Callan's Proposition

by Barbara Mccauley

  As the youngest Sinclair, Cara had been teased endlessly by her four big brothers, but if anyone outside the family said a word, or even looked cross-eyed at their gorgeous blond sister, they’d have had all four Sinclair men to deal with. Her husband, Ian, was her champion now, but Cara would always be his little sister, Cal thought.

  She lounged on the ottoman of his ugly brown—though favorite—recliner that belonged in easy chair heaven. His apartment was a decorator’s nightmare, a mish-mash of stuff his siblings hadn’t wanted. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford nicer things. Business was booming, and a few risky ventures in investing had more than paid off. But when he wasn’t traveling and looking for new projects to develop, he was busy handling the projects that Sinclair Construction was involved with in Bloomfield.

  He just wasn’t around enough right now to take care of a house and yard or spend time worrying if the tile matched the wallpaper or the carpet clashed with the paint. Besides, when he was ready—which wouldn’t be for a long time—he’d build his own house, then let the little woman pick all that stuff out. Women were good at that.

  He remembered Abby’s house. Something like that would be nice. Cozy and warm, with all those flowers and feminine touches. That sofa of hers had been soft and comfortable, but then, he thought, so had Abby. The way she’d curled up in his arms, the feel of her warm, firm breasts pressing against his chest—

  “Are we playing Twenty Questions or are you going to tell us why you called us here?” Cara asked, interrupting Callan’s train of thought. A train that should have been derailed much sooner, he thought, annoyed with himself that he kept thinking about Abby in a way he didn’t want to.

  “It better be good.” Lucian leaned a shoulder against the kitchen doorjamb. “I left a ten-man crew of framers on the Palmer project by themselves, and I still have to rough in the electrical panel before the inspector comes in the morning. What gives, Cal?”

  “He wants to tell us that he’s engaged,” Reese said bluntly. “To Abigail.”

  Cal glared at Reese, who’d grabbed the remote away from a slack-jawed Gabe and turned on the baseball game. The bottle of beer that had been halfway to Lucian’s mouth froze. Cara stared mutely.

  Dammit, anyway, this wasn’t exactly how he’d wanted to break the news.

  Gabe recovered first. “What the hell is he talking about?”

  Lucian narrowed his eyes and pushed away from the doorjamb. “You’re what? To who?”

  The sound of cheering fans from the television broke the stunned silence. Reese gave a hoot of approval and, eyes glued to the game, settled back on the sofa.

  Cara stood, snatched the remote control from Reese’s hand and snapped the TV off.

  “Hey,” Reese protested. “That was the bottom of the ninth, two outs, tied score with two men on base.”

  “It will give you something to look forward to on the news later.” Cara slid an “I’m waiting” look to Cal.

  “We’re not really engaged, for crying out loud,” Cal said irritably. “Abigail and I are just pretending for a few days while her Aunt Emerald and Aunt Ruby are in town.”

  “Well, that makes sense to me.” Lucian took a swig of beer and looked at the rest of his siblings. “How ’bout you guys?”

  “Oh, sure.” Gabe’s look was bland. “Perfect sense.”

  “Absolutely.” Cara pressed her lips together. Exasperated, Cal jammed his hands on his hips and frowned at Gabe and Lucian. “Look, I wasn’t about to let the best secretary we ever had quit.”

  Lucian’s brows drew together. “Abigail was going to quit?”

  Gabe shook his head. “Abigail wouldn’t quit.”

  “Well, she did quit,” Callan said. “She was gone when I got back from Woodbury yesterday. If you guys showed up at the office once in a while, you’d have known.”

  “You’re in charge of the office and site production,” Lucian argued. “Abigail’s your responsibility.”

  “One he takes quite seriously, based on the lip lock he gave her this afternoon in the office,” Gabe said dryly.

  Lucian choked on the beer he’d just swallowed. Cara narrowed her eyes. Reese, who’d been sitting back enjoying the show, suddenly leaned forward, eyes wide.

  “You kissed Abigail?” Lucian finally managed. “Our Abigail?”

  “How was it?” Reese piped up, then grimaced when Cara smacked his head with her hand.

