His Cinderella Housekeeper 3-in-1

by Various

  “More coffee, please,” Celeste began.

  “Sure, honey.”

  As the waitress poured, Celeste bit her lip and stared out the window. Not that there was much of a view other than the highway and a mesquite bush and a prickly pear or two.

  Celeste could feel the woman’s eyes on her. Still, she managed to get out her question in a small, shy voice.

  “Does Phillip Westin still hang out at the Lazy W?”

  The coffee pouring stopped instantly. “Who’s asking?” The friendly, motherly voice had sharpened. The woman’s black eyes seared her like lasers.

  Celeste cringed a little deeper into her booth. “Can’t a girl ask a simple question?”

  “Not in this town, honey. Everybody’s business is everybody’s business.”

  “And I had such high hopes the town would mature.”

  “So—who’s asking about Phillip?”

  “Just an old friend.”

  “Westin has lots of lady friends.”

  “He does?” Celeste squeaked, and then covered her mouth.

  “He meets them out at those fancy dances at the club.”

  “The Lone Star Country Club?”

  “You been there?”

  “A time or two.”

  “What’s your name, honey?”

  “Forget it.”

  “You’re mighty secretive all of a sudden.”

  “Last I heard that wasn’t a crime,” Celeste said.

  The waitress’s smile died and she scurried off to the kitchen in a huff. Watching the doors slam, Celeste felt morose with guilt. She was running from killers, deliberately putting Phillip in danger. He’d moved on, made friends with real ladies at that fancy club he’d joined as soon as he’d moved here permanently.

  He was wealthy. She was the last thing from a lady, the last thing he needed in his orderly life.

  Her appetite gone, she set her fork down with a clatter. What was the matter with her? Why had she argued with the waitress like that? It was just that she felt so lonely and scared and desperate, and so self-conscious about how cheap she looked. And then the woman had told her Phillip had lots of classy girlfriends.

  Oh, why had she come here? Why had she ever thought— If she was smart, she’d catch the next bus to San Antonio. Then she’d lose herself in the big city.

  Celeste should have known that wouldn’t be the end of her exchange with the waitress. Not in a nosy little town like Mission Creek. Before her eggs had time to congeal, the plump woman was back with a cordless telephone and a great big gottcha smile.

  “He’s home,” the waitress said.

  “You didn’t call him—”

  The waitress winked at her and grinned slyly as she listened to Phillip.

  “Oh, no…. You didn’t. Hang up.”

  “She’s got long yellow hair. It’s sort of dirty. And a low-cut black dress with a rip up the left thigh. Nice legs, though. Sensational figure. And a great big shiny guitar that has a booth seat all to itself.” She hesitated. “Yes, a guitar! And…and she’s hurt… Her ankle….” Another pause. “What?” Again there was a long silence.

  Celeste stared out at the prickly pear and chewed her quivering bottom lip. Then she buried her face in her hands.

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  With a shaky hand, Celeste lifted the phone to her ear. “H-hello…?”

  “Celeste?” Phillip’s deep Marine Corps-issue voice sliced out her name with a vengeance.

  “Phillip?”

  “Mabel said you’re limping.”

  “I’m fine. Never better.”

  “You’re in some kind of trouble—”

  She bit her lip and coiled a greasy strand of gold around a fingertip with chipped pearly nail polish. What was the use of lying to him? “I—I wish I could deny it.”

  “And you want me to rescue you….”

  She swallowed as she thought of The Pope and Nero. If they followed her and killed Phillip, it would be all her fault.

  Her throat burned and her eyes got hot. She squeezed them shut because the waitress was watching.

  “How do you intend to play this? Sexy? Repentant? Do you see me riding into town on a white horse and carrying you out of the café in my arms?”

  “Don’t make this harder.”

  “What do you want from me then?”

  Not to end up in some back alley with my skirt tossed over my head, my panties shredded and my throat slit.

  “Just to see you,” she said softly.

  He laughed, but the brittle sound wasn’t that deep chuckle she’d once loved. “You want way more than that and we both know it.”

