“He said you wouldn’t want it,” Rorie told him. He’d never told her why and she’d never asked. But she understood now. There was no mistaking the bitterness in Chase’s voice.
Chase snorted. “He got that right.” He frowned at her through no doubt impaired eyes. “You look familiar.”
It was her turn to snort. “I should. We graduated together.”
He blinked, astonished. “Really? I don’t remember you.”
She was neither surprised nor insulted, though a bit disappointed. She’d spun many a fantasy around this man. Nevertheless, they hadn’t exactly traveled in the same circles. Chase had been popular, if a bit distant—he’d rarely attended football games or school parties. She’d always chalked that up to his strange mystique—had told herself that it was one of the things she liked about him, that he held himself apart—but wondered about that now.
She’d had a couple of close friends, but had worked too much to maintain what one could call a full social calendar. Somebody had to put food on the table in their ratty little single-wide in the trailer park, and it sure as hell hadn’t been her parents. They’d been too busy drinking, fighting or making up to be concerned with trivial things like food.
He stared at her harder, as though by looking at her long enough a memory would surface in his temporarily pickled brain. A prickle of heat slid down the middle of her chest and huddled in her belly button, igniting a flame in a more sensitive part further south. She released an unsteady breath.
He’d always been gorgeous, Rorie thought, but, impossibly, he was even more so now. Hair every bit as black as his eyes was clipped short in a classic military high and tight. His face was lean and hard now, with none of the boyish roundness of his youth, and his jaw was chiseled so perfectly it would make Michelangelo weep. His brows arched dramatically over his equally extraordinary eyes, and if his mouth made her think of rumpled sheets and massage oil, then his smile put her in mind of hot nights and hotter sex.
He simply had that look—that I-am-fully-aware-that-I-can-rock-your-world confidence and, perversely, that self-assurance made him all the more attractive. If that confidence had been polluted with even the smallest hint of arrogance it would have ruined the effect. It wasn’t. He was the walking epitome of sex incarnate and, because she’d clearly lost her mind, she found herself imagining her back against this very table and his—
“Wait a minute,” he breathed, as though a light had suddenly gone off.
Rorie started guiltily. “What?”
“You worked at the Dip-N-Sip, didn’t you?”
She laughed and nodded. “I did,” she said.
He smiled at her—genuinely—and the absence of bitterness made a profound difference in the gesture. Her nipples tingled and a wave of pleasure moved through her chest. “I do remember you,” he told her. “Your hair was longer then.”
Only because she’d never been able to afford to get it properly trimmed. She shot him a pointed look. “So was yours.”
He chuckled and ran a hand over the close-cropped locks, inadvertently drawing her attention to the intriguing muscle play in his upper arms. Wow. Yum.
“How long have you worked for my father?” he asked.
“Eight years.”
“Since we graduated?”
“Yep.” She smiled, remembering. “He was a regular at the Dip-N-Sip and offered me a job. Said that I had a good work ethic for someone so young and that I had potential.” She’d had teachers express the same sentiment, but, coming from Holland, for some reason, it had meant more.
“And you’ve lived out back in the carriage house since?” he asked leadingly.
“Since the year after I started to work for him. I helped him renovate it.”
It had been a dream come true. She used to drive down this street with its grand old homes and dream of living in one of these houses. She wouldn’t have cared which—any one of them would have been an improvement over the trailer park. She’d imagined the gilded lives of those who’d lived here—an unlimited supply of hot water, a fully stocked pantry, a canopied bed. She’d always wanted a canopied bed. For some reason it had become the ultimate status symbol in her mind.
She’d laughingly mentioned it to Holland one evening when they’d been working in her carriage house and the next evening when she’d gotten home, a new bedroom suite—complete with the canopy and linens—had been in her future room. She’d cried and promised to pay him back, to work it off, and he’d insisted that it was a well-deserved gift. Until that moment, no one had ever given her anything. She’d never gotten so much as a Christmas or birthday present from her own parents. Holland had become the father she’d never had and she’d loved him from that moment forward.
“Look, there’s no delicate way to ask this, but—”
“No,” she said, anticipating his question before he could finish. “We were not lovers. I loved your father and I know that he loved me, but it was a paternal sort of relationship, not romantic.” She straightened the salt and pepper shakers. “He dated occasionally,” she told him. “But he never brought anyone home.”
“The house was his mistress, so I’m sure that would have been weird.”
The cynical tone was back, she noted, destroying the uneasy camaraderie. Rorie stood. “I should go,” she said.
“Your house,” he pointed out. “I can move into the B and B. Or leave altogether, now that I don’t have to see to any of this.”
She felt her eyes widen. “You can’t leave,” she said. “You’ve got to decide what you’re going to do with the business. You need to go through your father’s things. You—”
He looked strangely panic-stricken, as though the idea of tidying up his father’s legacy was somehow terrifying. “Can’t you do all of that? I’d pay you, of course.”
She could and was going to be out of a job because he would no doubt sell the business. Inheriting the house was amazing, a gift she could hardly fathom, but it was going to be expensive to maintain. The taxes and insurance alone were more than the rent she’d been paying for the carriage house. Not to mention the utility bill, which was positively astronomical to her.