  Cal sucked in a breath through his clenched teeth. So much for family support. “It wasn’t like that. I just wanted her to relax a little, so her aunts wouldn’t be suspicious.”

  “For God’s sake, Cal,” Gabe groaned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “It’s kind of a funny story.” He gave a dry laugh, but no one joined him. “You see, Abby’s aunts, Ruby and Emerald, felt that she should have a man in her life to, well, take care of her, I guess. So after Abby moved to Bloomfield, she told her aunts that she had a man, not only to ease their minds, but so they’d finally go on the cruise they’d always wanted to go on, but wouldn’t take until Abby was settled.”

  “And this has what to do with you and Sinclair Construction?” Gabe asked.

  “Well—” Callan stuck his hands into the back pockets of his jeans “—she told them that I was the man in her life, that we’d gotten engaged.”

  “To you?” Lucian laughed. “Why would she pick you?”

  Cal narrowed his eyes. “Why wouldn’t she pick me?”

  “Well, everyone knows I’m the best-looking Sinclair.” Lucian winked at his sister. “Except for Cara, of course, but she’s a girl.”

  “Who says you’re the best looking?” Reese argued. “Besides Irma Johnson, who’s seventy-four and blind as a bat.”

  “Knock it off.” Scowling, Gabe stood. As the oldest, he had the most clout and respect in the Sinclair family. Even Lucian, who had the hottest temper, conceded to Gabe. “You’re telling us that you and Abigail are pretending to be engaged so her aunts will leave her alone and go on a trip?”

  “Why not? Abby will be happy, her aunts will be happy, and I will keep the best secretary we could ever hope to have. Simple as that.”

  “And what happens down the road, when you don’t get married?” Cara asked. “Then what?”

  Hell, he didn’t know. That was down the road. One problem at a time. “We’ll figure that out then,” he said defensively. “Or maybe we’ll tell them we broke it off and she’s seeing someone else. Who knows, maybe she’ll have a real fiancé by then.”

  Cara shook her head. “You’re playing with fire here, Cal. Someone’s going to get hurt.”

  He thought of the kiss they’d shared earlier and felt his skin heat up. Just a fluke, he told himself. If he kissed her again, which he wasn’t going to, he was certain his reaction would be more…controlled.

  “No one’s going to get hurt,” he insisted. “And I’m not playing with fire, I’m putting one out. So if Abby and I have to do a little hand holding and live together for a few days, then fine.”

  “Live together?”

  They all said it at the same time, which was exactly the reaction he’d been expecting. Which was also why he’d left that little piece of information until last.

  “We’re rational adults with no involvement beyond work.” Even Abby herself had told him that she didn’t think of him that way, hadn’t she? And he didn’t think of her that way, either. At least nothing he couldn’t keep under control.

  “I’ll sleep in the spare bedroom, drop a few guy things around to make it look good. Once Emerald and Ruby are gone, everything will go back to the way it was.”

  “You really believe that?” Cara arched one delicate brow. She had that woman-look in her eyes, one that said, “You men can be so stupid.”

  “Of course I believe it.” A tingling sensation scurried up Cal’s neck, and he rubbed at it. “Completely.”

  He did believe it.

  Absolutely.

  Without a doubt.


  In two weeks, he told himself, they’d all have a good laugh about it, and life would be back to normal. No more pretending to be engaged and in love, and certainly no living together.

  A sweet, simple plan, if he did say so, and gave himself a mental pat on the back.

  Five

  Abby had a routine: she showered at precisely 6:30 a.m. every morning, after first picking up her paper and making coffee. She dressed, left her house at 7:45 and arrived at the office at 7:55. She turned her computer on and was ready for work at 8:00.

  Her life was structured, predictable. Exactly the way she wanted it.

  This morning, however, she’d stepped into the shower at 6 a.m. Not only because she’d been awake, anyway, but because she was certain that would give her plenty of time to be in and out of the bathroom and dressed before Callan woke up.

  Despite her protests and insistence that she tell her aunts the truth, he’d shown up at her door last night, canvas sports bag in hand, and settled into her spare bedroom.

