recalled her indignation when he’d insinuated the bed-and-breakfast was a front for a call girl service. She’d assumed correctly. He had thought, hoped even, that she was using the bed-and-breakfast as a front for illegal activities.
Too bad he’d been wrong, he thought with regret. If he’d been right, it would have provided him the leverage he needed to force her cooperation.
It also would have given him more reason to dislike Ali Moran.
Not that he needed more cause.
The hurt she’d inflicted on his stepmother was reason enough to wish her in hell.
Two
“Traci!” Ali shot a worried glance up at the ceiling, then lowered her gaze to frown at her laughing friend. “Get a grip, would you? He might hear you.”
Traci winced guiltily. “Sorry. But when you said that about the Vista being a front for a call girl service, I had this mental image of you strutting around in skin-hugging spandex and spike heels. Can you imagine? You, a madam? Or worse, a call girl? What a hoot!”
“I could be a call girl,” Ali said defensively. “Not that I ever would, but I
“Are you kidding me?” Traci said in dismay. “If you had to depend on turning tricks for your support, you’d starve to death within a week.”
Grimacing, Ali yanked open the oven door. “Well, thanks for that vote of confidence,” she groused, as she shoved a basket of sopaipillas inside to keep warm.
Traci managed to snag a pastry before Ali could close the oven door. “I’m not saying you couldn’t
Ali gave her a bland look. “Oh, and I suppose you’re an expert on the subject.”
“I watch enough cop shows to teach a course. And let me tell you,” she went on, warming to the subject, “the hookers they haul off the streets aren’t particular about who they have sex with. They can’t afford to be.
Ali’s jaw dropped. “Are you saying I’m a sexual snob?”
Traci caught a dribble of honey on the tip of her finger and brought it to her mouth. “Need I remind you of Richard?”
Ali shuddered at the mention of the C.P.A. she’d briefly dated. “Please. Just thinking about his clammy hands and slobbery kisses makes me want to hurl.”
“And you think the men call girls entertain are Brad Pitt lookalikes?”
“Okay, okay,” Ali grumbled. “You made your point.”
Traci smiled smugly. “I so love it when I’m right.”
“Shh,” Ali hissed, and listened, sure that she’d heard footsteps in the hallway above.
“He’s coming,” she whispered, and grabbed Traci by the elbow and hustled her toward the back door.
“Hey,” Traci cried, juggling her sopaipilla to keep from dropping it. “Who said I was leaving? I want to meet your mystery zillionaire guest.”
Ali opened the back door. “He’s not my zillionaire, and you can’t meet him.”
“Why not?”
She gave Traci a nudge over the threshold. “I already told you. He doesn’t want anyone to know he’s here.” Before Traci could demand to stay, she shut the door in her face and turned the lock, just in case she tried sneaking back in.
With Traci dealt with, she headed for the breakfast room where she found Garrett standing at the buffet, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He was dressed much as he had been the day before—jeans and a black pullover sweater, a casual look she found extremely sexy.
Too bad his personality kills his appeal, she thought with regret.
Forcing a smile, she crossed to greet him. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
He spared her a glance, before returning the carafe to the hot plate. “Not particularly.”
She kept her smile in place, refusing to let his sour disposition infect her. “Well, hopefully you’ll rest better tonight.”
He raised the cup to his lips and met her gaze over its rim. “That remains to be seen.”
Those eyes again, she thought. What was it about them that was so mesmerizing? It certainly wasn’t their color. Brown eyes were as common as house flies in Texas. So why were his so compelling?
Feeling herself being drawn deeper and deeper into their dark depths, she tore her gaze away and made a beeline for the kitchen.
“Have a seat at the table,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back with your breakfast.”
Once out of his sight, she grabbed a plate and gave herself a stern lecture, as she filled it with food. He’s nothing special, she told herself. Good-looking men were a dime a dozen in Austin. And so what if he was rich as sin? She’d never considered money a positive attribute, especially in a man. All the rich guys she’d ever known were pompous jackasses, who used their money to feed their egos and need for power. Cars, boats, homes. The more attention a “thing” drew to him, the greater its appeal.
Nope, she mentally confirmed, as she pulled the basket of sopaipillas from the oven. Garrett Miller was nothing special and definitely not a man she’d want to become involved with.
Adding the basket to the tray, she returned to the breakfast room, feeling much more in control.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she said, as she transferred dishes from the tray. “Huevos Rancheros,” she said, identifying each food item as she arranged it in front of him. “Roasted new potatoes, fresh fruit with a light poppyseed dressing and sopaipillas with butter and honey.”
Tucking the tray beneath her arm, she reached for the carafe. “If you need anything,” she said after topping off his coffee, “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
She waited until the swinging door closed behind her, then set aside the tray and headed straight for the sink, anxious to put the kitchen back in order. Elbow deep in suds, washing the pans she’d dirtied while cooking, she heard the door open behind her and glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes shot wide when she saw Garrett entering, carrying his plate and cup of coffee.
“Is something wrong with the food?” she asked in alarm.
“No. I thought I’d eat in here with you.”
She blinked in surprise. “But—but guests don’t eat in the kitchen. They take their meals in the breakfast room.”
He set his cup and plate on the island and slid onto a stool. “This one doesn’t,” he said, and opened his napkin over his lap.