Cheyenne laughed as she rose to her feet, the tray in her hands. “It’s a long story,” she confided to Sarah, feeling an instant closeness. Sarah was more her kind than someone like Grant would ever be, she thought. Sarah came from the same roots; Grant came from where Cheyenne’s determination had taken her.
A long story, Grant repeated silently, and, unless he missed his guess, not all of it had been told yet. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were as eager to get this ‘marriage’ annulled as I am.”
Cheyenne smiled sweetly at him. “Apparently, you don’t know any better, because I am.” Looking at Sarah, she nodded toward the tray. “Where do you want this?”
Coming to life, Miles took it from her. “Here, give that to me. You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, Miss, um, Mrs....” Miles stumbled over his tongue helplessly.
“Cheyenne’ll do fine,” she assured him with an easy smile. It made her uncomfortable to have people old enough to be her parents address her so formally. She turned to Grant. “Now if you could tell me where I could find something dry to put on, and then point me to your computer...” She trailed off hopefully.
A sudden vision of helping her out of her wet costume flashed through Grant’s mind, then returned to linger. He could almost see his hands moving slowly along her body, appreciating the sleek, subtle curves. With conscious effort, he brought himself back to the present.
“Sarah, do you think you have anything that might fit our guest?”
Sarah, who was a good six inches shorter than Cheyenne, looked dubious.
“I can try,” she offered.
“Anything’ll be fine as long as it’s dry,” Cheyenne told her. She slipped her arm through the woman’s in camaraderie that made Sarah warm to her instantly. “Why don’t you just tell me where I can find something to wear and then go back to bed? I don’t want you getting worse on my account.”
“She’s a nice one, she is, sir,” Miles commented as he walked out with the tray.
Grant stood for a moment, watching as the last of Cheyenne’s shadow disappeared down the hall. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
The pilot, notorious for being a man of few words, merely grinned his agreement.
She’d certainly been more comfortable, Cheyenne thought, shifting her shoulders beneath the tight blouse as she sat before the computer. A lot more comfortable. But she had to admit this was better than the soggy costume she’d just taken off. Wet, Scarlett’s dress was twice as heavy as before. Comparatively, this blouse just felt like a light straightjacket.
Rolled up sleeves kept the blouse from pulling around her throat and choking her, but she still felt confined. And chilly. The blouse didn’t do much to warm her. It felt as if the wind was passing right through the single-story house.
She shifted her shoulders again, hoping she wouldn’t rip the fabric. A tinge of déjà vu wafted through her. She could recall having the exact same feeling when she was a child. Money had been tight; there never seemed to be enough, especially not for new clothes for a daughter who was always growing too fast.
Memories flooded back. Kids snickering and pointing at her in class because she looked so strange and gangly, like Alice in Wonderland after she’d taken a bite of the mushroom that made her grow into a giant. For years, she was always the tallest in her class, doomed to be self-conscious and awkward, like a newborn colt unsteady on its legs.
She shook the memory away. Kids never realized how cruel they could be. Besides, she was light-years away from that clumsy young girl who could never find a place for herself. With a sigh, Cheyenne stared at the screen again, waiting for the photograph she’d selected to materialize.
“Anything?”
She started, swinging around in the swivel chair to face the source of the voice. Grant was standing right over her. How could she not have been aware of his entering the room?
“No,” Cheyenne muttered, embarrassed. She turned back to the computer, hating the flush she knew was in her cheeks. “I didn’t hear you come in.” Trying to steer her mind back to business, she shrugged as the photo image came into focus. The colors were slowly receding into their borders. “Almost.”
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Grant apologized. He touched her arm, then frowned. “You’ve got goose bumps.”
“Must have something to do with you being so close,” she quipped. “Or maybe the fact that you need more heat in the house.”
His mouth curved. “I’ll tell Miles.” His eyes slid over her quickly. She was wearing a blouse and skirt he remembered seeing on Sarah. They clung showing her every movement, her every intake of breath. “Those don’t look as if they fit you very well.”
“Very observant.” She took a deep breath and felt even more constricted. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to tear the blouse right down the back. “This reminds me of when I was young,” she said absently, watching the screen. “Nothing ever seemed to fit then, either. My mother said I grew like a weed.” Cheyenne let out a short, impatient hiss of air, shaking her head: the computer at the magazine was much faster—this was taking forever. “I was surprised she noticed.”
Grant sat against the edge of the desk, more interested in the woman than in the photograph. “Why wouldn’t she?”
Cheyenne raised her eyes, suddenly aware that she was talking too much. She shrugged carelessly. “She was always too busy with work...and things.”
“Things?” he prodded. “Like what?”
She didn’t feel comfortable remembering, especially not in the presence of a stranger. “Look.” Cheyenne tapped the screen, excitement beginning to emerge along with the clearer photograph. “There they are.”
Moving behind her, Grant looked at the screen. Four devils were congregated around a limp form on the ground. Cheyenne dragged the cursor down to the body and tapped the mouse twice. The image doubled in size each time until it completely filled the screen. A heavyset man in a pirate costume lay prone on the ground.
She pointed to the pool encircling his head. “See, that’s blood. I knew it.”
