Lonely Millionaire (5 page)

She looked away. What was wrong was that there was nothing wrong. It was all too wonderful. He was too nice, too good-looking, too virile, too good a cook—she set her fork down. She had to know now. Before it was too late. Before she lost her head.

"Who walked out when she saw there was no decent shopping or hair stylist in the Yukon?" There was a note of bitterness in his voice that made her wish she hadn't asked, wish that she hadn't spoiled the mood.

"I see," she said thoughtfully. And she did see. At least he was up front about what he wanted, and it was better that she understand that right now.

He got to his feet and refilled her wineglass. "Enough about me," he said. "What are you doing out here on the edge of nowhere with no guests and no husband? Or is he out catching fish for tomorrow's breakfast?"

She shook her head. "No husband. I only fall for men who don't want to make commitments. Laurie says it’s because I'm afraid to make one myself.''

"There's nothing to compromise when the man you've been going with for three years decides to take the plunge and marry your best friend." Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. Why on earth did she have to tell him the awful truth? He wasn't interested. He didn't care. He was just making conversation. She'd come all the way to this out-of-the-way locale to forget, and here she was dredging up the past the minute she found a sympathetic ear.

The next thing she knew she'd be crying on his shoulder. And what a shoulder to cry on, she thought, measuring the width of his shoulders through blurry eyes. She pushed her chair back from the table intending the clear away the dishes and put an end to this conversation. There wasn't a man in the world who wanted someone dampening his shirt over the guy who got away.

But before she could get up, he stood and rested a hand on her shoulder, a strong, warm hand that exerted just the right amount of pressure to keep her where she was.

"You're not leaving before dessert?" he said with mock outrage. "Do you have no feelings for the pastry chef?"

"Does he... does it come with the dinner?" she asked, feeling the warmth from his hand radiate to the vicinity of her heart.

"Everything is included," he assured her with a grin. "Including a shoulder to cry on," he added as if he'd read her mind.

She looked up and he cupped her face in his hands. Her eyes met his and she saw sympathy and understanding and something else flash for just a second. Something that might have been desire. He pulled her up to face him and she knew he was going to kiss her. This time it would be no brush of the lips, this time she'd meet him halfway, maybe more.

And she would have, if the front door hadn't opened and the Davises hadn't called to them from the living room. She reached for the light switch and suddenly reality took over. The kitchen was only a kitchen, the table was old and scarred, and she, the proprietor of a bed and breakfast, was dining with a guest and letting herself get carried away.

As for Adam, he was staring at her as if he'd just heard an alarm bell ring.

"Thanks for the dinner," she said, smoothing her skirt, trying to pretend nothing had happened. Nothing had, except in her imagination. "I’ll clean up after I say good-night to the Davises."

"No, you won't. I'll clean up after I say good-night and tell them what I think of their son."

"Don't you dare," Mandy whispered.

"Hello? Anyone home?" came the voice of Marilyn Davis. She burst through the door, her husband a step behind her, eyes sweeping across the kitchen to the piles of pots and pans in the sink, the table set for two, the candle dripping wax on the table.

"Oh, I'm sorry, we've interrupted your romantic little supper for two. That’s so sweet. I hope when we're married as long as you two..." She paused. "How long did you say you'd been married?"

Mandy blushed and hustled the Davises back into the living room with Adam a few steps behind her. Why didn't he go to bed? Why didn't he let her be the hostess? Why didn't one of them tell this woman that they weren't married?

"How was your dinner?" Mandy said to break the silence once they were all in the living room.

"Wonderful. It was everything you said it was." Marilyn Davis unbuttoned her jacket. "And how was Jeremy?"

Before she could answer, Adam broke in. "Very lively kid you've got there, with a great pair of lungs. Has he shown an interest in opera?"

"Not yet," his mother admitted.

"Well, I wouldn't be surprised if he had a great career ahead of him, would you, Mandy?"

"I wouldn't be surprised at anything. He's such a fine boy. He went to bed a few hours ago. All tuckered out," she said with a polite smile.

"We can't thank you enough," Marilyn said, and they finally went upstairs to bed.

Adam stood there, watching them go. Mandy could understand why he didn't go up immediately, since they were under the impression that they were married. But how long was he going to stand there looking at her as if she was the evening's entertainment?

"Where were we?" he inquired, his eyes lingering on the soft swell of her breasts under the hand-knit sweater. "I remember," he said with a gleam in his eyes. "We were going to have dessert."

Mandy brushed her hand across her forehead. Oh, no, we aren't. That was all she needed, to go back into that candlelit room and have him ply her with more food and drink. He'd weakened her resistance, he'd made her want to believe in love and romance again. He'd made her want to feel his arms around her, his lips on hers. He'd turned her kitchen into a romantic French bistro and himself into a dashing, romantic rogue. Which perhaps he was, even in the bright living room light. The light that let her see him for what he was—a rugged outdoorsman with a suave manner that he could turn on to make her feel soft and warm and desirable. A dangerous combination.

Adam realized the spell was broken. The evening had come to a crashing, jolting halt, and he felt deflated. He could have gone on all night, alternating coffee with wine and dessert and bantering with this bewitching, bewildering woman. He hadn't had so much fun in years.

He'd forgotten how much fun women were. Or maybe he'd never known. He could have sworn he wasn't missing anything. He'd thought he had it all. Or that he would once he got his new assignment, up where the wind took your breath away and the waves threatened to sweep you over the edge of the platform.

