What light there was came from four small windows, one to a wall, and the place smelled of new paint layered over ancient mildew. In the distant past the walls had been painted a nondescript tan which had faded unevenly until the four walls had taken on the dreary look of water-damaged parchment, offset here and there by framed travel posters in vivid blues and greens. The furnishings were sparse and mismatched. Two chairs, one Naugahyde, one worn velour sat opposite a muddy brown sofa that apparently served as a bed. Draped over the back was a soft-looking afghan that reminded him of a rainbow.
After closing the door, Boyd walked toward the kitchen end, his heels echoing hollowly on the uneven wood floor. Roughly half of the cupboards had been neatly painted in bright yellow enamel, presumably from the gallon can still sitting on newspaper on the burn-scarred counter. A brush lay nearby, stiff now with paint and stuck to the newspaper on which it rested. It was the same color he'd seen on Stacy's clothes the day of the accident. And on her bruised cheek.
It had been so long since he'd felt anything it took him a moment to realize he was touched by her brave attempt to brighten up her dreary surroundings. And damn if it wasn't working, at least as far as she'd gotten.
He had a hunch that given enough time and paint and imagination, she would have the place as sparkling and bright as a sunny day. Her own little cozy nest, he thought as he ran his gaze over the items on her list.
Only a kindergarten teacher would print the damned thing, and with perfectly formed letters that reminded him of dusty schoolrooms and endlessly boring afternoons when he'd longed to be outside in the sunshine. But then, his first teacher had had a voice like the seal she'd resembled and a tendency to rap his knuckles at the slightest sign of rebellion, while Stacy's voice was clear and surprisingly low for such a slight woman. And when it was flavored with a smile, it made him feel young and strong and eager to slay dragons for the woman he loved.
He knew better now. Some dragons were just too strong. For him, anyway.
He lifted his gaze and located a sad-looking bureau, a reject from a thrift shop if he'd ever seen one. A brown purse sat next to a framed photograph of a younger-looking Stacy in a bikini holding a fluffy white kitten with blue eyes.
He figured her for eighteen, nineteen at the most, in the first bloom of breathtaking beauty. Beneath delicately arching brows and framed by sooty lashes, her wide-set green eyes were sparking and alive and innocent. Her lips were rosy and slightly parted as though she'd been caught at the beginning of a laugh. Her nose was slightly crooked, and the dimple winking at the left side of her mouth gave her face an unbalanced look he found surprisingly appealing.
Her hair had been longer then and the glossy sun-tipped tendrils spread like a lush fan over her shoulders to end just above the swell of her breasts. Her body was trim and compact, and perfectly proportioned. Her skin was smooth, darkened by the sun to an enticing honey gold. It would feel like warm silk against a man's stroking hand, he thought, and then ground his teeth as his body stirred.
There was nothing posed or studied about the picture, nothing to suggest an attempt to appear provocative or sexy. Yet, I she was both. Then and now. Just thinking about holding that small, soft body in his arms was enough to nudge his imagination toward the heated friction of skin against skin. And then what, MacAuley? Explain to her that you're only interested in sex? A fast and furious affair, followed by a faster goodbye and have a nice life. Now that would be a real class act, all right, especially after all she'd been through.
Disgusted with himself, he jerked open the top drawer to find panties and bras, plain as white bread. Yet the nunlike garments carried the faintest scent of flowers and spice. Intensely feminine yet subtly provocative, it was a fragrance that would appeal to a woman with secret fantasies and desires.
Or torment a man who'd been alone too long, he thought as he grabbed a set, then looked around for a suitcase. He found it on the top shelf of the closet and carried it to the sofa, one corner of which, he noted, was held up by a stack of well-thumbed paperback books.
After snapping open the case, he tossed in the undies, then returned to the dresser. Another quick search yielded a choice of nightgowns—one long and flannel and the other short, silky and trimmed with lace. He made a quick mental picture of her in both, a natural consequence—or was it a curse?—of male DNA, then chose the short one. Not because he was imagining the lush outline of her breasts beneath the thin material or visualizing the heavy lace brushing the sleek thighs indelibly imprinted on his mind, but because the weather was too hot for flannel. And, okay, just maybe because the skimpy nightie seemed like the perfect shade to bring out the gold in her eyes.
Hurrying now, he found a fuzzy white robe on a hook on the back of the bathroom door and whimsical tiger slippers nearby. While he was in the john, he collected the toiletries she'd specified and carried everything back to the suitcase. After checking the list one more time, he tossed her purse and the mail into the case and slammed it shut.
Warped by years of wet winters, the door to the outside was little more than a flimsy barrier against the elements, with no dead bolt or peephole. He pushed the button in the knob and stepped onto the landing, pulling the door shut behind him. After testing the lock, he started down the steps only to slow halfway down at the sight of a fat toad of a man peering suspiciously into the cab of his truck.
"Something I can do for you, friend?" Boyd called as he took the last steps with an easy stride that belied the sudden tension bunching the muscles of his thighs.
