Bought: One Husband Page 3

  The door opened almost before she’d taken her finger from the bell, and his grandmother said, ‘It’s Miss Brannan, isn’t it? Do come in.’

  There was something very reassuring about the starchiness of the white apron that covered the plump body, the stern expression on the lined face which was belied by twinkling eyes. His grandmother was someone a girl could rely on, Allie thought, clutching at straws, buying extra time, and gabbled, ‘I don’t want to intrude. Perhaps you could give Jethro a message for me?’

  ‘Why not give it to him yourself?’ She stood aside, defying Allie to do anything other.

  Trying to stamp down on the million butterflies that had been let loose in her stomach, Allie crossed the threshold because she had no choice. The old lady plainly had no time for ditherers, and could, she guessed from the firm set of her mouth, become quite alarming when crossed.

  ‘Through here.’ A door leading off the minuscule hallway was pushed open decisively. ‘Speak your mind and put the poor boy out of his misery one way or another. No shilly-shallying.’

  A firm hand propelled her into a small living room furnished with ponderous Victorian pieces. She heard the door close behind her and found herself staring at Jethro Cole’s broad-shouldered back.

  He appeared to be engrossed in the view from the window, but what he could actually see through the thick net drapes she couldn’t imagine. And what on earth his grandmother had meant by putting him out of his misery was beyond her. And if she tried to puzzle it out she would get even more flustered than she already was.

  Her heart thumping, she tentatively cleared her throat and watched him very slowly turn to face her. It was, she thought sinkingly, like looking at a stranger. Gone was the casually charming sexy male with the hazy golden eyes that had always seemed to be stripping her naked, and in his place was a man whose features had hardened into something approaching arrogance, whose eyes held a cold yellow indifference.

  Dressed, as usual, in old jeans, faded T-shirt and beat-up trainers, he managed to wear an aura of power, of control. He was, she realised, her eyes widening, far more alarming than his indomitable grandmother.

  Jethro hooded his eyes. The smile she was trying out was wobbling round the edges, and anxiety positively shrieked from those wide dark blue eyes. For the first time she looked vulnerable, the calm, cool poise he associated with her wiped away by some trouble or other.

  She put a hand up to her mouth, as if to hide the embryo smile that had somehow turned into a shaky grimace, the movement totally at odds with her usual grace, clumsy almost.

  He stamped on the urge to fold her in his arms, to tell her to stop worrying about whatever it was that was troubling her because, whatever it was, he’d sort it. She wasn’t for him and never could be; she leaned in a different direction entirely.

  Because someone, some time, had to say something, he leaned back on his heels and asked flatly, ‘Is there something I can do for you?’ Then he made a minor production of looking at his watch, as if counting out the seconds he could spare her.

  Allie made a huge effort to drag herself together. For heaven’s sake, he was only a man, and no man up to now had had the power to intimidate her. This one was no different from the rest. That bleak, tough expression was probably down to nothing more scary than peevishness. He was looking sniffy because she’d consistently turned down his offers of a date.

  Well, she could offer him something of far more use to him than a few miserable dates. Money. Lots of it.

  She squared her shoulders beneath the cotton shirt she was wearing tucked into baggy green trousers that had been through the wash a couple of dozen times too many—nothing remotely sexy to give him funny ideas—sucked some air into her cramped lungs and managed to say coolly, ‘I need a favour, and I’m willing to pay handsomely for it.’

  Naming the sum at her disposal, she watched closely for a change in his expression. Nothing, not even the merest flicker of interest. She had been so sure that he would jump at the opportunity of getting his hands on what must seem to him to be a small fortune, and ask questions about the favour he was to do to earn it after, she felt the disappointment hit her like a blow to the pit of her stomach. To be replaced immediately by the sting of irritation.

