Which bugged her even more. “Oh, I’m glad you think so. I was worried you might find me uncool.”
“Yeah, right.” He laughed. “You couldn’t care less what I think. And I like that too. You’re…not boring.”
“People who care about your opinion bore you? That sounds terribly jaded.” Brenna tossed her empty soda can into the nearby trash bin, then walked over to the window and stared outside.
Moments later Luke again was by her side. “I am jaded,” he said, resuming the conversation exactly where they’d left off. “Remember all those stories about me?”
“‘Enough about me, let’s talk about what you’ve heard about me’?” Brenna mocked.
Luke looked nonplussed. “I didn’t say that.”
“I understand subtext.”
“Huh? What subtext? What are you talking about?”
“Never mind.” Brenna turned and walked away from him.
Luke followed. It was as if he were on a leash and she held the end, dragging him along after her, wherever she went. The insight was appalling, yet he kept going, not stopping until he realized she was heading purposefully to the women’s rest room.
She stayed there, not emerging until it was time to return to the courtroom.
Luke was already seated when she took in her chair in the box. She didn’t look his way; she struck up a conversation with Wanda instead, admiring the colors in the afghan the older woman was knitting.
Luke found the discussion about yarn dull. He tried to enliven it. “All ready to hear more about those zany star-crossed lovers Amber and Brad?” he joked, interrupting.
“We’re not supposed to discuss the case until deliberations.” Brenna’s tone was frosty, as if she didn’t know he was kidding.
Luke knew she did. He heaved a deep, martyred sigh. “Brenna, I know you’re mad, but—”
The judge entered the courtroom, and everybody rose in deferential silence. There were no more breaks until court was adjourned at four-thirty.
Later that evening Brenna was in her studio, an upstairs bedroom she planned to completely remodel someday. Right now it was empty except for her draft table and state-of-the-art desk chair, worth every cent she’d paid, considering how much time she spent in it. A ledge she had installed ran the length of one wall and held the tools of her trade, pens and pencils, both lead and colored, rulers and erasers, sable brushes, watercolors in every hue imaginable.
The lighting equipment had been another major expenditure, necessary to enable her to work at night, even though she preferred the natural sunlight of daytime. When the baby came, she might not be able to adhere to her normal routine of working all morning and afternoon. The baby would dictate her schedule, and that might mean working nights, when it was dark.
Brenna was prepared. Her new lighting made the room as bright as day.
Piles of books and magazines were stacked haphazardly around the room; getting shelves to put them on was another future project. An illustrated book of costumes lay open in front of her.
Brenna reached for a sharp yellow pencil to color in the loop-tied pigtails of the little girl with a turned-up nose and mischievous sparkle in her pale-blue eyes.
The little girl was six-year-old Kristin, who was wearing clothes in the style and colors that a child of that age in the year 1908 would have worn. Brenna had drawn Kristin’s dress and bloomers, big ribbons and button shoes after researching her invaluable aid: A Hundred Years of Children’s Wear: 1850-1950.
One of her favorite CDs, Broadway Sings Happy, a collection of peppy anthems from various shows, accompanied Brenna as she drew. Since that momentous day when she’d learned she was pregnant, Brenna had played nothing but upbeat music, songs about hope and love and laughter, songs that lifted her spirits. She firmly believed that maternal moods affected an unborn baby, and it was her duty to protect her child from any of her own less-than-positive emotions.
A boisterous rendition of “76 Trombones” filled the small house, and Brenna hummed along. When the telephone on the wall beside her began to ring, she picked up the portable receiver and tucked it under her chin while deftly coloring Kristin’s hairbow a pale-pink.
“Oh, so you have a parade going on in there,” said Cassie Walsh on the other end of the line. “That’s why you haven’t heard your doorbell ringing or the knocking— I mean, the pounding—on your door.”
“Somebody’s at my door?” Brenna quickly lowered the volume of her CD player.
