remember my grandmother as being something of a pack rat, and there’s a faint hope that my own nursery furniture might be still up there—I know it used to be, when I was a boy. Do you happen to—’
‘It’s still there...along with an old stroller. But it’ll all be covered in dust. I’ve had no time to do any cleaning in the attic this past year, and Myrna wasn’t up to climbing those steep, narrow stairs.’
‘So...where’s the key?’
‘On the shelf above the door.’ Finally she turned. ‘You’re not going up there tonight? Even if you did bring the cot down, you couldn’t put your baby in it yet—the mattress will need to be aired, the woodwork washed down.’
He rubbed a hand against his nape, and she noticed, for the first time, that his eyes were strained, his expression weary. If he hadn’t been so arrogant and hostile, she might have felt a twinge of concern...or even sympathy.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘In the morning, then.’
‘Where will you put the baby tonight?’
‘He can sleep with me.’
Lucky baby! she thought...and immediately felt a wave of shock; where had that thought come from! She turned abruptly and reached out for the tray, but in her haste she knocked over a crystal sherry glass. It fell to the floor, shattering on the terra-cotta tiles.
With a murmur of dismay, she crouched down, but as she scrabbled to pick up the pieces, she felt a prick of pain. She bit her lip as she saw blood beading on her finger...
A strong hand pulled her to her feet.
‘Here.’ Luke’s voice was gruff. ‘Let me see.’
He held her hand in his, squeezing the finger gently.
‘No glass in there,’ he murmured. ‘At least, I don’t think so...’
She struggled against a feeling of grogginess as he walked her over to the sink. He turned on the cold tap, and held her finger under it.
He was standing right behind her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body against her own. She could also hear him breathing. She felt the hair at her crown stir. And heard his breathing quicken.
‘You smell like peaches.’ His voice was low, sexy, seductive.
She wanted to move, but she was trapped between him and the sink. Besides, she doubted her shaky legs were capable of taking her anywhere. Her finger under the cold tap began to feel numb. She noticed the bleeding had stopped, and she tugged her hand free from his grasp.
He swung her around, and his eyes were dark. ‘Do you taste like peaches?’
He held her right shoulder with his left hand, and with his other, brushed a finger lightly down her left cheek; trailed it across to the corner of her mouth; let the tip linger. ‘I know you’d like me to find out.’
She wanted to jerk her face back, but his blue eyes had hypnotized her into immobility. ‘You’re crazy!’
‘I know you’re attracted to me. I could tell by the way your pupils dilated, when we were discussing who would sleep where—and with whom...’
His words drew all the strength from her body. ‘You’re crazy,’ she repeated, this time in a thready whisper.
‘Am I?’ The back of his fingernail scraped across her teeth. ‘And what about you? Are you ... greedy?’ His voice had all at once become angry, bitter. ‘As greedy...as your mother was?’
He’d been playing with her; testing her...
Cheeks burning with humiliation and resentment, she shoved him away from her abruptly.
He laughed, and the harsh sound grated in her ears. She wanted to press her hands to them, to blank out the sound. But she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
‘If you’ll get out of here,’ she said in a glacial tone, ‘I’ll finish up. It’s been an exhausting day and I’m going to have an early night—’
‘I’ll clean up.’
‘No, I’ll clean up!’
‘You’ve already cut yourself once. You want me to have to play doctor again? You want more of that? Okay, then, go ahead.’
She couldn’t win; not with this man. But she really was all in; she felt as if she would keel over, any minute now—
Impatiently, he barked, ‘Well?’
‘All right. I’ll go.’ She hesitated. ‘But... what about...won’t you...need any help with...the baby?’
‘I can manage just fine, without having to resort to anyone...particularly a female...for help.’
‘Well, good for you! But don’t forget...I did offer.’
On her way out, she slammed the door behind her... hard.
A knockout. That’s what he’d called her.
And the image of her mother.
Green eyes dark with distress, Whitney drew the bristle brush through her glossy red hair one last time, before putting the brush down on the dresser. Then rising from the padded stool, she crossed to the wardrobe and slid open the bottom drawer. From under a pile of assorted cashmere sweaters, she extricated a silver-framed photograph.
A picture of her mother...and Luke’s father, Ben.
For the past thirteen years Whitney had kept it hidden. She’d taken it out only when she was alone...and had become adept at quickly tucking it away at the sound of Cressida’s light tap on her door.
She’d hated acting so furtively, despite doing so with the best of intentions... and even now, even knowing Cressida was beyond being hurt, she couldn’t help feeling guilty.
But there was no reason to.
She had done nothing wrong.
It was her mother who had done that. Adultery could never be excused, no matter the circumstances-
Whitney gave herself a shake and reined in her drifting thoughts. She must go to bed; she needed to get some sleep. Tomorrow, she’d have to cope with Luke.
Until Edmund Maxwell could get her the ammunition she required to get rid of her unwanted guest, she’d have to find a way to divide the house between them, so she could avoid him as much as possible. He would fight the idea, of course. He would want to have the run of the place as he had done when he was growing up. She’d better have her wits about her. He would be a crafty opponent.
Pushing herself to her feet, she crossed to the dresser and defiantly set up the framed picture.
There was no longer any need to hide it. Only one person in the world could conceivably be offended by its presence here at Brannigan House...