The man turned and raked him with hard black eyes set in liverish yellow. A couple of inches over six feet, with the look of a wrestler gone to seed, the guy reeked of sour sweat and cheap tobacco.
"This here your rig?" he demanded in a raspy, bottom-of-the-bottle voice.
"Must be, since it's my name on the registration."
After a moment's study, the man jerked his stubbled chin in the direction of a faded sign tacked to the wall to the left of Boyd's truck. "Like them words there say, this here lot's for tenants only."
"Sorry. I assumed this spot went with the upstairs apartment."
"It does. You don't."
"No problem, I'm leaving." Boyd set the suitcase in the truck's bed and opened the door to the driver's side.
"You a friend of Miz Patterson's?"
Boyd dug his keys out of his pocket. "Could be. Any reason why you need to know?"
"Yeah, I got a reason. I own this here place and I don't need nobody breaking in and stealing from my tenants, even them like Miz Patterson that ain't got much worth stealing."
Boyd gave some thought to the shabby rooms upstairs and Stacy's attempts to turn them into a home. She'd been lucky so far that some wandering junkie or strung-out kid hadn't tried the door and found it open. Luckier still the ass in front of him hadn't sold off what little she had, then reported it stolen.
"I'll tell Mrs. Patterson you were looking out for her," he said when he'd leveled the need to lay out a few hard and fast rules for the man concerning his fragile tenant.
Oblivious to the sarcasm Boyd had infused into his voice—or maybe too drunk to notice—Stacy's landlord directed a pointed look toward the suitcase. "If you ain't stealing, how come you came down toting that?"
"Mrs. Patterson is in the hospital and needs some of her things."
"Got rid of that baby, did she?" The man snorted a laugh. "I figured she would, sooner or later."
"You figured wrong." Boyd rested both hands on his hips and reminded himself he'd left his brawling days behind. "Mrs. Patterson was injured in an auto accident."
"Don't surprise me none to hear it, what with the way her boyfriend peeled outta here. Crazy SOB damn near hit my truck, too. Had me half a mind to call the cops and report him."
Boyd felt his jaw clench. "Did you ever think Mrs. Patterson might be in trouble?"
The landlord shrugged. "I ain't no neighborhood watch."
"I'll be sure to pass along your good
wishes when I see her again," Boyd drawled before he climbed behind the wheel.
The landlord's fleshy lips corkscrewed into a grin. "Yeah, sure. Why not? Right after you tell her the rent's still due on the first, accident or no accident."
"Your compassion is bottomless, I see." Boyd slammed the door while at the same time twisting the key to fire the engine.
Over the sudden roar, the man yelled something he didn't catch. "Nice talking to you, too," he yelled back before slamming the shift into reverse. He was actually disappointed when the bastard managed to get out of the way.
It was nearly six-thirty when Boyd stepped off the elevator across from the second floor nurses' station. He didn't recognize the woman in a pink smock busily entering something into a patient's computer record or the preppie kid with an intern's haggard face inhaling coffee from a large foam cup.
Boyd remembered his year as an intern—twelve months of too much work and not enough sleep for a salary well below the poverty level. Instead of the satisfaction he'd expected after endless years of hard studying, rising hopes and the frustration of being a hick in the city, it had turned out to be hell itself. He hoped the kid had independent means to see him through—or a wife who was willing to pay more than her share of the bills. Like Karen.
Her money had come from her father who'd never forgiven Boyd for refusing the six-figure wedding present Kerwin Waverly had tried to settle on them. Not that Kerwin had honored his new son-in-law's wishes, of course. Instead, he'd simply opened an account in Karen's name.
Used to nice things and an indulgent daddy, she'd spent it for things Boyd hadn't been able to provide, things for the house and for herself, things he'd grudgingly decided he hadn't had the right or the heart to deny her. Even so, he'd had to suck in a harsh breath every time he'd come home, tired and hungry, and desperate to feel like a man in charge of his life instead of a robot with a scalpel, only to find she'd been shopping again.
He'd accepted title to the cottage on Mill Works Ridge because Karen had loved it on sight and because it and the other five dwellings had needed work Boyd himself could do as his own way of paying for the place, but he'd drawn the line when she'd offered to replace his ancient VW bug with a new sports model that didn't drink oil like water and stall more than it ran. After the funerals for Karen and the baby, he'd given the money he'd inherited to a local shelter for the homeless.
The door to Stacy's room was propped open, and he saw that she was out of bed and standing by the window looking out. It was the first time he'd seen her on her feet, which at the moment were bare except for an Ace bandage wrapping one ankle.
Though she was still too thin, her tummy had grown rounder in the week she'd spent in the hospital and her breasts seemed fuller beneath the voluminous hospital gown, reminding him of an alabaster fertility totem he'd seen in a magazine once.
His mind went again to the scrap of silk and lace he'd packed in the case. Before he could stop himself, he'd conjured up the image of the sleek gown molding to her ripe curves. He felt his body stir at the thought and cursed himself for the utter lack of respect for a woman who'd just been through a terrible ordeal.