The doorbell was ringing insistently, with some knocking—no, pounding was more descriptively correct—occurring at intermittent intervals. All the houses on the street had been built close together on small lots, enabling her neighbors to hear what she had blocked out with her music.
“Can you see who it is?” asked Brenna. She knew Cassie had a clear view of her front porch from the Walsh kitchen.
“It’s a man,” Cassie said. “That much I can tell, because it can’t be a woman with that build. And if it is… Well, she has my deepest sympathy. You know, if you’d put your porch light on when it gets dark, I’d have a better view, Brenna.”
There was a slight note of reprimand in her voice. Cassie had a younger sister and often fell into that role automatically with Brenna when it came to things like safety tips.
“Did I forget to put the porch light on again? Sorry, Cass. I guess I’m still not used to living in a house after a lifetime in apartments. Can you tell if it’s a policeman? Because I’m not opening my door to anyone else, and I’m not even sure I’ll—”
“I’m sending Ray over there right now,” Cassie said decisively and hung up.
Amid the ringing and pounding, Brenna crept quietly down the stairs. There were no windows in her small entrance foyer, and her door was solid oak, with no glass panes to reveal her presence to the person outside.
“I’m Ray Walsh and these are my boys, Brandon and Timmy.” Through the door, Brenna heard Ray Walsh, Cassie’s husband, the principal of the town high school. “We live next door. Can we help you?”
“I’m a friend of Brenna’s, and I’m starting to get concerned. She isn’t answering her door, and I know she must be in there. All the lights are on, and I could hear music playing a couple minutes earlier. I know she’s inside—but maybe she can’t get to the door?”
Brenna uttered a small astonished gasp. She also recognized that particular male voice. It was none other than her fellow juror, Luke Minteer.
And he was at her door? Why?
Automatically she opened the front door. A hard-blowing wind rushed into the house, and Brenna shuddered, rubbing her hands over her arms. Her long red maternity sweater, decorated with candy canes, wasn’t enough protection against the cold night air.
“You are here!” Luke sounded triumphant.
His eyes met Brenna’s, and their gazes locked.
“Hi, Mrs. Morgan,” Brandon and Tim, both preteens, chorused.
Luke arched his brows sardonically, and Brenna quickly looked away from him, to greet the boys warmly.
“Thought we’d drop over and see what you’re up to tonight, Brenna,” said Ray. He tilted his head toward Luke. “Friend of yours?” He left the option open for Brenna to confirm or deny.
“Yes, I know him.” The breathlessness in her voice surprised her. She supposed it must be from the shock of cold air.
“Luke Minteer.” Luke extended his hand to Ray and then to each boy. “Nice to meet you. It’s good to know Brenna has such reliable neighbors,” he added with a smooth sincerity that made Brenna’s lips curve into a wry smile.
It wasn’t hard to picture Luke out campaigning for his brother. He sounded as if he were chatting up potential voters right now.
“You’re the writer, aren’t you?” Ray eyed Luke thoughtfully. “And…the brother?”
Luke grinned. “Things are really starting to look up when I’m ‘the writer’ before ‘the brother.’ It used to be the other way around—I thought it always would be.”
> “Your book was amazing,” Ray said eagerly, dropping his initial reserve. “Had me laughing one minute and on the edge of my seat the next. And the ending! That sure was unexpected! What a great read!”
“Thanks.” Luke beamed. “I had to go to the mat to keep that ending. The editors wanted me to—”
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work,” Brenna injected. She started to close the door.
“Wait!” Luke stepped into the doorway, preventing her from shutting him out.
Brenna paused, her hand on the knob.
“Can I come in?” asked Luke.
She was certain he’d only asked because Ray and the kids were standing there. Otherwise, she had no doubt that he would’ve pushed his way inside without bothering to seek her permission. But since he had…
Brenna remained still, with the door partially closed and Luke half in and half out, while she debated whether or not to let him inside.
Luke cleared his throat. “It’s urgent, Brenna.”
