Judith Yates - A Will And A Wedding (Harlequin Treasury 1990's)

by Judith Yates

  “Look at you!” she cried, then laughed as he ran a hand through his covered hair. It resembled a powdered wig. “You and I could get night work haunting this place.”

  Glancing down at his shirt and jeans, he smiled. “Maura is always complaining that the inn hasn’t got a single ghost to boast about. Maybe we should get her over here tonight and give her a thrill,” he proposed with a mischievous wink.

  Amy giggled and moved on to another corner of the room. She had already noticed, and appreciated, the jesting relationship between Paul and Maura. Actually, she envied it—and Maura and Bridget’s camaraderie as well.

  “Bernadette just asked me if you were doing too much,” Paul said as he heaved a bunk of plaster into a trash can. “I told her you had me doing all the work.”

  “That’s not such a bad idea.” Grinning, she dumped another dustpan load into a plastic bag. “Is she feeling any better?”

  “A little. At least the initial shock has worn off.”

  “She was very upset about the bed.”

  “Yeah, she told me.” Paul glanced over at the ravaged bed frame. “She’s still shaky when it comes to anything connected with Greg. But that’ll change in time.”

  “You’re very supportive of her.”

  “Well, she’s always been there for me.”

  Amy watched Paul hoist a second multilayered chunk into the trash can, followed by another. The task seemed effortless for him, yet she could see by the taut, extended muscles in his arms that it was not. She couldn’t tear her eyes away as each corded tendon flexed beneath his skin when he grasped and lifted the heavy plaster. That is, she couldn’t until the exquisite warmth stirring low within her began threatening her equilibrium.

  She took the broom and swept hard for several seconds. But it was pointless. Her interest—among other things—was aroused. Amy cleared her throat, determined to keep this prickly new excitement from seeping into her voice. “When I arrived the other night, Bernadette mentioned she had raised you.”

  “That’s right. From the time I was ten. My parents were killed in a car crash.”

  He was so matter of fact about it that Amy didn’t know if she should express sympathy. “So you went to live with your aunt,” she said, instead.

  “An aunt. Not Bernadette—who is actually my father’s cousin.” He stopped working and pulled a red bandanna from a back pocket. Wisps of dust clung to it, so he gave it a good shake. “My mother’s sister took me in,” he explained, wiping the sweat from his brow. “She was single at the time, and she seemed to want me. I had just turned eight.”

  “So young,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She knew how hard it was to lose a parent when you were very young—but Paul had lost both of his in the ultimate, final way.

  “Aunt Milly was very good to me, though I’m sure I wasn’t the easiest kid. She pulled me through the blackness.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She met a man who wanted to marry her.” Paul stuffed the bandanna back into his pocket and leaned against a relatively undamaged bureau. “But, when push came to shove, Milly’s husband-to-be didn’t want a preadolescent boy in the bargain.”

  “Don’t tell me she—”

  Paul cut her off with a nod. “Aunt Milly was heading for the altar, and I was heading straight for a foster home. None of the other relatives wanted me.”

  Amy thought this incredibly sad. How abandoned Paul must have felt. And betrayed. Yet now, telling her all about it, with his arms folded against his chest, he continued to sound and look so matter-of-fact. How could he do that? She couldn’t speak of her father’s desertion without getting emotional—even twenty-plus years after the fact.

  “How did you end up with the Ryans?”

  “When Bernadette heard about me through the family grapevine, she drove all the way down to Lynchburg to get me—even though she was widowed and had two little girls of her own to raise.” For the first time in this discussion, his face softened. “Ten-year-old orphans usually don’t get lucky. She saved my life.”

  He no longer sounded matter-of-fact.

  Paul turned back to work, and Amy resumed her sweeping. She couldn’t, however, get his story out of her mind. It must have been scary for the young Paul to come live with a virtual stranger after losing two homes in two years. Bernadette must have had her work cut out for her. Apparently she had done right by him. Paul’s touching devotion to her was proof of that—as was his fierce protectiveness.

