Callan's Proposition

by Barbara Mccauley

  So she’d quit. She felt awful leaving him without the proper notice, but she’d had no choice. If Francine didn’t work out, he would find someone else. He’d have to.

  She felt the burn of tears in her eyes and blinked them away. She couldn’t allow herself to think about Mr. Callan Sinclair. She was in a public place, for Heaven’s sake, and she certainly didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself. She simply wanted to sit here, alone, and forget about her boss and her job and her aunts coming into town.

  “Oh, what a tangled web we weave…” she thought to herself.

  With a sigh she took another long sip of her drink and was surprised when it didn’t taste nearly as bad as it had the first few sips. She thought it actually tasted kind of good, in fact. A little sweet, yet sour at the same time. And it made her insides feel warm.

  She liked the feeling, she decided, and loosened the top button of the white blouse she had on under her brown suit jacket. For the next few hours she was determined not to think about the mess she’d made of her life.

  She’d have plenty of time for that tomorrow. Or worse—she loosened another button—for the rest of her life.

  The song on the jukebox changed to a number from the musical Grease, the one where Olivia Newton-John’s character tells John Travolta he’d “better shape up.” She smiled at the song, mentally singing along with the piece she knew only too well.

  In her mind Abby crushed a cigarette under her four-inch heel, pointed a finger at Travolta and wiggled her hips as she told him she needed a man to keep her satisfied. Strange that the man in her mind didn’t look like Travolta, but like Mr. Sinclair.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Abigail jumped, then slowly, breath held, glanced over her shoulder.

  Oh, dear.

  Abigail’s heart started to pound as she stared up at Callan Sinclair. His dark-chocolate-brown eyes bored into her, his mouth was pressed into a tight line. He looked so serious, she thought. So somber. For some strange reason, she suddenly found that very funny.

  But rather than be rude and laugh, she composed herself, straightened her glasses and simply nodded.

  He slid into the seat across from her and filled the booth. Filled her senses. He looked and smelled like a man who’d marched through mud and muck, and she wondered why the earthy scent of him fascinated her so. Or why she found the gray powder covering his hair and chambray shirt so attractive. Rugged was the word that came to mind. And virile.

  Normally Abigail found Callan Sinclair’s presence intimidating. At six-three, his height alone was enough to make a person—man or woman—take notice. And he certainly was powerfully built, with solid muscles and a broad chest. He was also incredibly handsome, she thought, with his thick, black hair and devastating smile.

  But he wasn’t smiling now, she realized, and she was the reason.

  He placed his large hands flat on the wood tabletop and leaned close. He had wonderful hands, she thought, staring at them. A man’s hands, large and rough, with short, blunt nails and a long, jagged scar on his right thumb. She had the craziest desire to cover those hands with her own, to feel their roughness under her smooth palms.

  When she lifted her eyes to his, the intensity of his dark gaze seemed to suck the air right out of her lungs. She couldn’t remember ever having had his undivided attention like this or having him look at her, really look at her as he was looking at her right now. For the first time in the past year, she didn’t feel as if she were invisible.

  She wasn’t certain she liked the feeling at all.

  “Mr. Sinclair—”

  “I refuse to accept your resignation.”

  His deep, familiar voice had never sounded so gruff before, so firm. He cares about me, she thought in amazement, then quickly chided herself. As an employee, of course.

  She folded her hands primly in her lap and held his level gaze. “I apologize for leaving so suddenly, but I’m certain that Francine will work out for you. She’s really quite—”

  “I said—” he leaned closer, lowering his voice, but it still sounded like a shout “—I refuse to accept your resignation. Francine is history. I want you, Abigail.”

  His words thrilled her, yet flustered her at the same time. I want you, Abigail. She felt herself sway toward him.

  As a secretary, you ninny, Abigail yelled silently at herself. She blinked, then pulled back. Because she didn’t know what to say, she took another long pull on her drink. It didn’t burn at all now; it tasted wonderful. She realized it was nearly gone and didn’t want it to be.