Another gust of wind delivered yet another icy wallop. It was too cold to stand there indefinitely. Brenna stepped aside, allowing Luke to enter.
“Brenna, if you need anything, give a call.” Ray was already herding the boys from the porch. “I’m looking forward for your next book, Luke,” he added with enthusiasm. “Don’t make us wait too long for it.”
Luke gave a friendly wave, then turned and closed the door behind him. “Nice guy,” he remarked.
“And an admiring fan of yours.” Brenna folded her arms, resting them on her belly. Inside her body, the baby had ceased its earlier gymnastics and was probably asleep. “If you want to continue your discussion with Ray, go on over. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”
“I didn’t come here to discuss my writing with your neighbor.”
“Why are you here?” She eyed him warily.
Luke opened his jacket and slipped it off, tossing it toward the post of the wooden railing along the staircase. The hood snagged the top of the post and hung there.
“Sort of a slam dunk,” he said with satisfaction. “Not bad, huh?”
“Let me guess—you played basketball in school?”
“High school,” he confirmed. “Never made the team in college. Not, er, enough height, according to the coach.”
She looked up at him. Flatfooted in her slipper-socks, it seemed she had to look way up. “I guess they only want those seven-foot-tall giants playing college ball.”
“Yeah. If you’re six feet tall—like me—you’re out of luck.” Luke squared his shoulders and looked even taller to her.
She noticed that he still had on the same clothes he’d worn in court today, faded well-fitting jeans and the plaid flannel shirt, its colors muted, as if it had undergone repeated washings. She knew that the fabric was soft and warm because she had felt it against her cheek as she’d slept against him in the courtroom this afternoon.
The sensory memory hit her like a blast of frigid air, jolting her, making her feel a little dizzy. The breathlessness she’d originally attributed to the cold wind was back, which meant there had to be another cause for it.
This time Brenna didn’t kid herself into believing it was anything other than his stunning sensual impact on her.
She gazed up at him, so male and tall and strong. So virile.
What was the line in that old, country song, something about “looking better than he had a right to”? Oh, that was Luke Minteer! And he was here in her house, staring down at her with his piercing Irish-blue eyes. She felt an unfamiliar melting warmth ooze through her, pooling deep in her belly.
Brenna gulped. “I know you’re not here to discuss your ex-basketball career. You said it was urgent.”
“I meant it was urgent that you make up your mind to let me in. I was freezing my, er, I was really getting cold standing out there.” He rubbed his palms together. “Any coffee?”
“I don’t drink it. I’ve never liked it. I have tea and hot chocolate,” she added reluctantly. Was she obliged to offer hospitality to a drop-in visitor?
“No, thanks.” Luke made a face as if she’d offered him rat poison. “Anyway, why I’m here…I know why you blew up at me in the courtroom today.”
“I didn’t blow up at you!”
“Figuratively speaking. Hey, you were mad, Brenna. Come on, admit it.”
“I wasn’t mad,” she insisted. “I—” She broke off, then began again. “I’m working this evening, Luke. I don’t have time for guests.”
“I’m not a guest. I just stopped by to tell you that I figured out what got you so riled this afternoon. It was because I didn’t give you a chance to talk about your job.” He wore the satisfied smile of one who has discovered an elusive truth. “I didn’t mean to cut you off, but somehow—”
“The conversation got turned around to focus on you? Funny how that always seems to happen, isn’t it? You do love talking about your favorite subject—you!” She was fighting hard to hold back a smile of her own. He was tangibly turning on the charm; she could feel it.
“And that made you mad, isn’t that right, Brenna?”
“No, I was simply tired of talking to you, of talking about you, of listening to you.”
She was particularly tired of the roller-coaster thrills being in his company provided her, but Brenna was not about to add that. Better to offend him by letting him believe she found him a tiresome bore. Because if he were to suspect these feelings he’d stirred up in her…
A pregnant woman, at the mercy of an overload of hormones, developing a schoolgirl crush on the town’s bachelor rogue? Oh, it was too embarrassing to contemplate.