  Finally, their work was done. With the dust and debris cleared away and the damaged furniture pushed into a corner, the guest room was ready to be repaired. Amy, her clothes caked with dust, her arms sore and neck stiff, gave the room a satisfied glance. After three days of passivity, she was happy to have accomplished something. “Not a half-bad job,” she mused to Paul, who was pushing the last loaded trash can toward the door, “considering it took us over two hours.”

  “Seemed more like four,” Paul countered, returning to her side. “And you’ve been great. This was above and beyond the call of duty.”

  She waved off his praise. “I didn’t have anything else planned for this afternoon, anyway.”

  “I also appreciate what you did for Bernadette. Martin told me how you coaxed her back downstairs.”

  “She wanted to tackle it all herself. I couldn’t let her do that.”

  “Sometimes I wonder how she’s managed to run this place without Greg for the past six months. She’s not getting any younger.”

  “The girls help her out, don’t they?”

  “When they can, sure. Still, Bridget has young kids, and Maura has the shop. It’s damned difficult all the way around.”

  That he was expressing concern about Bernadette and the inn to her, the presumed threat, surprised Amy. Sweeping gunk this afternoon might have had its rewards, after all. For it seemed the door between them had opened a crack. After sharing such a personal, painful part of his past, Paul might be inclined to look beyond his preconceived notions about her. Perhaps she could trust him to believe the real reason she’d come to Tremont.

  “I would like to make it easier for Bernadette,” she began, somewhat tentative as she searched for the right words, “if only she’d let me. But she keeps me at arm’s length, not only about the inn, but about my father. And he’s why I-”

  “He’s why you came?” Paul interrupted, turning to her with skeptical eyes. “Isn’t it a little late in the day for that?”

  Stunned by his remark, Amy struggled with herself not to snap back. He was just extremely protective of Bernadette. By keeping calm and trying again, she still might get him to listen—despite his doubts. “Paul, my father is why I’m here,” she assured him. “And since Bernadette lobbied for me to come, it’s frustrating when she keeps putting me off.”

  “Why the rush, Amy? It’s only been three days.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe she needs time to get used to you. Have you thought of that?”

  Not giving her a chance to answer, Paul started collecting the soiled rags scattered on the floor. “And you know what else?” he continued as he crisscrossed the room. “I think Bernadette’s reticence is understandable—considering she stands to lose the one place she holds dear to a woman who couldn’t be bothered about it or her own father until money became involved.”

  Amy winced, his words piercing her with the precision of an archer’s arrow. Well, it was her own fault for making herself an easy target. She’d been a fool to believe that his oh-so-matter-of-fact recitation of his childhood misfortune actually meant something. He wasn’t interested in her side of the story, and he certainly didn’t care about her feelings. He probably thought she didn’t have any.

  Amy grabbed the broom she’d been using and marched it over to the overflowing trash cans. She had every intention of simply walking out the door, but she couldn’t—not with Paul’s unfair charge left hanging in the air. Steaming with resentment, she turned to him. “I’m reall
y sick and tired of being suspect in everybody’s eyes. Especially since none of you have considered what coming here has been like for me.”

  Paul looked startled by her vehemence. “Bernadette and the girls have gone out of their way to welcome you.”

  “Yes, and I don’t fault their hospitality one bit. They act like I’m one of the family. But I’m not, and deep down they know it. So we all pretend, and the past three days have been nothing but a showy dance.”

  “That’s not fair.” Paul threw the soiled rags into a heap by the door. “They’re not the kind to play games.”

  “And of course I am. Because you’ve decided I’m greedy and coldhearted, that I never even cared about my father.” Her fingers curled tight around the broom handle as she swallowed back an errant sob. She would not cry in front of this man. “Bridget and Maura had him much longer than I did. He actually was a father to them. Do you know how that makes me feel?”

  “Amy&h;” He reached for her with a dusty hand.

  She moved away from him. “I lost my father when I was six years old. And for a moment there, I was crazy enough to think you were someone who could understand that.”