  “May I buy you a drink, Mr. Sinclair?” She’d never bought a man a drink in her life. Except for Lester Green at the insurance company she’d worked for in New York, but that was a root beer from the soda machine, so she didn’t think it counted. And Lester didn’t have sexy eyes like Mr. Sinclair did. He had eyes like Eeyore.

  That thought made her giggle. Her ex-boss raised one brow and looked down at the glass in front of her. “What do you have?”

  “Iced tea.”

  “Iced tea?”

  “Manhattan iced tea,” she repeated and took another sip.

  He coughed, then raised both brows. “You mean a Long Island iced tea?”

  “That’s it,” she said with delight. “Would you like one?”

  “Have you ever had one before?” he asked carefully.

  “Of course not, silly.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Mr. Sinclair, I’m so sorry.”

  “Why don’t you call me Callan for right now?” he said with a sigh, then turned and made a gesture to a man standing behind the bar.

  A man who looked strangely familiar, Abigail thought, and slid her reading glasses down her nose so she could get a better look. “Do you know that man?” she asked.

  “My brother Reese,” he answered. “He owns this place.”

  Reese Sinclair. Abigail nearly groaned. He’d been in the office several times over the past year. In her dis-composed state, she’d forgotten he owned Squire’s Tavern. So that was how Mr. Sinclair had found her so quickly.

  Darn it, darn it, darn it.

  “Mr. Sinclair, I truly am—”

  “Callan,” he reminded her.

  “Callan,” she said awkwardly. She’d never called him by his first name. “I’m sorry for leaving your employment so suddenly. I’m afraid I had no choice.”

  The waitress brought a frosted mug of beer and a steaming cup of coffee, then quickly left. Callan pushed the coffee at her.

  She didn’t want coffee. For the first time today, her stomach wasn’t in knots, and her chest wasn’t aching. She felt calm and relaxed and just a little giddy.

  And hot. She felt hot. She unloosened another button and, ignoring the coffee, took another sip of her drink. She still felt hot, so she slipped her jacket off.

  Callan’s beer sloshed over the side of his mug when she fanned the open vee of her blouse. He frowned at her and set his drink back down. “You owe me an explanation, Abigail. You can’t just leave me and not even tell me why. Did you find another job?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want more money?”

  She lifted her chin at his insult. “Certainly not. If I’d wanted more money, I would have asked you.”

  “So why did you quit?”

  “I can’t tell you. It’s personal.”

  Callan’s eyes darkened with concern. “Are you sick?”

  She shook her head.

  “Pregnant?”

  “Heavens, no!” Her eyes went wide at the absurdity of that question.

  He thought for a minute. “You’re engaged.”

  She blinked slowly, then her gaze dropped, and she took another sip of her drink.

  “That’s it?” He leaned closer, surprise on his face. “You’re engaged?”

  Her heart started to pound. She wanted to deny it, tell him that her being engaged was absolute nonsense, but even with alcohol rushing through her veins, she still couldn’t lie.

/>   “Something like that,” she mumbled, and felt her cheeks burn.

  “Something like that?” He narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

  “Excuse me?” she repeated.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Bloomfield isn’t all that big a town, maybe I know him.”

  The foolishness of her situation suddenly struck Abigail. She covered her mouth and started to laugh. Callan stared at her incredulously.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “You are,” she said between giggles.

  “I’m funny?”

  “No.” She sucked in a breath and composed herself. “You’re my fiancé.”

  Two

  He was her fiancé?

  Callan stared at her, narrowed his eyes, then stared at her some more. She’d said the words perfectly clearly, but he must have heard her wrong.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re my fiancé.” She stared down into her near-empty drink, and her glasses started to slip down her nose. She pushed them back up with her index finger and looked at him, her brow furrowed. “Don’t you see that’s why I had to quit? It’s so humiliating.”

  He didn’t see at all. In fact, he was completely blind on this one. It had to be the drink, he decided. She was confused. Extremely confused.