  She’d slept very little last night.

  Abby had never lived with a man before. Not that she was exactly living with one now, she reminded herself abruptly as she reached for her shampoo. But to see a baseball cap hanging casually from a coat hook in her entry, a black leather wallet and car keys on the top of her kitchen bar and shaving cream on her bathroom counter, well, it almost felt as if Callan were actually living at her house.

  Lathering a generous portion of shampoo into her thick hair, she thought about him sleeping in her house, in her guest bed. All night. With only one wall separating them. Her pulse started to race.

  Imagine. Callan Sinclair. Living in Abigail Thomas’s house.

  She smiled.

  Her smiled faded as she caught the scent of something woodsy. Frowning, she looked at the shampoo bottle she’d set back on her shower shelf and realized it wasn’t hers. It was Callan’s.

  Wide-eyed, she stared at the black plastic bottle. He must have put it in her shower last night when he’d unpacked his things. She realized that she’d just washed her hair with his shampoo.

  It felt so…personal. So intimate.

  A shiver wiggled up her spine. Breathing in the masculine scent, she tipped her head back and rinsed the lather from her head, felt the thick suds slide down her back, her thighs, her legs. Her breasts felt tight and tingly. She remembered the feel of his chest underneath her when she’d woken up with him on the sofa, the way he’d kissed her in the office yesterday and made her bones feel soft. She’d thought about that kiss all day and night, the press of his lips on hers, the sweep of his tongue.

  She’d been kissed before. She certainly wasn’t completely ignorant of men. When she’d been living in New York with her aunts, she’d dated more men than she’d ever wanted to, though none seriously. She’d always thought that kissing was pleasant, but pleasant didn’t come close to what she’d felt with Callan. Destroyed was fairly accurate. Utterly and completely devastated.

  But it meant nothing to him. Not living in her house, not waking up with her half-naked on top of him, not even the kiss he’d given her. As he’d told her, he’d only been trying to make her relax. Even though he’d seemed to enjoy it, too, she couldn’t let herself think, even for a moment, that it actually meant anything to him beyond the role he was playing.

  What had he said to Ray Palmer? “Abigail’s a valuable asset to Sinclair Construction, and we would never let her go.”

  And if that meant kissing plain little Abby, then that’s what he’d do.

  Shutting off the shower, she dried herself quickly with a thick blue towel, pulled on a pink floral robe and dragged a comb through her wavy hair. She reached for her face moisturizer, then hesitated when she saw Callan’s can of shaving lotion on the counter.

  She glanced at the closed door, then back at the shaving cream. She couldn’t help herself. She had to smell it.

  She popped off the cap and sniffed the nozzle. Though it was a different smell than the shampoo, it had a woodsy aroma, too. She breathed in the masculine scent, felt a fluttering in her stomach. Unable to stop herself, she squeezed a puff of foam onto her fingertips. The consistency was thicker than what she used on her legs, more firm. She stared in the mirror and swiped the cream across her jaw, amazed at how smooth and slick it felt on her skin.

  “Abby? You almost done in there?”

  With a gasp she dropped the can in the sink. It landed with a loud, metallic crash.

  “You okay?” Callan asked.

  “Just a minute,” she squeaked.

  Oh, dear, oh, dear. Abby scooped up the can, clicked the top back on and set it on the countertop, hoping she put it in the same place as it was before. Heart pounding, she snatched a towel from its hook and quickly wiped the cream off her face.

  She dragged in three deep breaths, tightened the sash on her robe and opened the door.

  And then she couldn’t breathe at all.

  Bare-chested, he stood there, arms on both sides of the door. Dark, rumpled hair and a morning beard, he was every woman’s fantasy. Her knees felt weak as she stared at him.

  “You all right?”

  His voice, gravelly and deep, skimmed over her still-damp skin like a hand.

  “Of course.” Her voice cracked. “I wasn’t expecting you up so soon.”

  He yawned, a big, manly yawn that fascinated her. “Me, neither. A blue jay was tapping at the window and woke me up. Friend of yours?”