Looking at Mandy in the candlelight, though, had almost taken his breath away a few times and if he stayed there much longer be might be in more danger of being swept away than on one of those platforms. She was right. It was time to break up the party.

He took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face the room. "You go to bed," he said firmly. "I'll clean up. I'm the one who made the mess."

The look in her eyes made his heart pound. There was hope and desire there, flickering and burning as brightly as any candle. She knew what he wanted. She wanted it, too, but neither would admit it, or make the first move. He would have, but reality had already intruded. She was, or would be, Jack's girl. Not his.

"See you tomorrow," he said. "Wake me in time for breakfast."

"I'll do that."

* * *

But she didn't do it until after the Davises had had their eggs Benedict, their freshly squeezed juice and their apple-bran muffins at her dining room table and had left with more promises to recommend the place to everyone they knew. Then and only then did she climb the stairs and knock hesitantly on Adam's door. There was no answer.

Worried, she opened the door just a crack. A shaft of sunlight picked up the colors in the blue-and-white Navaho rug. The sea sparkled in the distance outside the large windows. Her eyes traveled to the handmade quilt in a tangled heap on the bed. A pillow sat where his head should be. Was he still there, or had he sneaked out early that morning to avoid any further entanglement with his weepy, sentimental hostess?

"Adam?" she called softly, tiptoeing into the room.

The blankets moved. He sat up straight and stared at her in surprise, his eyes at half-mast, his hair standing on end. The quilt fell away, revealing a bare, bronzed chest It caused her to wonder what they wore or didn't wear up there in the land of the midnight sun. She turned away, not knowing what else he wasn't wearing and afraid to find out

"Come back here," he said with a low chuckle. "I want my breakfast. In bed."

She looked over her shoulder to find him grinning at her, the blankets just barely covering the lower half of his body so that she still didn't know what, if anything, he was wearing under there.

"In bed?" she croaked, more disturbed than she'd admit by the sight of a half-naked man in her upstairs bedroom. A sight she might have to get used to if she had any more single guests.

"It says in the brochure," he reminded her.

"I know.'' Those words were beginning to be the bane of her existence. She turned to the door and gripped the handle for support. "What would you like?"

There was a long pause. "Whatever you're offering."

She looked over her shoulder again. She couldn't help it, she had to see the expression on his face. What she saw was the grin that set her nerves tingling, that made her feel more alive than a spray of ocean salt water on her skin. She swallowed hard. "You're easy," she remarked.

"That’s the first nice thing you've said to me," he said.

"Really?" She searched her mind. If she hadn't said anything nice, she'd certainly thought it. She'd thought about him far into the night, about how he looked across the table or across the room, about how his lips had felt on hers and how wrong it was to want more. She'd concluded about three in the morning that, once he got over his fear of commitment and his belief that all women were as shallow as his first wife, he would be perfect for someone. But not her. She wasn't perfect for anybody. If she was, she'd be married by now. At thirty-two, she'd come to terms with her limitations. And she should know by now that some men just liked to flirt. Take Adam, for example, oozing sex appeal from his bed. It took all of her willpower to open the door and march down the stairs to cook breakfast for him.

By the time she returned, he'd probably be dressed. He'd better be dressed. There was just so much a warm-blooded woman could take. She hadn't known how susceptible she was. She'd thought that writing letters to some faraway man was a substitute for a real, Irving, breathing hunk of masculinity, but last night she'd learned that it wasn't. She'd learned she had needs that couldn't be fulfilled by long distance.

She knew it would never happen again, someone appearing at her doorstep, cooking her dinner, entertaining her guests and looking at her as if she were good enough to eat.

Not only did men like Adam never come alone to a bed and breakfast, no men usually came at all. For her sake, however, she hoped this wasn't the end.

In the kitchen, she brewed a fresh pot of Guatemalan coffee, poached a perfect egg, nestled it on top of a toasted English muffin and drenched it all in hollandaise sauce. She framed the dish with homemade pork sausages and added a glass of fresh-squeezed juice before she started up the stairs. Knocking lightly on the door, she felt a tremor of breathless anticipation charge through her body. If he didn't answer soon she'd have hollandaise all over the mini-apron that partly covered her camp shirt and freshly laundered jeans.

"Come in," he called, but she didn't have a free hand to open the door.

"I, uh, I can't..."

The door swung open and he stood there in plaid boxers, as nonchalant as if he was at the Hilton and she was room service. She tore her eyes away from his strapping frame and took a deep breath.

"You still, you still want it in bed?" she asked.

His eyes gleamed. "All of it." He made a flying leap onto the bed, pulled the striped sheet up to his waist and eyed her expectantly.

She concentrated on unfolding the wooden tray legs so she wouldn't have to meet his blatantly sexy gaze. He seemed to enjoy having her here in his bedroom. Or was it just the novelty of having breakfast in bed? Walking to the bed, she fit the tray legs around his thighs, her fingers brushing the sheet. Then she pulled back and knotted her hands behind her.

How could she be in the bed-and-breakfast business if she couldn't serve breakfast to a guest without coming apart at the seams? Her face felt flushed and her breath came in short bursts. She backed toward the door as fast as she could.

"Sit down," he instructed, inhaling the steam from the coffee. "I hate to eat alone." He gestured toward the foot of his bed.