  She was having a hard time getting through to this looming hulk! And for all she knew his dear old granny probably had her ear pinned to the other side of the door. Frustration edged her voice as she enunciated clearly, ‘I suggest we go somewhere to talk about it on neutral ground. But before we do, I must tell you that the sum I mentioned can’t be increased.’ This was in case he was using that poker-player’s face in the hope of upping the ante.

  The only response to that was the slight, upward drift of one straight sable brow. It incensed her. Why didn’t he just say, No thanks, go away, and be done with it?

  ‘If you’re not interested, then please say so, and I won’t waste any more of your valuable time!’

  In a moment she would swing on her heels and storm out in an almighty temper; he knew that. He also knew that he should let her. Seeing her, the only woman he had actively pursued, the one woman who would never give him a second glance, wasn’t doing much for his own mood either. The feeling of being an utter jerk was new to him, and he didn’t like it.

  Just as he’d predicted, she swung round on her heels, angry impatience keeping her shoulders rigid, and he said, ‘I’m interested,’ then cursed himself for the instinctive words, for not letting her go, getting her out of his sight, out of his head. He qualified his statement when he saw the wash of relief on her face as she turned back to him. ‘I’m curious to know what favour you’re willing to pay so highly for. Shall we go?’

  He left her standing in the hallway for a minute or two, presumably while he went to let his grandmother know he’d be out for a while. Did the old lady demand to be told where he was and what he’d be doing? Was she over-protective because she knew he was feckless, incapable of holding a job down for more than five minutes at a time, was a sandwich short of a picnic?

  She couldn’t go along with that, not after walking into that room and sensing the aura of power that surrounded him, seeing the cold, clinically distanced look in those golden eyes.

  Suddenly she shivered, as if a goose had walked over her grave, and he said from just behind her, ‘Ready?’

  ‘If you are,’ she replied and fell in step behind him. But she baulked when he opened the passenger door of his dreadful old van. ‘I thought we might walk to a park, find a bench to sit on,’ she objected. ‘There’s no need to drive.’ The vehicle didn’t look as if it would go a hundred yards without braking down, and the thought of being cocooned in it with him made her feel even more nervous. She’d feel easier in the open air, with other things—people and traffic—to provide a distraction.

  She planted her feet firmly on the pavement, but he said smoothly, ‘And I thought we’d drive out to a pub I know of. It has a garden at the back which overlooks the river. We’ll have coffee, and if the conversation proves interesting enough stay on for lunch.’ His long mouth curled derisively. ‘Or are you afraid that being seen riding in an old banger might spoil your super-model image?’

  So he knew! She wasn’t going to ask how, but he’d hit a raw nerve. Her mouth tightened. She plucked angrily at her baggy cotton trousers. ‘Do you think I’d dress this way if I was afraid of that?’ And she inserted herself into the passenger seat, just to show him.

  Then she wished she’d stuck to her guns and insisted on walking to a park. Even the rough, grinding sound of the engine did nothing to ease the silence between them. It was all proving to be even more of a strain than she had imagined. Allie really couldn’t understand what was happening here. All last week, on the occasions when he’d forced his company on her, he’d been giving off mega-strong signals. He fancied her, wanted to date her, wanted—as they all did—to get her into bed.

  And now he was acting as if he thoroughly disliked her. She’d thought she’d g
ot him taped: feckless, short on cash and prospects, long on male conceit, thinking that he only had to look at a woman in that explicit way he had to have her panting, begging…

  He was turning out to be an enigma!

  Allie heaved an unconscious sigh and Jethro took his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at her profile. Pure poetry. Smooth, wide forehead, straight, neat nose, the curling upper lip above that invitingly sensual mouth. The fine, delicate skin needed no make-up, and the tender length of her neck, exposed by her scraped back silvery gold hair, made him ache.

  He glared back at the road ahead, his jaw tightening. He should have told her he wasn’t interested in whatever it was she was prepared to pay him for. Should have let her go. She—although he had to admit she could hardly have meant it, because why should she explain her sexual orientation to someone who was practically a stranger?—had made a fool out of him.