She could handle every bit of this for him, Rorie realized. Chase wasn’t the least inclined to iron out the details of his father’s life, to fulfill his last wishes stated in his will. But Holland had wanted Chase to take care of things, as a son should.
She shook her head.
Furthermore, she thought he needed to do this. No one needed closure more than Chase Harrison, she thought, irrationally convinced of this insight.
“I’ll help you, of course,” she told him. “But this is something that you’re going to have to take care of yourself.” She laid her hand atop his and determinedly ignored the jolt of awareness that bolted through her. Her bones felt as if they were melting from that mere touch. Want and longing twined through her. “It’s what your father wanted.”
Chase sighed tiredly. “And God forbid he doesn’t get what he wants, eh?” He looked heavenward. “Pulling strings from the grave, old man? Good one. I’m impressed.”
“You should go to bed.”
His gaze slid from one end of her body to the other and the playful smile that curled his lips made her heart kick into an oh-hell rhythm. “You offering to tuck me in, Rorie?”
She chuckled softly and backed toward the door. To her chagrin, he got up and followed her…and she liked it. “I don’t think so.”
“Drink with me and you won’t think at all,” he said, purposely invading her space. He smelled like lilies and musk, a weird combination. He’d stripped off his shirt and tie, and was clad only in a white T-shirt and pleated suit pants. She could see every muscle beneath the thin cotton, every plane of his abdomen. “I highly recommend it.”
Her nipples pearled and her breath suddenly didn’t want to go into or exit her lungs. “Good night, Chase,” she said firmly, putting a single finger against his chest to prevent him from coming any closer.
/>
“I’ll let you take advantage of me,” he teased, black eyes twinkling, his voice husky.
Oh, she’d just bet he would. Booze and sex, the ultimate cure-all. He was hurting, Rorie suddenly realized. Because of his father’s death? Unresolved issues? Or was it something else?
She didn’t know, but for Holland’s sake, she would have to try and find out. And, because she was a sucker for a sad case, she would have to help him if she could.
Unable to help herself, she bent forward and pressed a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning, Chase.” The unexpected display of affection momentarily startled him, giving her the opportunity to duck out of his embrace and escape.
And that’s exactly what it felt like—an escape. But something told her that this was only a temporary victory, that she couldn’t evade the inevitable.
I’ll let you take advantage of me.
She shivered. The same could be said of her.
3
CHASE AWOKE the following morning with a headache of mammoth proportions and a vague sense of unease that rapidly became an enlarged balloon of dread. When the memories of the night before became sharp enough to pop it, the shame set in.
He’d hit on her.
Immediately following his father’s funeral.
Right after asking if they’d been lovers.
Smooth, Chase, he thought, wincing with regret. You really have a way with the ladies.
Too much alcohol in too small a time had no doubt been a very bad idea, but last night—or yesterday afternoon, more specifically—he’d needed something, anything, to dull the emotion. To quiet the noise in his head.
In the hard light of day, he realized he’d been a cold-hearted, selfish bastard. Regardless of how his father had treated him, he seemed to have genuinely cared about Rorie—he’d left her the house, after all—and that affection was reciprocated.
Furthermore, though it was completely self-serving, he couldn’t afford to piss her off. He did need her help. He hadn’t set foot in Harrison Construction since the day he’d told his father that he’d gotten the ROTC scholarship and his father had merely nodded, then gone about his business as usual. He’d only been to the house twice and both of those visits had coincided with funerals—his paternal grandparents. They’d died within six months of each other the year after he’d graduated.
He could find all the pertinent paperwork and had a general idea of what needed to be done for the business, but otherwise he was completely uninformed of his father’s life. Rorie definitely had the advantage there and the sooner he was finished with all of this, the sooner he could walk away. Back to the military, for sure. But permanently? He still didn’t know. He couldn’t imagine another life, another career. He was a soldier.
But knowing it and believing it were two entirely different things.
Though he’d been up since dawn, Chase waited until eight o’clock to knock on her door. He’d brought a couple of ham-and-cheese biscuits someone had brought over yesterday as a peace offering and hoped that she would provide the coffee. He desperately needed the caffeine.
Pillow creases still on her cheeks, a serious case of bed-head and her body covered in a worn chenille robe, Rorie finally opened the door. Her blue eyes widened in guarded surprise when she saw him standing there.
He lifted the tray and smiled, feeling a strange sort of release at seeing her—as though he could breathe properly now. Rattled, he shook the bizarre sensation off. “Breakfast?”
“What time is it?” Her voice was husky and clogged with sleep. Sexy. Another bolt of desire shot through him.
“Eight. Don’t you have to be at the office by nine?”
Rubbing her face wearily, she opened the door wider and gestured for him to come in. “I do.”
“I thought you would be up already.” Though he had to admit, this sleepy, sexy version of her worked just fine. Damn. The way the worn fabric draped over her ass was simply criminal. And the bed-head? Strangely attractive as well. Put him in mind of sex. The hot, depraved variety. His dick stirred just looking at her and he had the almost overwhelming urge to lick the side of her graceful neck.