  He knew how she hated that military, big man, know-it-all tone. She couldn’t bear it any more than she could bear to answer him when he was feeling all self-righteous and judgmental.

  “I wasn’t born rich…like you…. Maybe if you’d gone through even half of what…” She stopped. That was a low blow. “I—I’m sorry.”

  For an instant—just for an instant—she saw her mother’s white, lifeless face in her coffin and remembered how little and helpless she’d felt.

  “Stay at the café. I’ll send Juan to get you as soon as he gets back with the truck.”

  “Juan? I’d… I’d rather you came….”

  But he didn’t hear her heartfelt plea. He’d already hung up.

  Thirty minutes later Phillip’s ranch hand arrived in a whirl of dust. When Celeste saw him, she grabbed her guitar.

  The waitress stared at the blowing dust and said to no one in particular, “It’s awful dry out there. We could do with some rain.”

  Juan was short and dark, and dressed in a red shirt and baggy jeans coated with a week’s supply of dirt. He didn’t speak much English, and she didn’t speak any Spanish. So she spent the ten-minute drive singing to the radio and watching the scenery go by. If you could call it scenery.

  Unlike Vegas, south Texas was flat and covered with thorny brush. When they flew through the gate, Juan braked in front of a tall white house with a wraparound porch. Dust swirled around the truck and the wide front porch as he lit a cigarette.

  She coughed. “Where’s Mr. Westin?”

  “Señor Westin?” Juan clomped up the stairs and pointed inside the house. Then he opened the screen door like a gentleman and beckoned for her to go inside. She nodded. Picking up her long skirt, she hesitantly stepped across the threshold into the living room.

  The second she saw the burgundy couch she’d picked out at Sears, her heart began to beat too fast. Nothing much had changed. The same easy chair she’d bought for Phillip still squatted in front of the television set. Maybe the set was a little larger. She wasn’t sure.

  She knew her way around the house, not that she intended to explore the rooms in the house she’d once called home.

  The Lazy W had been a rundown ranch Phillip had visited most summers as a kid. He’d grown up loving it. As an adult, he’d helped his uncle out when he’d been unable to do the work himself. Then a few years back, his elderly uncle had died and left him everything including the ranch.

  Phillip had told her several of his friends who’d served under his command in the 14th Unit of the U.S. Marine Corps lived nearby, too. The guys had all belonged to the Lone Star Country Club, so Phillip had joined because they’d told him that’s where the prettiest girls in town were. Apparently when the 14th unit was off duty, their favorite sport was chasing women.

  Once a Marine, always a Marine, she thought grimly as she set her guitar down by the front door. Oh, dear, now that she was inside, it was all coming back to her. She’d been so crazily in love with Phillip, but at the same time, she’d wanted to be a star for as long as she could remember. Loving Phillip had only made her want it more. She’d wanted to be somebody…somebody special enough for Phillip to love on an equal footing, a somebody like her beautiful mother.

  The two obsessions had fought within her. She’d felt deliriously happy when she was in Phillip’s ar
ms, and then the minute he’d gone off to war she’d felt scared and trapped. Then he’d gone missing.

  How long did a woman wait for a man missing behind enemy lines? Her fear that he’d been dead, like her parents, had driven her mad. She’d felt as if she’d be a nothing forever if she didn’t do something besides wait at the ranch. These very walls had seemed to close in on her like a prison. She’d had to run. She’d had to, but Phillip hadn’t seen it that way.

  When he’d turned up alive and called her, she’d been overjoyed. She’d wanted to see him so badly, to tell him about recording her first song, the song he’d inspired.

  Oh, why hadn’t he listened? Why hadn’t he been able to understand? All he’d understood was that she’d left him.

  “But I didn’t know you were coming back! I thought you were dead!” she’d cried over and over again.

  He hadn’t listened. He’d believed the worst of her.

  Now she was back in Phillip’s living room. How would he treat her? Was he in love with someone else?