  And by being here he was making a fool out of himself.

  The knowledge didn’t sit easily, and his mouth was grim as he parked the van on the forecourt of the pleasant riverside inn.

  Coffee was what they’d come for and coffee was what they’d have. Forget lunch. Why prolong it? He’d find out what was troubling her, give her the best advice he could offer, drive her back and get the hell out. Forget he’d wanted her—still did, dammit!—forget she’d ever existed.

  He stalked inside ahead of her, and was digging into his jeans pocket for the money to pay for the coffee he’d ordered when, beside him, she dug into her shoulder bag for her purse and said quietly, ‘Let me do this.’ She handed a note over the bar counter.

  Jethro almost walked out right there and then. He wasn’t used to having a woman pay for him, and hated the feeing of being patronised. Before this wretched morning was over he’d tell her who he was, what he was.

  A few words from him and she’d realise that the money she’d laid on the table as payment for a favour as yet unspecified might seem like a lot to her but would be considered as nothing more than loose change by him!

  Wallowing in the ignoble thought, he gestured to the open French windows which led out to sun-drenched gardens overlooking the Severn and allowed her to precede him. Then he wished the hell he hadn’t, because the light shone through the thin fabric of the loose pants she was wearing, clearly delineating every elegant contour of her long and lovely legs.

  Battening down an upsurge of lust, he followed her out to the only table with a sun umbrella. It was green, and the shade it cast made her look ethereal. The slender hands that fiddled with stray tendrils of silky hair, tucking them behind her delicate ears, were so fine-boned, almost transparent in their fragility, that they brought a lump to his throat.

  It was such a waste!

  Firmly, he reminded himself that she could no more help the way she was than she could help the shape of her nose, the texture of her skin, the curve of her mouth.

  Such a kissable mouth.

  Growling silently at the torture he was inflicting on himself, he waited until the coffee things had been brought out to them and then got straight to the point, because it would be masochistic to spin it out. He wanted her out of his life—well out of it.

  ‘So, what’s the favour you’re willing to pay me for?’

  Allie stopped fiddling with her hair and started fiddling with the strap of her bag instead. The moment had come, and quite frankly she was terrified. This man would be no push-over, happy to dance to the tune she arranged for him. This man, with his intimidating look of grim-faced power, would do nothing he didn’t want to do—and heaven help anyone who tried to make him!

  But she had already stuck a toe in the metaphorical water, so she might as well plunge right in.

  ‘I need you to marry me,’ she said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  EVERYTHING inside him lurched. Forty-eight hours ago he’d have jumped at the offer, done practically anything to have her in his life, in his bed. And he knew now, right at this moment, that he would even have been willing to settle for wedding bells and marriage vows for the first time in his life.

  Dear Lord, he must have gone and fallen in love! And that was why no other woman had ever given him such intense pleasure to look at, such a charged adrenalin rush, such an aching need—

  His hormones really started playing up, mushing up his brain, and he took a long gulp of scalding coffee to quiet them down. All last week she hadn’t wanted to know him, had frozen him out with frigid politeness. Now she wanted marriage—and was wiling to pay for it!

  He looked into her troubled blue eyes, his own skimming down to note the way she was chewing on a corner of her mouth as she waited for him to respond, and said, ‘Why? Are you pregnant?’

  It was the first explanation that came into his head. Why else would a beautiful woman want a husband, any husband, unless she’d been made pregnant, wanted a father for the coming child because its natural one had run away?

  A rosy blush spread from her primly buttoned neckline to the roots of her hair as she repudiated quickly, ‘No, of course not!’

  Which brought him right back to where he’d started from. Of course not, he thought, deploring his own stupidity. She could hardly get impregnated if her partner wasn’t of the opposite gender.

  To give himself time to get his head straight he angled away from the table and hooked one arm over the back of the chair, offering her a suave exterior that was completely at odds with the turmoil going on inside him, and prodding, ‘Then why don’t you tell me why you want to marry? And why pick me?’