“My clock would have gone off in fifteen minutes.”
“Do you want me to come back?”
Her face squinched up. “Why are you here?”
So she wasn’t a morning person. For reasons which escaped him, he found this utterly adorable. “I wanted to apologize for last night.”
She looked at him then, truly looked at him, and the floor seemed to shift beneath his feet. Her eyes weren’t just blue—they were aqua. Clear, heavily lashed and intelligent. “For being drunk?”
He smiled, chagrined. “And everything that it implies.”
She shrugged. “You were entitled. You’d just buried your father.”
She made it sound so simple, as though that were the only reason he hadn’t wanted to be in his own head. A snapshot of horror filled his mind, the pregnant woman, clutching her bleeding belly…
She snagged a biscuit off the tray, thankfully distracting him. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Not his preference, but he’d take his caffeine where he could get it. “Sure.”
She headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on. Make yourself comfortable.”
Taking the opportunity to regroup and check out her space, Chase set the tray down on the coffee table and settled cautiously onto the couch. It was covered in some ghastly floral brocade that instantly put him on edge and made him afraid of getting it dirty. In fact, the room was packed full of flowers—fresh, fabric and painted. Little vases filled with daisies lined the mantel and a painting of this very house hung on the opposite wall. A large rug with cabbage roses lay against the floor. Needlepoint pillows—more flowers—sat against the chair backs and at either end of the sofa.
It was a veritable garden.
No pictures of people, Chase noted. Not a single personal photograph. How strange. Didn’t she have any family? Parents? Siblings? Friends?
Something small and furry attacked his shoes, startling the hell out of him.
“Daisy,” she chided, laughing softly as she came back into the room. He recognized the tea set—it had belonged to his mother. “Sorry about that,” she said, as the kitten continued to bat at his shoelaces. “She’s still a baby.”
He reached down to rub the little tabby between the brows.
“She’s pretty.”
“She’s a handful,” Rorie said indulgently. “But she’s good company. Your father got her for me a couple of weeks ago.”
He’d always begged for a pet, but had never been allowed to have one. Wait. Not true. Holland had permitted, albeit reluctantly, his turtle, Skip.
The cat had considerably more personality.
Trying to keep the bitter tone out of his voice, Chase took a sip of tea and then addressed the business at hand. “I thought I’d come with you to the office this morning. Start there and get things sorted.”
She added a teaspoon of sugar to her tea. “Shouldn’t you meet with Hank first?”
Hank was his father’s attorney. Come to think of it, he’d mentioned dropping by his office today, but Chase had been too preoccupied to give it any thought at the time.
“Er…yeah, I guess,” he said, dreading it. Hank and his father had been friends for years. No doubt Hank knew exactly what his father had thought of him, the disappointment he’d been. Rorie, too, for that matter, and somehow her knowing was worse. Geez, God, the sooner he was finished with this the better.
Rorie bent down and stroked the cat’s fur, inadvertently exposing the side of her breast in the process. His mouth actually watered.
“He says your father left a few instructions on how he wanted things handled,” Rorie said.
His mood blackened once more and he felt his lips twist into the familiar sardonic grin. “Of course. He would.”
Her gaze found his and the pity he saw there absolutely cut him to th
e quick. Pity? Pity?
Oh, hell, no.
“So did Hank tell you about the house or had my dad?” Chase asked.
She swallowed. “Hank told me,” she said. “He wanted me to know before you—”
“—came in and razed the place, I imagine,” he finished, trying unsuccessfully to quell the irritation rapidly pushing through his veins.
“That was not his concern,” she said, her eyes flashing. “He was afraid that you’d want to come in and immediately sell. He wanted me to know that I would still have a home, since I wouldn’t have a job.”
His conscience pricked. His father’s death was affecting her life much more directly than his own. After all, once everything was settled, he could walk right back into the life he’d left behind. Minus both parents now, which he would admit was mildly disconcerting. No siblings, no grandparents, no parents. He was essentially an orphan, but considering he’d purposely made himself one years ago, he was pretty well-equipped to deal with it.
Rorie was not and he had an obligation, as Holland’s son, to see this through. He would treat it like a mission, Chase decided. Would tackle it with methodical precision, one step at a time.
“I’m sorry about the job, Rorie, but I am going to sell the business,” he said, making an attempt to keep his voice level and kind. “Not out of spite, as you might think, but out of feasibility.” He took a sip of tea and was surprised when he liked it. His mother used to drink tea. He hadn’t thought of that in years. “I can’t run the construction company from Iraq.”
Her lips twisted, but the smile was more knowing than bitter. “You wouldn’t keep the business even if you weren’t in Iraq. Holland always said you hated it.”
“I had no interest in it,” he corrected. “Building, fixing and restoration was his passion. Being a soldier was mine.” He looked away. “He could never understand the difference and made absolutely no effort to try. It had to be his way, always.”
Born on the 4th of July Page 7