  “Amy, I’m sorry—I—”

  She turned her back to him, heading for the door. Caught up in a spin of emotion, she had had enough of Paul Hanley—and everything else, for that matter.

  She had barely made it out into the hall, however, when Paul grabbed her wrist. “Please, Amy, wait.”

  The look in his eyes was different now; suspicion had turned into sympathy. His gaze, clear blue and intense, held her for a moment—until her reflection came staring back at her. She felt raw and exposed, and embarrassed for having let her feelings fly. The last thing she wanted was pity.

  She jerked her arm hard, but his hand held firm.

  “Talk to me,” he insisted.

  Amy took a deep breath. This had gone far enough. She realized she had to get a grip on the situation and on herself. “I don’t want to talk, Paul,” she stated, struggling to feel the calm that, somehow, she was managing to project in her voice. “It’s been a long afternoon. I’m tired, I’m filthy, I’m hungry. And frankly, I don’t have to deal with you.”

  She yanked her arm again, and Paul released her. Although she could feel his eyes boring into her back as she hurried down the hall, he didn’t say a word. Apparently he had the message.

  When Amy reached her room, she headed straight for the shower. Never having gotten so dirty in her life, she lingered beneath the cleansing cascades of hot water for the longest time. It was hard not to replay what had just happened in room 16. Her annoyance with Paul remained high, but she was also upset with herself. She shouldn’t have let her emotions get the better of her like that.

  Finally dragging herself out of the shower, she wrapped her shampooed hair with a fluffy towel and was reaching for another towel, when a sharp rap on her room door made her jump.

  “Amy!” It was Paul.

  Her mouth tightened. The short, insistent knocks continued. She was sorely tempted to ignore him—to let him knock and call until he got good and tired. But she had a hunch he wasn’t the type to give up easily. He had followed her down here, hadn’t he?

  Figuring she’d just have to make herself clearer this time, she pulled her china-blue silk robe from the cherry armoire and wrapped it around her wet body. She wasn’t anxious to confront him again, and his persistent rapping tried her patience. Her slippery, moist hands fumbled with the heavy, old door locks, although she kept the chain secured. “What is it?” she snapped through the slight wedge of opening the chain permitted.

  Paul, his hair and clothes still gritty with old plaster, leaned against the doorjamb as his fascinated eyes slowly roamed the length of her body. “You’re looking much better.”

  She pulled the thin robe tighter around her in a self-conscious attempt to shake his scrutinizing gaze—and to dispel the steamy warm effect it was having on her damp skin.

  Finally, finally, his eyes reached hers. Unfortunately his shift in perspective gave her no relief.

  “Before you start chewing me out again, let me ask one thing,” he said, his voice laid-back and low. “How’d you like to get away from this place with me for a few hours?”

  Chapter Four

  Amy’s sapphire eyes flared—with astonishment or anger, Paul wasn’t sure. He slid his foot inside the door, just in case it was the latter.

  “A change of scene might do you some good.”

  She frowned. “No, thanks.”

  Despite her curt reply, Paul drank in the fragrance of fresh soap and shampoo while restraining his gaze from feasting on her surprising curves. Her robe clung to her wet skin, revealing the soft roundness that her business suit and today’s loose sweater had hidden—unfortunately. When he’d first met Amy, he’d thought her pretty, but in a starched, too-polished way. Not anymore. Seeing her like this, stripped down to the almost bare essentials—scrubbed face, moist skin, curvy body—changed his perspective. Now she was real, warm, sexy.

  Now he was in trouble.

  Excitement seared through him like heat lightning, as his original intentions seemed to drown beneath the resulting cloudburst. Drowning with them, however, was out of the question. Paul coughed, clearing his throat and his thoughts. “I understand why you’re upset. We—I— haven’t been entirely fair to you. I can see that now.”

  Amy didn’t answer. Her bright blue glare said it all. She was angry and hurt and in no mood to listen.