Gritting his teeth, he rapped on the open door and saw her start. Averting her face, she quickly swiped her fingers over both cheeks and squared her shoulders before she turned away from the window to greet him. Her bruises had faded, but those unforgettable eyes were still haunted with worry and her skin was too pale. Even so, she held her thin shoulders proudly, as though daring the world to try to knock her down again.
"I've been watching a hummingbird in that red rose of Sharon by the light pole," she told him with a smile. "She must have a nest hidden in the leaves because she won't let any other bird get any closer than ten feet or so. She goes into this dive-bombing frenzy, swooping and screeching and flapping those little bitty wings like helicopter rotors. A few minutes ago she even scared off this huge jay, though heaven only knows what she would have done if that big guy had called her bluff."
Fight like hell, he thought. Like a small, pale woman with fire in her soul. He cleared his throat and answered her smile with one of his own. "What's Dad's part in this scuffle?"
She glanced once more through the pane, then shook her head. "I have a feeling mama hummingbird is single parent."
"There's a lot of that going around," he said, crossing to the metal locker by the bathroom door.
"Hey, that looks like my suitcase," she exclaimed with a wide-eyed look that didn't quite hide the swollen lids and damp lashes.
"Probably because it is," he said, stashing the suitcase inside. "Your purse and mail are in the case."
"You went with Prudy to my apartment? To get my things?" A wisp of a frown settled between her dark eyebrows, and he felt a quick pang of guilt. As though he'd somehow done something wrong.
"Prudy had to work. She asked me to help her out." He shut the locker door and stepped back. "It's all there, everything on the list."
Stacy expressed her thanks and thought about those large, capable, very masculine hands rummaging through the bras and panties no other man had touched or even seen, just as no other man had touched her swollen belly. Remembering the gentleness with which he'd comforted in those awful minutes after the accident had a fresh wash of tears coming to her eyes.
"Damn, I swore I wouldn't do this," she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut, but the tears kept coming, like a dam overflowing.
Boyd didn't know what else to do, so he lifted a hand to brush away the tears. Her skin felt like warm, wet silk beneath the pads of his fingers. Need speared through him, as sharp as pain. "Stacy…" His voice ended on a jagged moan as he gave in to that need and took her mouth. He felt her tremble, felt her fit her mouth more closely to his.
Knowing he shouldn't, yet driven beyond his ability to resist, Boyd widened his stance, drawing her against the length of his body until her rounded belly was snuggled against his and her soft warm breasts were pressed sweetly against his chest. She fit, as though she belonged in his arms, and that realization had hard, painful knots forming in his gut.
At the same time, with each long, drugging kiss, with every eager little sound she made, he felt reborn, alive to the heady taste of a woman's kiss. His head was swimming, his thoughts tumbling. She wasn't his wife or his lady, or even someone he knew well.
But, God help him, she tasted sweet and her lips were welcoming soft. Somehow she'd gotten to him in a way no other woman ever had—her eyes, her smile, the determined tilt of that small chin as she took on a mountain of problems.
He could handle that, even offer his help. It was the near savage need to ease her back onto the hard hospital bed and slowly strip the gown from her ripening body that had him drawing back. It wasn't a lover she needed, but a friend.
Cupping her shoulders, he eased her from him until her belly was no longer touching his. Head swimming, his lungs laboring to draw enough air, he struggled to clear his mind. He knew his face was flushed as he watched her sway, then slowly flutter her long lashes open. Her lips were still parted, rosy now instead of pale, and her green eyes were slightly dazed as they fastened on his.
"Who was that masked man?" she murmured, her tone a little breathless, a little bemused.
Boyd took a breath and put together a string of words in his head, tested them for the proper blend of humor and respect. When they seemed to work okay, he tried on his best doctor-to-patient smile. "Stacy, I—"
"Don't say it, please."
"Don't say what?" he questioned, mentally stiffening the wall that always seemed in danger of toppling around this woman.
"That the magic that happened between us just now was a mistake, because it wasn't."
Boyd had enough control left to keep from reaching for her again. "Maybe not, but it sure as hell isn't going to happen again."
"Why not?"
"Because it's wrong, that's why. I know how much it hurts to lose someone…" He took a breath and struggled to put words to thing
s he only half understood. "Your in-laws visiting and all, you have to be thinking of Tory's father, maybe wishing he was the one you were kissing…"
"I know who I was kissing, Boyd. I won't insult you by asking that same question of you."
The splash of hurt in her eyes had him grinding his back teeth and cursing himself for the inarticulate country boy he was at heart. "Don't look at me like that, Stacy. I'm trying to do the right thing here. The decent thing."
It wasn't working, he realized, plowing his hand through his hair. The hurt was still there, along with a vulnerability around her mouth. "You've just been through a hell of a bad time. You're scared, and you're vulnerable."
"And you felt sorry for me." Her chin came up and she smiled. "That is what you're trying to say, isn't it?"
Daddy by Accident Page 6