  “Phillip,” she cried, suddenly wanting to stop the bittersweet memories as well as her doubts about the wisdom of coming here.

  “Phillip?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Was she really so washed up she no longer had a chance to make it as a country-western star?

  Should she just give up and settle for some ordinary life filled with babies and chores with some ordinary man? Not that she’d ever thought of Phillip as ordinary.

  She wandered into his kitchen. Dishes were piled high in the sink. She didn’t have to answer all life’s questions today. All she had to do was to convince Phillip to help her until she could find a job and could get back on her feet. He knew people. Maybe he could even get her a job if he wanted to. The Phillip she remembered liked to help people. Surely he’d help her. Even her. Surely—

  “Phillip?”

  Again, he didn’t answer, but when she stepped into the hall, she heard his shower running. At the sound, she almost stopped breathing. Paralyzed, she stood outside his bedroom door until the water was turned off, and she heard the same old pipe that had always moaned groan and rumble. The shuddering sound broke the tension and she laughed.

  They’d made love in that shower more times than she could count. She leaned against the wooden wall behind her and fought against the memories.

  “Phillip?” she called again just so he wouldn’t stomp out into the hall naked.

  “Just a minute.”

  His deep, sexy baritone sent a shiver down her back, and that was before he stepped out of his bedroom into the hall in skintight, faded jeans that weren’t zipped all the way up, rubbing his thick, dark hair with a white towel.

  Oh, dear, he looked so good, and she was so grimy. She wished her mouth didn’t taste so stale.

  He tossed the towel back into his bedroom. She’d forgotten that when his dark hair was wet, it had a tendency to curl.

  Her eyes fastened on his brown, muscular chest and flat belly, on the whorls of black hair running up and down his lean frame, before roving hungrily back to his rugged face.

  Oh, dear. He’d stayed in shape. But, of course, he would. Phillip had the Marine Corps can-do, will-do, damn-it-to-hell-and-back attitude. He was disciplined, focused. He could make a plan and stick to it.

  Not like her, who dreamed and wanted and then sometimes got lost in the day-to-day problems that came with living. Things that needed doing didn’t always get done, and things she enjoyed doing were savored instead. She tended to drift and get nowhere or go hysterical and do nothing to solve her problem. She could waste days paralyzed by a mood. Which was why she’d landed on his doorstep without a dime of her own and looking even cheaper than the first night they’d met.

  Some homecoming.

  And Phillip? He was as handsome as ever, dangerously so. His mouth was wide and hard, his lower lip as sensuously kissable as ever. Oh, dear, she felt the old familiar ache to press her lips to his. He’d been so good at kissing, too. Too good.

  Seven years on the ranch working outside had hardened his face and etched lines beneath his eyes and around his shapely mouth. He looked older, harsher, and yet…and yet he was still her Phillip.

  Her Phillip? Don’t be ridiculous!

  He hadn’t shaved yet, so his square jaw was covered with black bristles that made him look tough and virile and good enough to eat. Used to, he’d let her shave him in the shower before they’d made love.

  Quit thinking about “used to.”

  When her eyes rose to his, he flushed. She felt her own skin heat when she realized he was staring at her breasts.

  “I—I didn’t have time to buy new clothes.”

  “How come you left Vegas in such a hurry?”

  Her eyes widened in blank shock. The last thing she could tell him was the truth. He’d really despise her. Oh, why hadn’t she checked into a motel and freshened up? Why hadn’t she given herself a day to get her story together, a day to buy clothes and makeup?

  Because unlike him, she wasn’t a planner. Besides, she’d been too hysterical.

  Instantly his silver eyes went opaque, and he met hers unsmilingly as he waited for her answer that didn’t come. Suspicious, his carved face was a mask of military, tough-guy expressionlessness. Not by so much as a flicker of a black eyelash did he reveal that the sight of her in his hall looking weak and helpless and yet sexy and wild in a slinky black gown ripped to the thigh might disturb him.

