“Yours. The owner of the soccer gear.”
She gave an incredulous laugh. “I do not have, nor have I ever had, a husband. Ditto for fiancé or live-in lover.” And there, she thought, is the story of my life.
His eyes narrowed. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Then the guy who owns the cleats and the chemistry texts can’t be your son.”
“Gee, you’re good at math—must be handy for keeping track of all your women.”
Luke wasn’t used to being laughed at. He said abruptly, “You should be doing something with your art—what are you waiting for? I can’t believe you spend your time cleaning out closets for rich people when you’re so obviously loaded with talent.”
Her chin snapped up at his tone. “I don’t see why my paintings are remotely your business.”
“When I see work like yours hung where only you can see it, I get a little irked.”
“If this is irked, I’d hate to see angry. Coffee’s made. You can drink it now or take it with you.”
“What’s the story, Kelsey? Who owns the cleats and the chemistry books?”
Luke had just treated her to one of the best meals in her life, and she had no reason not to tell him. Other than pure cussedness. “My eldest brother, Dwayne. First year med school. Age twenty-one.”
“What’s wrong with me? I didn’t even think of a brother.”
“Like I said, the eldest. Glen’s twenty, he’s studying computer technology; the hockey gear’s his. Kirk’s eighteen, he started forestry school a week ago. He took his lacrosse gear with him.” She gave Luke a level look. “I brought them up. I’m an expert in teenage psychology and hamburgers with the works. I didn’t have the time to flit off to art school every morning once they were on the school bus—I was too busy keeping a roof over our heads.”
“They all lived here with you?” Luke said, feeling his way.
“They sure did. I’d just started cleaning out Kirk’s room the day you called. Five unmatched socks under the bed, a wedge of mummified pizza and six copies of Playboy. I did my best to civilize all three of them, but it was uphill work. And now they’re gone.” The crazy thing was that she missed them, even though she’d been counting the days until she was free.
“Your parents?”
Her voice flattened. “They both died in a train wreck when I was eighteen. No other relatives. So it fell to me to bring up my brothers.” Which was also the story of her life.
“So this was your parents’ house?”
“At the time, it seemed best to keep things as normal as possible.” With a flick of temper she added, “So now you know why my paintings are hanging on my own four walls.”
“You sacrificed ten years of your life for the sake of your brothers?” he said inimically.
“It wasn’t a sacrifice! Well, not really. Besides, what choice did I have?”
“Plenty, I’d have thought—you could have left.”
“My brothers and I had just lost both our parents,” Kelsey said tersely. “I couldn’t have lived with myself if I’d abandoned them. And if you don’t understand that, I don’t know where the heck you’re coming from.”
Ferociously Luke tried to batten down the emotions roiling in his chest: bafflement, fury and pain. His mother hadn’t hung in as Kelsey had. The first eight years of his life had been a study in broken promises.
He said sharply, “How is it the three boys are all off at college and you’re still home?”
“Give me time—Kirk just left last week,” she retorted. “As you can see, step one is to clean up the house. Then I’ll put it on the market.”
Luke looked around, taking in the battered table, the faded paint, the general air of a house worn down by use and a lack of money. Hadley was a rundown fishing village; she wouldn’t get much for the property. “Then what?”
She glowered at him. “You’ll be happy to know I’m planning to go to art school on the proceeds—together with what you’re paying me.”
“So that’s why you changed your mind about working for me?”
“Pride and Practicality. Jane Austen, the modern version.”
“My offer to double your pay still stands,” Luke said.
“I don’t take charity.”
“Call it support for the arts,” he said with a grin.
“You know what bugs me about you? You make me angry enough to spit nickels and then you make me laugh.”
You know what scares me about you? he thought. I’m as far from bored as I can be.
He kept this observation to himself. Okay, so Kesley had been dealt a tough hand, and she hadn’t folded. Unlike his mother. But she still wasn’t his type. Far from it. Too unsophisticated. Too many emotions too close to the surface.
Too real.
So why was he sitting here watching the play of light over her cheekbones, the little dimple at the corner of her mouth when she smiled, the sweet curve of her breasts under her tight shirt? Watching and lusting after her, fire streaking straight to his loins in a way he deplored.
He said at random, “Did you find anything in the boxes you brought home?”
“Oh—I forgot! Yes, I did. An envelope of photographs. What did I do with them?”
His heart lurched in his chest. He didn’t have a single photograph of his mother.
Kelsey was rummaging through a pile of papers by the telephone and unearthed a faded brown envelope, which she held out to him. The flap was unglued. She said, following the direction of his eyes, “It was open. I had to look inside to see if it was anything important.”
He hated the fact that she’d seen the photos first. As if he couldn’t help himself, he pulled one out. A pretty little girl was standing under an apple tree that was in full bloom; she was laughing, clutching a book to her chest. It was, unquestionably, his mother.
Kelsey had busied herself pouring the coffee. But something in the quality of the silence caused her to lift her eyes. Luke was standing like a man stunned, his gaze riveted to the picture in his hands. She felt a surge of compassion so strong it took her aback. Hastily she pushed the cream toward him, watching him shove the photo back in the envelope as though it had bitten him. He said flatly, “I should go.”
“What about your coffee?”
“I’ll skip the coffee—I’ll go back and sort through a couple more boxes.”
“Luke,”