  But she would have to.

  “I’d like to take you out to dinner. You did say you were hungry, and I know a mighty fine rib place on the other side of Winchester.”

  “I’ll eat here in the dining room, thank you.”

  “You’ve been cooped up in the inn for three days. Getting out of here might help your perspective.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “My perspective’s not the one needing help.”

  “Okay.” Paul tried not to grin. “But you clearly want to talk about this situation. That would be easier to do in a neutral place. Somewhere private. No interruptions.”

  Her shoulders sank and she leaned against the edge of the door. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Except you’re not the one I want to talk with. You don’t have the answers I need.”

  “Maybe not. But I did know your father,” he explained. “At least for the past four years.”

  “You did, didn’t you?”

  He nodded. “I’d be happy to tell you about the Greg Riordan I knew.”

  When she wasn’t quick to accept, Paul figured she was. still wary of him. “Look, I apologize for treating you like the enemy. I know you’re not.”

  “As long as I do right by Bernadette.” The sly gleam in her eye was unbelievably alluring.

  “That goes without saying,” he said, trying to shrug off the tantalizing pull of her gaze.

  The opportunity to hear about her father apparently overcame Amy’s reluctance, and she accepted his invitation. “Besides, barbecued ribs are my weakness,” she added, “so this place better be good.”

  Paul was pleased, and surprised by just how much. “I keep a change of clothes in my truck, and I can run over to Bernadette’s cottage to shower,” he said, not wanting to give her time to reconsider. “Won’t take me more than fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m going to need a little longer than that.” She glanced down at her slithery wet robe.

  “Shall we meet down in the Pub Room in, say, half an hour?”

  It took Paul longer than he’d expected, however, to wash off all the plaster, dirt and dust. When he reached the pub, Amy was already there, chatting with Bud, the bartender. She was casually dressed in a sweater and long, floral-print skirt. Her dark hair was dry now and glossy clean. Paul was glad to find her wearing little makeup, allowing her face to still radiate the freshness he’d noticed upstairs.

  She glanced up at his damp hair. “You shouldn’t have rushed. You could catch your death that
way.”

  “But I’d hate to keep a pretty woman waiting.”

  A slow, sleek smile crossed her lips, reminding Paul of flirting’s small pleasures. It had been a long time since he’d dabbled in that particular art. Helping her with her coat, he inhaled her light fragrance and enjoyed the feel of feminine shoulders beneath his hands.

  The main hallway was empty as they headed for the door. The inn’s midweek occupancy tended to be light, especially between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Yet the clinking of china and glass signaled another full house in the dining room. Open to the public for dinner, the inn’s restaurant was popular throughout the region; reservations were booked weeks in advance. Chef Martin’s cuisine, traditional Southern dishes prepared with contemporary flair, was highly regarded by critics from Washington to Richmond and beyond. Paul was just glad the restaurant was busy because it allowed them to leave unnoticed. If they knew, Bernadette and his cousins would, undoubtedly, pepper him with questions after he returned with Amy.

  Amy didn’t flinch when he opened the door of his red pickup, climbing in without so much as a word. He’d half expected her to suggest they take her roomy luxury car. As he drove out of town, a self-conscious silence fell between them. Paul chided himself for letting his “dating” skills grow rusty—not that he’d characterize this as a real date. But he hadn’t been out with a woman in months. For the first few years after his return to Tremont, he had pursued—and occasionally had been pursued by—several attractive, intelligent women. Nothing seemed to take. Perhaps his heart hadn’t been in it. Or maybe, after his mess of a divorce, the trouble was his heart. Battered, tired, wary.

  “I can’t believe how dark it is out here,” Amy commented in a clear attempt to break the lingering silence. “I’m glad you’re the one driving.”

  Paul appreciated her effort. “Practically no moon tonight. And, of course, there aren’t any bright city lights to mask the dark.”

  “Sounds like you’re no fan of cities.”

  “I prefer the country.”

  “But I understand you lived in San Francisco for years.”