  Oh, dear. With all the confusion in her life, she’d forgotten about the bird. “That’s Stanley. He goes around the house and taps on the windows when I forget to put peanuts out for his breakfast. I’m sorry.”

  “Stanley?” Callan chuckled and shook his head. “Abby, you are a remarkable woman.”

  His compliment warmed her, as did his closeness. Standing there, early in the morning, at the bathroom door, anyone just might believe that they were a couple.

  But they weren’t. Maybe friends, she decided, though even friends might be too awkward if they were going to continue to work together. Callan Sinclair was her boss. Her employer. That was all.

  She straightened her shoulders. “I’m finished in here. You can have the bathroom now.”

  She stepped toward him, expecting him to move out of the way. He didn’t. He just stared at her.

  “How come you don’t wear your hair like that?” he asked softly.

  Startled by his question, she touched the ends of her shoulder-length hair. “Wet?”

  He smiled. “No, although that looks nice, too. I mean down. You have pretty hair.”

  She swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

  Her heart jumped when he reached out and touched her face. He dragged one rough finger across the underside of her jaw, then he pulled it away and raised his brows. “Abby, do you shave your face?”

  Oh, no, no, no.

  “Certainly not,” she choked out. “I…I must have had some shaving cream on my hand—after I shaved my legs, I mean.”

  He rubbed the cream in his fingers and smiled. “I was kidding, Abby. You’ve really got to learn to loosen up.”

  He stepped out of the way then, and she brushed past.

  “Mind if I have some of that coffee you made?” he called as she hurried down the hall to her bedroom.

  “Help yourself to anything you like,” she said, and when the thought, including me, popped into her mind, she nearly gasped out loud.

  Inside her bedroom, she closed the door and sank down on the edge of her bed. Two weeks, she told herself. Then her aunts would be gone, and she and Callan could put an end to this ridiculous charade. She could certainly hang in there for two weeks, for Heaven’s sake.

  She pressed her fingertips to her jaw; her skin still felt warm from Callan’s touch.

  And two weeks suddenly felt like a lifetime.

  “I finished the breakdowns and bonding information on the Gibson project, mailed out the subdivision report on the Walker job and made triple copies of the
insurance certificates for Mr. Palmer. I sent a fax to Lucian at the site trailer, but I do think you should look at the upgrades Mr. Palmer’s requested. They aren’t as substantial as the last ones, but I believe you should at least be aware of the changes…”

  Callan sat at his desk and stared at the open file Abby had laid on his desk, half listening as she methodically went over the report she’d worked up. Dressed in her usual, stiff business suit, her hair pulled tightly back and her glasses perched on her nose, she stood opposite him, reading from the copy in her hands.

  He’d been living in her house for the past week, working with her, and though he would have expected to be going stir-crazy, spending so much time with one woman, he found he hadn’t minded at all.

  Not that he was getting soft on settling down, or anything as drastic as that, he just thought that maybe he could understand why, when the right woman came along, some guys went for that sort of thing. Home-cooked meals sure beat out a frozen dinner any night, it was nice saying good-morning and good-night to someone, and sharing a bed with someone you cared about certainly had its advantages.

  Not that he thought about Abby that way, Callan quickly reminded himself. Well, he supposed he did think about the sharing-a-bed part, but he had no intention of doing anything more than think. She was his secretary, and that’s the way he wanted to keep it.

  He realized he’d taken her for granted before, but that was all in the past now. He was a new man. A more sensitive, thoughtful kind of guy. That’s what women wanted, didn’t they? Understanding, patience, compassion. How hard could that be?

  From now on, if Abby had a problem, she’d know she could come to him. She didn’t have to quit or run away. Together they’d find a solution.

  Of course, pretending to be engaged and sleeping at her house was a bit extreme, he realized, but desperate times called for desperate measures. If it meant her staying with Sinclair Construction, then sleeping in her guest bed and sharing a bathroom for the past four days had been small concessions, Callan thought. Not to mention interesting ones.

  Especially that first morning, when he’d seen her come out of the bathroom wearing that pretty floral robe. With her wet hair brushing her shoulders, her skin flushed and the steam swirling around her, she’d made quite an enticing sight.