THE MELODIOUS SOUNDS of a love ballad drifted through the huge three-storey house in Seattle’s Capitol Hill. Ellen Cunningham hummed along as she rubbed her wet curls with a thick towel. These late-afternoon hours before her housemates returned were the only time she had the place to herself, so she’d taken advantage of the peaceful interlude to wash her hair. Privacy was at a premium with three men in the house, and she couldn’t always count on the upstairs bathroom being available later in the evening.
Twisting the fire-engine-red towel around her head, turban style, Ellen walked barefoot across the hallway toward her bedroom to retrieve her blouse. Halfway there, she heard the faint ding of the oven timer, signalling that her apple pie was ready to come out.
She altered her course and bounded down the wide stairway. Her classes that day had gone exceptionally well. She couldn’t remember ever being happier, even though she still missed Yakima, the small apple-growing community in central Washington, where she’d been raised. But she was adjusting well to life in the big city. She’d waited impatiently for the right time—and enough money—to complete her education, and she’d been gratified by the way everything had fallen into place during the past summer. Her older sister had married, and her “baby” brother had entered the military. For a while, Ellen was worried that her widowed mother might suffer from empty nest syndrome, so she’d decided to delay her education another year. But her worries had been groundless, as it turned out. James Simonson, a widower friend of her mother’s, had started dropping by the house often enough for Ellen to recognize a romance brewing between them. The time had finally come for Ellen to make the break, and she did it without guilt or self-reproach.
Clutching a pot holder in one hand, she opened the oven door and lifted out the steaming pie. The fragrance of spicy apples spread through the kitchen, mingling with the savory aroma of the stew that simmered on top of the stove. Carefully, Ellen set the pie on a wire rack. Her housemates appreciated her culinary efforts and she enjoyed doing little things to please them. As the oldest, Ellen fit easily into this household of young men; in fact, she felt that the arrangement was ideal. In exchange for cooking, a little mothering on the side and a share of the cleaning, Ellen paid only a nominal rent.
The unexpected sound of the back door opening made her swivel around.
“What’s going on?” Standing in the doorway was a man with the most piercing green eyes Ellen had ever seen. She noticed immediately that the rest of his features were strongly defined and perfectly balanced. His cheekbones were high and wide, yet his face was lean and appealing. He frowned, and his mouth twisted in an unspoken question.
In one clenched hand he held a small leather suitcase, which he slowly lowered to the kitchen floor. “Who are you?” He spoke sharply, but it wasn’t anger or disdain that edged his voice; it was genuine bewilderment.
Ellen was too shocked to move. When she’d whirled around, the towel had slipped from her head and covered one eye, blocking her vision. But even a one-eyed view of this stranger was enough to intimidate her. She had to admit that his impeccable business suit didn’t look very threatening—but then she glanced at his glowering face again.
With as much poise as possible, she raised a hand to straighten the turban and realized that she was standing in the kitchen wearing washed-out jeans and a white bra. Grabbing the towel from her head, she clasped it to her chest for protection. “Who are you?” she snapped back.
She must have made a laughable sight, holding a red bath towel in front of her like a matador before a charging bull. This man reminded her of a bull. He was tall, muscular and solidly built. And she somehow knew that when he moved, it would be with effortless power and sudden speed. Not exactly the type of man she’d want to meet in a dark alley. Or a deserted house, for that matter. Already Ellen could see the headlines: Small-Town Girl Assaulted in Capitol Hill Kitchen.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in her sternest voice.
“This is my home!” The words vibrated against the walls like claps of thunder.
“Your home?” Ellen choked out. “But... I live here.”
“Not anymore, you don’t.”
“Who are you?” she demanded a second time.
“Reed Morgan.”
Ellen relaxed. “Derek’s brother?”
“Half-brother.”
No wonder they didn’t look anything alike. Derek was a lanky, easy-going nineteen-year-old, with dark hair and equally dark eyes. Ellen would certainly never have expected Derek to have a brother—even a half-brother—like this.
“I—I didn’t know you were coming,” she hedged, feeling utterly foolish.
“Apparently.” He cocked one eyebrow ever so slightly as he stared at her bare shoulders. He shoved his bag out of the doorway, then sighed deeply and ran his hands through his hair. Ellen couldn’t help making the irrelevant observation that it was a dark auburn, thick and lustrous with health.
He looked tired and irritable, and he obviously wasn’t in the best frame of mind for any explanation as to why she was running around his kitchen half-naked. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she offered congenially, hoping to ease the shock of her presence.
“What I’d like is for you to put some clothes on.”
“Yes, of course.” Forcing a smile, Ellen turned abruptly and left the kitchen, feeling humiliated that she could stand there discussing coffee with a stranger when she was practically naked. Running up the stairs, she entered her room and removed her shirt from the end of the bed. Her fingers were trembling as she fastened the buttons.
Her thoughts spun in confusion. If this house was indeed Reed Morgan’s, then he had every right to ask her to leave. She sincerely hoped he’d made some mistake. Or that she’d misunderstood. It would be difficult to find another place to share this far into the school term. And her meager savings would be quickly wiped out if she had to live somewhere on her own. Ellen’s brow wrinkled with worry as she dragged a brush through her short, bouncy curls, still slightly damp. Being forced to move wouldn’t be a tragedy, but definitely a problem, and she was understandably apprehensive. The role of housemother came naturally to Ellen. The boys could hardly boil water without her. She’d only recently broken them in to using the vacuum cleaner and the washing machine without her assistance.
When she returned to the kitchen, she found Reed leaning against the counter, holding a mug of coffee.
“How long has this cozy set-up with you and Derek been going on?”
“About two months now,” she answered, pouring herself a cup of coffee. Although she rarely drank it she felt she needed something to occupy her hands. “But it’s not what you’re implying. Derek and I are nothing more than friends.”
“I’ll just bet.”
Ellen could deal with almost anything except sarcasm. Gritting her teeth until her jaws ached, she replied in an even, controlled voice. “I’m not going to stand here and argue with you. Derek advertised for a housemate and I answered the ad. I came to live here with him and the others and—”
“The others?”