  But then, so was he.

  “It’s humiliating to be engaged to me?” he asked.

  “Of course it is.”

  Callan frowned at the exasperation in her voice. What was so wrong with him that she’d be embarrassed to be engaged to him? A lot of women found him attractive, and more than one had tried to lead him on that walk down the aisle. Just because he and Abigail were so completely different and had never been attracted to each other was certainly no reason to be humiliated.

  Oh, for crying out loud, he thought, rolling his eyes. What the hell was he thinking? They weren’t engaged. Or anything even remotely close. He shook his head and laughed at himself, amazed that Abigail had actually managed to tweak his male pride.

  He leaned back in the booth, tried not to notice that Abigail had not only removed her jacket, but had loosened three buttons. The unmistakable swell of full breasts rose from the opened blouse. Good Lord, he’d never thought about Abigail having breasts, let alone such nice ones. He reached for his beer and forced his eyes to stay steady on her flushed face.

  He had to remind himself what they’d been talking about. Oh, yes. She was humiliated to be engaged to him. “Abigail, I hate to tell you this, but we’re not engaged.”

  She laughed, then flipped her hand at him with a you’re-such-a-silly-boy gesture. “Of course we’re not. But Aunt Emerald and Aunt Ruby don’t know that.”

  He was afraid to ask. “Aunt Emerald and Aunt Ruby?”

  “They’re coming to visit tomorrow, before they go on their two-week cruise in the Caribbean.” The smile on her face dissolved. She leaned back in the booth and closed her eyes. “Don’t you think it’s hot in here?”

  When Abigail reached up and opened another button on her blouse, exposing more of her breasts and the top edge of her pale-green lace bra, Callan felt his throat turn to powder.

  She was right. It was hot in here.

  He had to get her out of here. Fast. For her sake as much as his own. Aunt Emerald and Aunt Ruby and engagements would have to wait for now.

  Sliding out of the booth, he reached for the suit jacket she’d removed, then slipped a hand behind her back and pulled her toward him. Her skin was remarkably warm through her blouse, and the faint feminine scent of her perfume drifted into his senses. He’d never noticed she wore perfume before, he thought, as he tugged her jacket back on her and pulled the front tightly closed.

  Her eyes opened wide. They were green, he realized. Soft green. He’d never noticed that before, either. She stared indignantly at him. “Mr. Sinclair, what are you doing?”

  He sighed heavily. “I’m taking you home.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” She shrugged out of his hold and straightened her jacket, then peered up at him with a strange squint. “You don’t look anything like John Travolta.”

  He had no idea how to respond to that one. “Okay.”

  “I just want you to know how much I enjoyed working for you, Mr. Sinclair—”

  “Callan.”

  “Callan,” she said his name softly, as if she’d never heard it before. She looked at him for a long moment, then whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  He could have sworn he saw tears in her eyes before she turned and wobbled away. Abigail cry? No, Callan thought. Abigail didn’t cry. She was always so…so together.

  Well, except for at the moment, anyway. He watched her teeter toward the rest rooms, then raised his brows when she walked into the men’s room.

  Uh-oh.

  He was on his way to rescue her when she came back out of the rest room, her face bright red. Tom Winters, Bloomfield County Mayor, came out a few steps behind her. His face was red, too.

  “Callan.” Tom nodded stiffly and kept walking.

  “Tom.” Callan held back the threatening grin.

  “Mr. Sinclair.” Abigail put a hand on his arm and leaned against him, then said in a small voice, “Callan, could you please drive me home?”

  Abigail’s home was only three short blocks away: a little white cottage covered with thick vines of pink roses. Callan hadn’t quite pictured Abigail in such a feminine-looking house, but then, he hadn’t ever pictured her in any style house.

  He pulled his truck into the narrow asphalt driveway, thankful that she’d at least been clear-headed enough to give directions. He cut the engine and climbed out, then came around and opened the door for her. She reached for her purse at the same time she stepped out, and ended up sliding off the seat into his arms. Her body pressed against his while he steadied her.

