Born in Ice
Page 14
So she did it herself.
His clothes carried labels from fine shops around the world. But they were never pressed and were often tossed negligently over a chair or hung crookedly in the wardrobe.
She began to add his laundry to her own, and had to admit it was pleasant to hang his shirts on the line when the day was sunny.
He kept no mementos of friends or family, made no attempt to personalize the room he now lived in. There were books, boxes of them—mysteries, horror novels, spy thrillers, romances, classics, nonfiction books on police procedures, weapons and murder, psychology, mythology, witchcraft, auto mechanics—that made her smile—and subjects as varied as architecture and zoology.
There seemed to be nothing that didn’t interest him.
She knew he preferred coffee but would drink tea in a pinch if it was strong enough. He had the sweet tooth of a ten-year-old boy—and the energy of one.
He was nosy—there was to be no question he wouldn’t ask. But there was an innate kindness in him that made him hard to rebuff. He never failed to offer to do some chore or errand for her—and she’d seen him sneaking tidbits of food to Con when he thought she wasn’t looking.
All in all, it was an excellent arrangement—he provided her company, income, and the work she loved. She gave him a smoothly running base. Yet she could never quite relax around him. He had never referred to that one moment of mind-numbing attraction between them. But it was there—in the way her pulse jumped if she walked into a room and found him there unexpectedly. In the way her body heated when he turned those gilded eyes in her direction and simply looked at her.
Brianna blamed herself for it. It had been a long, long time since she had been deeply attracted to a man. Not since Rory McAvery had left her with a scar on her heart and a hole in her life had she felt such a wicked stirring for any man.
Since she was feeling it for a guest, Brianna had decided it was her responsibility to still it.
But as she smoothed the quilt on his bed, fluffed his pillows, she wondered where his ramblings were taking him today.
He hadn’t gone far. Gray had decided to travel on foot that morning and wandered down the narrow road under gloomy, threatening skies. He passed a couple of outbuildings, saw a tractor shelter, hay bales stacked out of the weather. Murphy’s, he imagined and began to wonder what it would be like to be a farmer.
Owning land, he mused, being responsible for it. Plowing, planting, tending, watching things grow. Keeping an eye on the sky, sniffing the air for a turn in the weather.
Not a life for Grayson Thane, he thought, but imagined some would find it rewarding. There’d been that simple pride of ownership in Murphy Muldoon’s walk—a man who knew his feet were planted on his own.
But owning land—or anything—meant being tied to it. He’d have to ask Murphy how he felt about that.
Gray could see the valley from this spot, and the rise of hills. From the distance came the quick, happy bark of a dog. Con, perhaps, out looking for adventure before heading home to lay his head in Brianna’s lap.
Gray had to envy the dog the privilege. Grimacing, Gray tucked his hands in his pockets. He’d been working hard to keep those hands off his subtly sexy landlady.
He told himself she didn’t wear those prim aprons or pin her hair up in those fall-away knots to charm him. But it worked. It was unlikely she fussed around the house smelling of wildflowers and cloves to drive him crazy. But he was suffering.
Beyond the physical—which was difficult enough—there was that air of secrets and sadness. He’d yet to slip through that thin wall of reserve and discover what was troubling her. Whatever it was haunted her eyes.
Not that he intended to get involved, Gray assured himself. He was just curious. Making friends was something he did easily by way of sincere interest and a sympathetic nature. But close friends, the kind a man kept in touch with through the years, worried over, missed when he was away, weren’t in the master plan.
Grayson Thane traveled light, and he traveled frequently.
The little cottage with the boldly painted front door had Gray pausing. An addition had been framed in on the south side that was as big as the original house. The earth that had been displaced was now a hill of mud that would have delighted any five-year-old.
The little place down the road? he wondered. Where Brianna’s sister and brother-in-law lived from time to time? He decided the magenta door was Maggie’s doing and went through the gate for a closer look.
For the next few minutes he pleased himself poking through the new construction. Someone knew what they were doing here, he thought. The frame was sturdy, the materials top of the line. Adding on for the baby, he assumed, working his way to the rear. It was then he spotted the building out in the back.
Her glass shop. Pleased with his new discovery, he stepped off the planking and crossed the dew-dampened lawn. Once he reached it, Gray cupped his hands against the window and peered in. He could see furnaces, benches, tools that whetted his curiosity and imagination. Shelves were loaded with works in progress. Without a qualm he stepped back and reached for the door. “Are you wanting your fingers broken?”
He turned. Maggie stood in the rear doorway of the cottage, a steaming cup in one hand. She wore a bagging sweater, worn cords, and a scowl. Gray grinned at her.
“Not especially. Is this where you work?”
“It is. How do you treat people who pop uninvited into your studio?”
“I haven’t got a studio. How about a tour?”
She didn’t bother to muffle the oath, or the sigh. “You’re a bold one, aren’t you? All right, then, since I don’t seem to be doing anything else. The man goes off,” she complained as she crossed the grass. “Doesn’t even wake me. Leaves me a note is all he does, telling me to eat a decent breakfast and keep my feet up.”
“And did you?”
“I might have if I hadn’t heard somebody tramping around my property.”
“Sorry.” But still he grinned at her. “When’s the baby due?”
“In the spring.” Despite herself she softened. It took only the mention of the baby. “I’ve weeks yet, and if the man keeps trying to pamper me, I’ll have to murder him. Well, come in, then, since you’re here.”
“I see that gracious hospitality runs in the family.”
“It doesn’t.” Now a smile tugged at her lips. “Brianna got all the niceness. Look,” she said as she opened the door. “Don’t touch, or I will break those fingers.”
