the wall and rolled out of bed onto the floor. Her nightgown, hair and limbs in disarray, Felicity shook her head. She’d always had a little problem with her coordination.
“A robe,” she murmured. Shoving her hair from her face, she scrambled to her feet and opened one suitcase, then another. She rustled through the contents until her hand encountered something hard, a picture frame. Her heart caught. Her housekeeper Anna had packed the treasured last picture taken of her and her parents.
Felicity pulled out the picture and stared instead into the weasel face of her former financial advisor, who had almost been her fiancé Doug.
Standing in the upstairs hallway with his daughter Bree, Brock heard a scream followed by a thump and shattering glass. He narrowed his gaze at the guest-bedroom door. “Go on to your room, honey,” he said to Bree, nudging her down the hall.
“But something broke,” she said, wide-eyed and curious despite her low-grade fever.
“I’ll take care of it. You get to bed,” he told her.
Brock waited until Bree went into her room then slowly opened the guest-bedroom door. “Miss Chambeau?” he began, then stopped abruptly at the sight that greeted him.
Felicity stood in the middle of the bedroom floor, her hair tousled over her shoulders and her slim curves covered by a soft satin nightie that plunged low enough to hint at the shadow of her cleavage and was short enough to reveal most of her shapely legs.
All it would take to lose the nightie would be to push the tiny straps over her shoulders. He could see the outline of her nipples. He wondered if she was totally naked beneath the garment. His mouth went dry.
Impatient with his response, he forced his gaze upward to her flushed face. Her green eyes sparked with temper, but her expression held a tinge of guilt that made him curious. He glanced at the busted picture frame.
“Miss Chambeau?” he repeated.
Felicity shrugged, drawing his gaze to her breasts. She was too feminine for his system at the moment, he thought, with resentment. Locking his gaze on her eyes, he stared at her expectantly.
“It’s a picture,” she said.
“Of my former financial advisor,” she continued when he remained silent. “I—uh dropped—” She broke off. “I didn’t expect to find him in my suitcase! The dirty sleazebag left the country with my money. And it’s not the money. I have enough money, but I trusted him. I trusted him. I almost—” She broke off. “I can only hope he’ll be eaten by a giant cockroach in the South American country where he’s hiding with Chi Chi the exotic dancer and die a horrible, painful death.” She finally took a breath and visibly composed herself. “But this probably isn’t the best time to discuss it. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
Brock blinked at the change. There was obviously more to this story. More than he wanted to know, he emphasized to himself. “Don’t move. You might cut your feet. I’ll get a broom and dustpan from the linen closet.” He stepped into the hallway and shook his head in disgust. This was all he needed. A kooky rich lady with a body designed to whip every male in west Texas into a state of frenzy.
Grabbing the broom and pan, he returned to find her gingerly putting shards of glass into the wastebasket. “I told you not to move.”
She briefly met his gaze, then returned to her task. “My tantrum. My mess. My clean-up.”
Irritation burned through him. “Listen, I’ve got a sick kid, and a cow ready to drop her first calf. I don’t have time to take you into town for stitches.”
She glanced at him with her head cocked to one side. “Oh. Who is sick?”
Brock knelt down beside her and quickly swept the glass into the dustpan. He tried not to inhale her subtle feminine scent. “My daughter Bree. I just picked her up from school. Do you want the picture?” he asked, looking at the photo of a smoothly handsome man with a weak chin.
“To burn it,” she said, reaching for it.
Brock snatched it back. “Not in this room,” he said, visions of a house fire filling his head. “I’ll take care of it for you. More than friends, huh?”
“No, but I thought we were at least friends.”
The loneliness and betrayal in her voice and eyes grabbed his gut. Brock brushed the response aside. He had no time or space for this. “I need to get my daughter to bed and get back to work.”
“Thank you,” she said. “How sick is she?”
“Probably just a virus, but my pediatrician brother is in Blackstone. I keep waiting for the time I reap the benefit from his medical school tuition. My housekeeper’s off today, too. That calf’s ready to drop. You look okay, so I’ll leave,” he muttered, and headed out the door, his mind on the three hundred pressing issues facing him.
Halfway down the hall, he heard her footsteps behind him. “Excuse me,” she said.
Fighting impatience, he looked over his shoulder at her. “Yeah?”
She laced her fingers together, her prim stance at odds with her skimpy attire. “How old is your daughter?”
“Seven. Why?” he demanded, unable to keep the irritation from his voice
“I could stay with her,” she offered, “if you think that would help. I would like to help.”
Stunned, he stared at her warily. “Wearing that?”
Felicity’s cheeks bloomed with color. “No. I’ll change my clothes.” His expression must have revealed his doubt. “I can pour juice and water,” she told him. “I can read books.”
Bree would like the reading part even though she could read circles around most kids her age. For that matter, Bree might like Felicity. Brock wasn’t sure that was a good idea especially since he was hoping his silent partner would be packing her impressive rear end back to New York where it belonged as soon as possible.
“You sounded busy. If you’d rather I leave her alone…”
“No,” he said, flexing his fist in frustration. “Thank you,” he said, the words sounding grudging to his own ears.
She met his gaze, looking as surprised with herself as he was. The corners of her mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. “You’re welcome. I’ll change my clothes and be right out.”
Did he really want his daughter influenced by such a woman? Brock frowned. It was just for a few hours, he told himself. The housekeeper would be back soon. Deep in his gut, however, he had a strong feeling about Felicity Chambeau. And it wasn’t good. It would be easier if he could say his discomfort was due to something about her character, but he suspected it had more to do with his libido.
He swore under his breath and walked down the long hallway to Bree’s room. He told his daughter Felicity would stay with her and was immediately bombarded with questions.
“Where’s she from?”
“New York City,” Brock said, adjusting Bree’s pillow. “She’s no cowgirl, but she can read to you.”
“Is