  “Excuse me,” she said, then hiccuped.

  Damn, but Abigail was soft, Callan thought. And curvy. Damn.

  She pressed a palm against his chest and pushed away from him, then straightened her glasses. Long strands of blond hair had escaped from the bun at the back of her head and tumbled around her flushed face. “Thank you for the ride home, Mr. Sinclair. Goodbye.”

  He watched her turn on unsteady legs and walk crookedly toward her front door. Goodbye? No way he was leaving. He had no intention of letting her out of his sight. Especially in her condition.

  He followed her up the brick walkway, noticing that her lawn was mowed and neatly edged, her bushes trimmed and her flower beds free of weeds. She paused when she reached the step leading onto her front porch and stared at it as if it were a steep cliff.

  “Abigail.” He took her arm and helped her up the step. “We need to talk.”

  She dug through her purse. “Here they are.” She pulled her keys from her purse and smiled brightly.

  He took the keys from her and opened the door. “How ’bout I make us some coffee?”

  She laughed at that. “You make coffee? I’m supposed to make the coffee, remember? That’s my job.” She frowned suddenly. “At least it was my job. Until I quit. Francine will have to make you coffee now.”

  Callan shuddered at the thought and ushered Abigail inside the door. The living room was cozy: the over-stuffed blue-gingham sofa was accented with floral pillows; the walls were covered with various watercolor landscapes. A thick, deep-blue rug edged with pink flowers lay neatly on the shiny hardwood floor. A crystal vase filled with fragrant pink roses sat on top of an oval mahogany coffee table.

  She was as tidy and organized at home as she was at work, Callan thought, but he hadn’t expected all the hearts-and-flowers decor. He’d have thought her home would be more…simple. Plain.

  Dull was actually the word that came to mind.

  Except it wasn’t dull at all, he thought. It was warm and comfortable. Homey. He realized he had a lot to learn about Abigail. A whole lot.

  But he would think about the many unknown facets of Abigail Thomas later.
At the moment he intended to start with the mystery of her sudden departure from his office and where their strange engagement and her aunts fit into the puzzle.

  Now where had she disappeared to?

  He heard the pop of a cork and followed the sound into her kitchen. Barefoot, Abigail stood at the counter, pouring white wine into a glass.

  He groaned silently.

  “Abigail,” he said, moving behind her. “I thought we were going to have coffee.”

  “No-o-o-o,” she said, stretching the word out as she kept pouring. Some of the wine actually made it into the glass. “You’re going to have coffee. I’m having wine.”

  “You don’t drink much, do you?” he asked.

  She giggled at that. “Heavens, no. I don’t care for the taste, and besides, it affects me terribly.”

  That was an understatement, he thought, then swooped the glass of wine off the counter when she started to reach for it. He took a sip. Yuck. He’d take a cold beer over white wine any day. “Thanks.”

  She frowned at him. “I thought you wanted coffee.”

  “I changed my mind.” He took a second sip, tried not to grimace. She was reaching for another glass when he took her arm and led her to the kitchen table. “Abigail, you owe it to me to tell me why you quit.”

  Pulling out a chair, he gently eased her into it. Her skirt pulled high up on her legs when she sat, exposing smooth, slender thighs. The Abigail he knew would have quickly pulled her skirt back down. This Abigail left it to ride high on her legs. Callan glanced away and took another sip of wine, thankful that at least she still had her jacket on.

  He kept his eyes riveted on her face.

  She leaned her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. “It’s so humiliating.”

  “We established that.” He sat in the chair beside her. A fluffy, ruffled blue-striped pad covered the seat. “You and me being engaged. Why don’t we start with that?”

  “I don’t feel well,” she said from behind her hands.

  “Could you please get me a drink of water?”

  He doubted a drink of water would help her problem, but if he was ever going to get any information out of her, Callan thought, he’d better humor her. He took a glass out of the cupboard, filled it with tap water, then set it in front of her as he sat back down.