His clothes carried labels from fine shops around the world. But they were never pressed and were often tossed negligently over a chair or hung crookedly in the wardrobe.
She began to add his laundry to her own, and had to admit it was pleasant to hang his shirts on the line when the day was sunny.
He kept no mementos of friends or family, made no attempt to personalize the room he now lived in. There were books, boxes of them—mysteries, horror novels, spy thrillers, romances, classics, nonfiction books on police procedures, weapons and murder, psychology, mythology, witchcraft, auto mechanics—that made her smile—and subjects as varied as architecture and zoology.
There seemed to be nothing that didn’t interest him.
She knew he preferred coffee but would drink tea in a pinch if it was strong enough. He had the sweet tooth of a ten-year-old boy—and the energy of one.
He was nosy—there was to be no question he wouldn’t ask. But there was an innate kindness in him that made him hard to rebuff. He never failed to offer to do some chore or errand for her—and she’d seen him sneaking tidbits of food to Con when he thought she wasn’t looking.
All in all, it was an excellent arrangement—he provided her company, income, and the work she loved. She gave him a smoothly running base. Yet she could never quite relax around him. He had never referred to that one moment of mind-numbing attraction between them. But it was there—in the way her pulse jumped if she walked into a room and found him there unexpectedly. In the way her body heated when he turned those gilded eyes in her direction and simply looked at her.
Brianna blamed herself for it. It had been a long, long time since she had been deeply attracted to a man. Not since Rory McAvery had left her with a scar on her heart and a hole in her life had she felt such a wicked stirring for any man.
Since she was feeling it for a guest, Brianna had decided it was her responsibility to still it.
But as she smoothed the quilt on his bed, fluffed his pillows, she wondered where his ramblings were taking him today.
He hadn’t gone far. Gray had decided to travel on foot that morning and wandered down the narrow road under gloomy, threatening skies. He passed a couple of outbuildings, saw a tractor shelter, hay bales stacked out of the weather. Murphy’s, he imagined and began to wonder what it would be like to be a farmer.
Owning land, he mused, being responsible for it. Plowing, planting, tending, watching things grow. Keeping an eye on the sky, sniffing the air for a turn in the weather.
Not a life for Grayson Thane, he thought, but imagined some would find it rewarding. There’d been that simple pride of ownership in Murphy Muldoon’s walk—a man who knew his feet were planted on his own.
But owning land—or anything—meant being tied to it. He’d have to ask Murphy how he felt about that.
Gray could see the valley from this spot, and the rise of hills. From the distance came the quick, happy bark of a dog. Con, perhaps, out looking for adventure before heading home to lay his head in Brianna’s lap.
Gray had to envy the dog the privilege. Grimacing, Gray tucked his hands in his pockets. He’d been working hard to keep those hands off his subtly sexy landlady.
He told himself she didn’t wear those prim aprons or pin her hair up in those fall-away knots to charm him. But it worked. It was unlikely she fussed around the house smelling of wildflowers and cloves to drive him crazy. But he was suffering.
Beyond the physical—which was difficult enough—there was that air of secrets and sadness. He’d yet to slip through that thin wall of reserve and discover what was troubling her. Whatever it was haunted her eyes.
Not that he intended to get involved, Gray assured himself. He was just curious. Making friends was something he did easily by way of sincere interest and a sympathetic nature. But close friends, the kind a man kept in touch with through the years, worried over, missed when he was away, weren’t in the master plan.
Grayson Thane traveled light, and he traveled frequently.
The little cottage with the boldly painted front door had Gray pausing. An addition had been framed in on the south side that was as big as the original house. The earth that had been displaced was now a hill of mud that would have delighted any five-year-old.
The little place down the road? he wondered. Where Brianna’s sister and brother-in-law lived from time to time? He decided the magenta door was Maggie’s doing and went through the gate for a closer look.
For the next few minutes he pleased himself poking through the new construction. Someone knew what they were doing here, he thought. The frame was sturdy, the materials top of the line. Adding on for the baby, he assumed, working his way to the rear. It was then he spotted the building out in the back.
Her glass shop. Pleased with his new discovery, he stepped off the planking and crossed the dew-dampened lawn. Once he reached it, Gray cupped his hands against the window and peered in. He could see furnaces, benches, tools that whetted his curiosity and imagination. Shelves were loaded with works in progress. Without a qualm he stepped back and reached for the door. “Are you wanting your fingers broken?”
He turned. Maggie stood in the rear doorway of the cottage, a steaming cup in one hand. She wore a bagging sweater, worn cords, and a scowl. Gray grinned at her.
“Not especially. Is this where you work?”
“It is. How do you treat people who pop uninvited into your studio?”
“I haven’t got a studio. How about a tour?”
She didn’t bother to muffle the oath, or the sigh. “You’re a bold one, aren’t you? All right, then, since I don’t seem to be doing anything else. The man goes off,” she complained as she crossed the grass. “Doesn’t even wake me. Leaves me a note is all he does, telling me to eat a decent breakfast and keep my feet up.”
“And did you?”
“I might have if I hadn’t heard somebody tramping around my property.”
“Sorry.” But still he grinned at her. “When’s the baby due?”
“In the spring.” Despite herself she softened. It took only the mention of the baby. “I’ve weeks yet, and if the man keeps trying to pamper me, I’ll have to murder him. Well, come in, then, since you’re here.”
“I see that gracious hospitality runs in the family.”
“It doesn’t.” Now a smile tugged at her lips. “Brianna got all the niceness. Look,” she said as she opened the door. “Don’t touch, or I will break those fingers.”