“Serving on a jury means enduring all the lawyers’ blather, not the other jurors,” she added baldly.
Luke gave a huff, his expression one of disbelief mingled with indignation. “Well, you don’t have to worry, I won’t continue to bore you. In fact, I’ll spare you from having to endure any more of my…blather. From now on, I won’t talk to you at all.”
“That works for me,” Brenna said glibly. “Good night.”
“Good night!” He retrieved his jacket from the post.
Brenna felt her baby awaken with a sudden thrust and begin to kick forcefully. She drew a sharp breath after a particularly enthusiastic strike.
Luke, his hand on the doorknob, had turned around in time to see her reaction.
“You flinched.” He scowled. “Are you okay, or do you intend to go into labor right now?”
“I’m okay. Susannah or Simon’s foot connected with one of my internal organs. A kidney, I think.”
“Simon,” Luke repeated, dropping his hand. “Simon? Don’t tell you you’re thinking of naming the kid Simon?”
“Only if it’s a boy. If she’s a girl, she’ll be Susannah.”
“Susannah is all right, I guess, but Simon as in ‘Simple Simon Met a Pieman’? As in Simon Says? And that arch villain Simon Legree? You can’t be serious.”
“Simon is a wonderful name!” Brenna was defensive. “It’s a classic, biblical and timeless. It’s strong but stylish and not overused—”
“You sound as if you’re quoting from one of those baby-name books. You can’t take them seriously. Case in point, one of those books claims that Hortense is ripe for a comeback.”
“Not one of the name books I’ve read says that,” protested Brenna, “and, anyway, there is a world of difference between Simon and Hortense.”
“The sperm donor was half-Swedish, so why not choose a Viking name? Might as well play up the kid’s heritage, since it’s the only thing he’ll ever get from his father.”
The implied criticism stung Brenna. “You were just on your way out the door, after promising you wouldn’t talk to me anymore, remember?” she needled him.
Luke’s mouth thinned into a straight line. “You can be really bitchy at times, Brenna.”
“True. I can be. And a charming smooth operator like you doesn’t have to put up with it. I’m sure this tow
n is filled with nonbitchy types who would love it if you dropped in on them. So why don’t you?” She opened the front door and held it for him.
“That’s a blatant invitation for me to leave,” accused Luke.
“As blatant as I could make it,” she agreed.
Cold air was beginning to fill the foyer again, thanks to the opened door. Brenna shivered.
“Why am I still here?” Luke tossed out the question, glaring at her, as if challenging her to supply the answer. “Why did I come over here in the first place?”
His eyes swept over her, taking in her defiant stance, her feet planted wide apart, one hand on her hip while her other hand kept pushing the door open wider, letting the wind blow inside. She was probably hoping a gust would blast him right out of the house.
To his extreme consternation, Luke couldn’t decide if her aggressive posture infuriated him or turned him on. Or both.
Worse, he already knew the answers to the two questions he had posed, though he could only hope she didn’t.
He was here because he couldn’t stay away from her. Because the need to be with her had somehow overpowered his common sense and his willpower to stay away from her.
His mind had short-circuited this afternoon when he’d learned she was a successful artist, one who actually made a living from her work. He’d been impressed, and the odd vicarious pride that had streaked through him unnerved him. If he hadn’t stopped himself, he would’ve deluged her with questions and given himself away. So he’d played it cool and she’d turned cold.
But instead of being relieved, all he could think about was how to make things right with her again. After staring blankly at his computer screen tonight for over two whole hours without typing a single word—his first-time-ever case of writer’s block—he’d conceded that writing was a lost cause. His imagination had been taken over by Brenna Morgan!
It was as if he were possessed, so he’d hightailed it over here seeking exorcism. Her unwelcoming bitchiness, coupled with the sight of her in that absurd candy cane sweater, her belly swollen, her face pale without makeup, her hair tumbled around her shoulders in a tangled mess, should’ve done the trick.
Irresistible You Page 5