  His hard gaze returned to her breasts. The fact that he couldn’t take his eyes off her body made her feel a little better. Even though she felt shyly nervous that he still found her desirable—she still felt better. Which was ridiculous. She wasn’t here for sex or love or anything like that. She didn’t want him wanting her. She didn’t!

  Liar.

  “I must look a terrible mess,” she said with an air of innocence that was completely false.

  Idly she fluffed her hair. “You look good,” was all he said. But his voice was bitter.

  He stepped into the light and she saw the deep cut on his cheek.

  “You’re hurt.” She slid across the hall and raised her hand, intending to touch him.

  “It’s nothing,” he snapped.

  Still, she came closer. Before he could move, she had her hand on the hot, rough skin near the ugly wound, her fingers tracing its edges tenderly.

  “Oh, Phillip….” There were tears in her voice. “What happened?”

  “Don’t!”

  “Did you go off on some silly mission again?” she asked.

  “As if you give a damn— I could’ve died for all you’d care.”

  She had cared, but better not to go there, she thought.

  He grabbed her hand, intending to push her away, but the minute he touched her, she went strangely breathless. So did he.

  Their eyes met, locked. On a raw, tortured note he whispered her name and she whispered his back, her voice as tremulous and lost as his.

  Then it was as if they were caught in a spell. Some power outside of them and yet a part of them took over. Before she could stop herself, or he could push her away, she flung herself toward his hard, powerful body. Then she was in his arms, hugging him, clinging with a strength she hadn’t known she possessed.

  She felt so safe in his arms, so safe and protected after being so afraid. She melted against him like a frightened kitten shaping itself into a warm lap.

  His skin was hot, so hot, burning up, and he smelled deliciously of shampoo and soap and yet of real man, too. Again, she remembered those long-ago romps in the shower.

  “Hold me,” she whispered. “Just hold me. It’s been way too long.”

  He hesitated. Then he groaned and his arms wrapped her in a fierce embrace.

  “How did I ever leave you? How?” she whispered. “How? Oh, Phillip, I thought you were—”

  “Don’t!”

  He stiffened. Beneath her ear, his heart slammed in hard, furious strokes. The violent thud
ding thrilled her. So he wasn’t immune to her any more than she was immune to him. He wasn’t.

  Not that she cared. Not that she could let herself care. She wanted to be a star. Not some rancher’s wife in this hellish desert where it almost never rained unless a hurricane roared across the Gulf. Not the wife of some ex-Marine who might go away to fight and die. Yet she clung to him and kissed his throat.

  The kiss proved to be too much for him. The minute her mouth touched his skin, he let out a savage rasp and pushed her away.

  “Don’t try that again,” he said hoarsely in his cruelest Marine Corps voice. “Unless you intend to deliver the goods.” His silver eyes stripped her.

  “Oh….” She gasped.

  He was breathing hard, too.

  “Westin, you always wanted me as much as I wanted you, so why does that make me some cheap, sexy tart in your mind?”

  “You know the rules. It’s not like I made them up.”

  “What rules? Oh….” Her heart was pounding so fast she could barely breathe, and not from passion now.

  “Men can screw around,” he said. “Women can’t.”

  “Oh…. I don’t… That’s a horrible thing to say…in general…and about me. I haven’t…”

  “You arrive at my doorstep half-naked…in a provocative gown somebody—let’s cut the bull, a man probably—tried to tear off you in a bar.”

  “That’s not what—”

  “You throw yourself on me, using every cheap trick in the book, and you expect me to believe…”

  “I tore my skirt on a window frame.”

  “Sneaking out of some man’s bedroom?”

  “Think that if you want to! You’re as impossible as ever. As pigheaded…as…as… You don’t listen. You think you know everything.”

  “I know you—Biblically.” He laughed. “You’re just the same, too.”

  If that remark made her even madder, his next comment was like a torch thrown onto a pool of gasoline.

  “I picked you up in a barroom brawl. I should’ve known what you were like then. But you came on so soft and sweet and helpless, you fooled me.”