Grant leaned over her for a closer look, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re right, it is.”
What was the matter with her? They were looking at the photograph of a dead man—a dead man for heaven’s sake—and all she could think of was that O’Hara was touching her. This wasn’t like her, she insisted silently. Was she turning into her mother after all this time? The thought sent chills racing along her spine.
She stiffened, shrugging off his hand. “If you have a color printer, I can make a hard copy and we can show this to the police tomorrow.”
The house lights flickered twice in quick succession. Cheyenne jerked her head up to look at them just as the image on the screen disappeared. The next moment, so did the lights, plunging them into complete darkness.
“I don’t suppose you did this on purpose,” Cheyenne said with a sigh.
She heard him laugh, the sound much too close to her ear for her liking. In the dark, it rippled along her skin like warm waves. “When I arrange for a romantic evening, it usually involves something a little more subtle than looking at a photograph of a dead man just before the lights go out.”
What sort of romantic evenings did he arrange? Maybe she’d ask at some point—strictly for the magazine article, of course, not for any other reason.
Cheyenne tried to keep her mind on the immediate problem. “That’s what I was afraid of. Damn this storm anyway.”
“I’m sure a lot of people agree with you.” He wondered what was taking the auxiliary generator so long to kick in.
Needing something to hold onto, Cheyenne felt along the edge of the desk before she rose to her feet. She pushed the chair away from her. Right into Grant.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled, turning toward the sound of his voice. She brushed up against something hard—and way too flexible. Her body realized it was Grant a split second before she did.
; “Oh.” She swallowed as a little shock wave zigzagged through her. “Sorry again.”
He wasn’t. The momentary contact between them was oddly stimulating. It was strange: he could have almost any woman for the asking and yet he was reacting like an adolescent just because Cheyenne’s body had fleetingly touched his in the dark.
He was too young to be going through a second childhood and too old to be clinging to his first. But something was definitely going on here, he thought. He figured the storm had just handed him the perfect opportunity.
Grant smiled to himself.
Evidently trying to maneuver and put a little distance between them, Cheyenne nearly tripped over something. Instinctively, Grant’s arms went out. He managed to stop her from falling, but his hands just grazed her breasts. The sensation telegraphed through him as he heard the quick intake of breath.
Grant released her, though maybe not as quickly as he should have, he realized. A sweet sensation wound through him. He decided it best to pretend it hadn’t happened.
“We need to find some light,” he told her matter-of factly. “Give me your hand.” He put his own out, but caught only air.
“Hold still,” she ordered. Frustrated and unable to block the sensations that kept whispering through her, Cheyenne located his shoulder and ran her hands along his arm slowly until she found his hand. “All right, there’s my hand. Now what?”
“Now we grope our way into the hall.” Extending his other hand in front of him, Grant moved slowly until he finally located the doorway, using the wall to guide him. “I’ve got an emergency generator that’s supposed to have kicked in by now.”
“Maybe it doesn’t know this is an emergency,” she quipped. Suddenly her shin came in contact with something hard. “Ow.” That’s going to bruise, she thought, annoyed. “I really hate the dark.”
Grant continued to inch his way along. “Oh, I don’t know. It has its possibilities. A dark night, a beautiful woman at my side...”
“A fierce storm at your door, ready to blow the house down,” she put in, reflecting the same tone. “Somehow, it loses its romance.”
“Mr. O’Hara?” The deep voice echoed down the long hallway.
“God, I hope it’s the cavalry,” Cheyenne murmured, rubbing her shin.
“Over here,” Grant called out. “With a name like Cheyenne,” he said to her, “I didn’t think you’d be rooting for the cavalry.”
“I’m named after a city, not a tribe,” she pointed out, “Oh, look, there’s a light.” There couldn’t have been more enthusiasm in her voice if she’d been the shipbound sailor on Columbus’s crew who’d cried, “Land, ho!” Taking the lead, Cheyenne hurried toward the beam of light.
They met Miles halfway. He was holding aloft a battery-powered lantern. Under his arm he had two large flashlights. “I found a few flashlights. Are you all right?”
“Never better now that you’re here.” Grant took the flashlights and handed one to Cheyenne. “What’s the matter with the generator?”
Miles shook his head. “It’s beyond me, but Jack’s working on it. Lucky he stayed over.” He flashed an apologetic look toward Cheyenne before turning to Grant. “I’ve got more bad news. Dinner’s going to take a while. The stove’s out of commission and Sarah’s back in bed.”
“Good, she needs her rest,” Grant commented. “As for dinner—”
“Got eggs and a frying pan?” Cheyenne asked Miles, interrupting Grant. Cheyenne liked the fact that O’Hara was concerned about the housekeeper’s health over his own comfort. A lot of men would have only bristled about the added inconvenience. Maybe Stan had a point about his friend, after all.
Miles seemed to think it was odd to have a guest ask him about cookware. “Yes, but—”
“And the fireplace,” she said, turning toward Grant. “It’s not just for show, is it?”
“No, it’s a working fireplace. Are you cold? Do you want Miles to make a fire?”