  Allie was fighting to stay cool, to squash the impulse to get up and run. The laid-back character who had hung around most evenings last week was nothing like the man who was facing her across the table now. This man looked tough, as if he could command huge international armies with the lift of one straight black brow. All sharp edges, and then some.

  So how could she tell him that she believed he’d do anything for a hand-out?

  Only once this morning had he seemed like the man she had come to know—unwillingly, she reminded herself—and that had been when she’d said she wanted him to marry her. He’d worn the same expression as he had when she’d first thanked him for helping her mother. Shellshocked.

  He was waiting, and of course he had a right to hear the reasons for her proposal. To him it must have sounded like the ravings of a lunatic!

  His golden eyes were alert, despite his relaxed position. And the way he’d hooked an arm over the back of the chair somehow forced her eyes to where the soft fabric of his T-shirt outlined his overpowering masculinity, those strong wide shoulders, the broad chest that tapered down to a flat, narrow waist.

  She bit down on her lip and lowered her eyes. So he was sexy. So what? He was still the same person, struggling to earn a living. So get on with it, woman, spit it out, she exhorted herself, then took a deep breath, laid the palms of her hands flat on the table and told herself she had nothing to lose.

  ‘My uncle, Fabian Brannan, left me a property in Shropshire on condition that I was married at the time of his death or within one month after it. I don’t want it, and I certainly don’t want to be married.’ She raised her eyes to hold his, and there was no disputing the sincerity of that final statement. ‘But my mother wants Studley Manor. She spent the happiest years of her life there and she would give anything to be able to go back.’

  Her tiny sigh was soft, barely ruffling her breath, but he heard it and, cursing the way she could so easily rouse his protective instincts, intrigue him, he found himself asking softly, ‘So why did she leave it?’

  ‘Fabian wanted it back,’ she told him, and if she sounded bitter she couldn’t help it. ‘My grandfather had two sons: Fabian, and Mark, my father. Dad was the youngest by several years, and apparently considered to be a no-account weakling, a hopeless dreamer. When Grandfather died the family home, Studley Manor, went to Fabian. He had no use for the place, no desire to live in the sticks, and was busy making his fortune in London
and living the life of a rake, by all accounts. But he grudgingly agreed to let my parents use it when they knew I was on the way. A five-year lease and a modest rent.

  ‘Dad wrote fiction. Not very successfully, but he earned enough to scrape by. The lack of money didn’t matter to them; they were happy—two dreamy romantics living in cloud-cuckoo-land. Crunch time came when I was fifteen. Fabian wanted us out and refused to renew the third lease. Against all our expectations he’d decided to marry, and his future wife had a yen to play Lady of the Manor.’

  Her mouth had tightened, he noted. There was a white line around her unpainted lips. ‘So you and your parents were out?’

  She nodded, picked up the spoon from her saucer and began turning it round and round. Then she dropped it and folded her hands together quickly, as if the nervous gesture had betrayed her. When she spoke again her voice was cool and controlled, and he wondered if she always bottled up her emotions, and what would happen if they were released.

  ‘We left Studley and came to live with my mother’s sister. Fran. Her husband had recently walked out on her. We were to stay until Dad could find us a place to rent. I can remember Mother trying to be brave, saying it didn’t matter if the place he found was falling down, so long as it was back in the country and had a garden. They were like two bewildered children. Then…’ Her voice shook, but she controlled it. ‘The publishers Dad had been with for years sold out to one of the big international outfits. They refused to renew his contract. They considered his work to be dated, said it didn’t fit the market. Two blows in quick succession. He’d lost our home and he’d lost his only source of income. He wasn’t strong enough to take it. He took his own life instead.’

  Instinctively Jethro reached over and covered her hands with his own. ‘That was tough, Allie.’ She made no attempt to draw her hands away and he was glad of that, because all he wanted to give her at this moment was the comfort of caring human contact.