“No, I’m not cold, but yes, I want him to make a fire.” She rubbed her hands together, glad to be doing something constructive. She hated being at the mercy of circumstances. “Gentlemen, we’re in business. Miles, take me to your kitchen and I’ll see what I can do about getting us some dinner.”
Miles looked at Grant questioningly, but Grant gestured him on his way. “You heard the lady. Take her to the kitchen.” He nodded in the opposite direction. “I’ll go see if Jack needs any help with the generator.”
Cheyenne looked surprised. “You’re going to get your hands dirty?”
He mimicked her expression. “You’re going to cook?”
She inclined her head, taking the parry with grace. “Touché.” Then she turned toward the caretaker and threaded her arm through his. “Let’s go, Miles, I’ve a date with a frying pan and a roaring fire.”
Grant sat cross-legged on the floor before the fireplace, an elegant plate—meant for finer fare than scrambled eggs and ham—on his lap.
Maybe it was the element of danger that had permeated his evening. Or maybe he was just plain hungry. But he’d never tasted anything better. Handling two large skillets, Cheyenne had made enough to feed all of them, with some to spare.
He looked at her now, the firelight gleaming in her hair, turning it a deep gold, turning her skin to gold as well. And making him wonder about her again.
Grant indicated his almost empty plate, following his second helping. “This is good. Where did you learn how to cook?”
His question brought back memories. A battered, rusting diner standing forlornly just off the expressway, filled with fits of noise buffered by bookends of silence, depending on the time of day.
“My mother worked in a diner while I was growing up. I hung around there a lot.”
He noticed she didn’t look at him when she said that. “She teach you?”
Cheyenne shook her head. Her mother had never taught her anything. Except that giving your heart away too easily set you up for pain and disappointment. “No, Miguel did.”
Was that the name of a former lover? Someone she’d lived with? “Miguel?”
“The short-order cook at the diner.” She smiled, remembering how afraid of Miguel she’d been at first She was seven when he came into her life, and at the time he’d seemed like an unsmiling giant. He had a long, red scar running along one side of his face that had never quite healed right. Someone had whispered he’d been in a knife fight in his teens. Later she’d found out that he’d gotten it saving his baby sister from the fire that had claimed the lives of the rest of his family.
“Little guy, face that could stop a clock,” she told Grant. “Feisty as all hell. He’d argue with anyone over anything. Sports, politics, the way he cooked. But he took a liking to me.”
Grant heard the fondness in her voice. “Sounds like a great guy.”
She thought of the time Miguel had talked her out of running away from home. And all the snippets of wisdom he’d tossed her way while she sat in the corner of the kitchen, doing her homework. At times, she thought he was her only friend, though he snorted the one time she’d confided that to him.
Cheyenne hugged her knees to her chest, looking into the fire. She took a long sip of her wine and felt the pale liquid slide smoothly down her throat, warming her. The wine had been O’Hara’s contribution to dinner. “He was,” she said finally.
Grant set his dish on the hearth and moved a little closer to her. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know—” sadness tiptoed through her “—I lost track of him after he left the diner. Argument with the owner.” “Please don’t go, Miguel. What will I do without you?” “You don’t need me, querida. You will be fine. You are a strong one, you lean on only yourself .” She sighed, tucking the memory away. “I’d like to think he’s happy somewhere.”
Grant toyed with a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. He fought the temptation to trace the shell outline with the tip of his tongue. “What about your mother, is she still there?”<
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She stifled the shiver his touch created and continued to look into the flames. “No, I bought her a little condo in San Francisco. She’s as happy there as she can be, I guess.” The small laugh held a trace of sadness. “Probably still looking for a man.”
He watched in fascination as the muscle in her jaw tightened when she mentioned her mother. “‘Probably?’ Don’t you know?”
She gave a little half shrug. “We don’t really stay in touch.”
It was her mother’s loss, he thought. “And how about you?”
She turned to look at him then, caught up in her own thoughts and at a loss for his meaning. “How about me, what?”
He knew how much he hated being asked about his personal life, but he couldn’t stop himself. He wanted to know. Tonight, in the storm, with firelight flickering along her skin, he wanted to know everything about her. “You’re not looking for a man?”
She thought before she answered, examining her conscience. “Yeah, I’m looking,” she admitted. “Not actively, but I’m keeping my options open.” She took another long sip before continuing. “If he comes, great, if he doesn’t, well, I don’t need a man to be complete.”
No, he could see that she didn’t. Miguel, wherever he was, was responsible for putting together a very accomplished lady. “Photographer, cook, amateur detective—I’d say you were pretty complete.”
She slanted a look at his face. There was that unsettling smile. Her stomach knotted. “You’re laughing at me.” Cheyenne set her wine glass down on the floor next to her. “Maybe I’m having too much to drink.”
His eyebrows drew together in confusion. “That’s just your first glass.”
She made it a rule not to drink. Tonight had been an exception. “But my head feels fuzzy.”
He slid his fingers along the side of her face. “Feels fine to me.”
“That’s my face, not my head,” she laughed, moving his hand away. Or trying to. Somehow, her fingers became tangled in his.
“All of you feels fine to me.”
Suddenly...Marriage! Page 8
