Fortune's Proposal (10 page)

He gave her a sideways look that told her he knew she was being evasive, then shrugged. “Yeah. Baby books for all of us. Scrapbooks. My mother did 'em all. Filled with hair from our first haircuts and birthday cards and report cards once we got into school.” He grinned crookedly. “Even though some of those report cards definitely weren't worth saving, at least on my part.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why?”

She laughed a little. “Because you're fiercely brilliant, which you very well know. Aside from the whole spelling thing, that is.”

“Well, believe it. I goofed off more in school than I should have. Used to drive my father crazy.”

“And your mother?”

Drew's wry smile died. “She'd shake her head and tell me that she knew I could do better.” He was silent for a moment, remembering.

So he had done better. Or at least he'd tried to.

His throat suddenly felt tight. “She gave all the books to each of us when she got sick.”

Deanna's hand squeezed his shoulder. “She looks like
a beautiful woman,” she said softly and handed him the photograph. “Inside and out.”

He took the photograph, too aware of the way his fingers brushed hers.

His memories of his mother were so clear they were just as much a physical ache inside him as the other unassuaged ache he'd developed for Deanna.

But remembering his mother was easier than thinking about that mangled car. And wondering what on God's earth had become of his father.

Was the picture that William had kept in his car significant? Or was it, like Deanna suggested, simply sentiment?

He turned his back against the side of the truck and his arm brushed against the soft fullness of her breast.

He squinted into the sunset, very aware of the fact that Deanna didn't take a step back. Didn't put a breathing space carefully between them as she usually did.

She remained right where she was, facing him, one arm propped against the side of the truck bed.

Or maybe it was just easier talking about things he usually didn't because Deanna was watching him and her eyes were soft in the rosy light. Almost as soft as the feel of her body when he brushed against her.

“She was beautiful,” he said abruptly. “I grew up hearing my father tell her that, and she'd always blush and wave away his words and tell him she was never going to be winning any beauty contests. But we all knew that wasn't what he meant.”

Deanna tilted her head slightly. Her cheek rested on her hand. “You were lucky.”

He'd known that, but never more dearly until he'd realized they were losing her. “She never let anyone down.” The laugh that hit him came out of nowhere.
“Not that she was a saint. Man, did she have a temper. And she wouldn't let anything slip by her.”

“Ah.” Deanna gave him a knowing look. “I suppose you tried, though.”

He smiled. “Hell, yeah. And not just me. We all did. Except for maybe J.R. He was always a pretty straight arrow.” He gave a short chuckle. “One time when I was fourteen, a friend of mine and I swiped his dad's car keys—it was a classic Mustang he'd restored—and we went joyriding. Tommy sideswiped a Dumpster outside a bar and ran into a brick fence. We weren't hurt, but the police hauled us down to the station and put us in a cell. Scared the holy hell out of us. Told us we were going to be there overnight. Maybe a lot of overnights.”

“Good grief. You were only fourteen?” Deanna looked shocked. He wasn't sure if it was because of the stunt they'd pulled or the jail issue.

“Nearly fifteen. Figuring we were going to be driving soon enough.” They'd been cocky little idiots. “So once we're in jail, we make our one phone call we're allowed. Shaking in our boots, scared out of our minds. Tommy calls his folks, who are pretty damn furious about the car, but tell him they're on their way. Then I call my father, figuring he'll use his influence to get us off the hook altogether, 'cause there was no way that one of the sons of William Fortune was going to be run in for some mostly harmless fun. But he said no way. That we deserved to spend the night in jail. Said it would be a good lesson.”

“Ouch.” She winced. “What'd you do?”

He shrugged. “Tommy's folks came down as promised and he was released to them, but I had to go back to the cell.”

“For how long?”

At the time, it had felt like an eternity. “Most of the night. But about three o'clock in the morning, one of the officers came and got me. My mom had come to bail me out after all.” He shook his head, remembering. “She was seriously pissed. Didn't want to hear any excuses. Told me to shut up and get in the car. But the worst of it was that I knew I'd disappointed her.”

“So what happened?”

“Right before we got home, she told me that just because she loved me didn't mean she always had to like me. But no matter what, she would always be there.” And she had been, until cancer had stolen her right out from under their noses.

His jaw tightened. According to William, Drew's footloose, bachelor lifestyle would have disappointed Molly, too.

Deanna shifted and took the photograph again. “Always being there. That seems the mark of true beauty to me,” she murmured. Then she slid the small picture inside the lapel pocket of the shirt he'd borrowed from J.R., and softly patted it.

Her gaze lifted to his, a faint smile on her lips.

Always being there.

Just like Deanna.

Her palm started to move away from his chest and he caught her hand, holding it in place. “Yeah.” His voice was suddenly coming from somewhere deep and gruff. “That's beauty.”

The curve on her lips slowly died.

Her eyes widened for a breath of a second, giving him a glimpse into something even softer, even more inviting, than the inadvertent brush of her body, before she suddenly blinked.

He felt her hand start to slide out from beneath his.

“Don't.”

She went still.

Her hair looked even more deeply red in the setting sunlight and he lifted his other hand, threading his fingers through the strands, slowly sliding it away from her sun-kissed cheek.

“Drew—”

He pressed his thumb across her lips, silencing whatever it was she was going to say.

If it was a protest, he didn't want to fight it.

If it was some logical argument, he didn't want to debate it.

And if it was a challenge?

At that moment, he was beyond trying to win it.

Instead, he skimmed his fingertips along the line of her jaw and wondered if she knew just how fine her skin felt, or how delicate her bones felt. Or how intensely fascinating he found it watching the long, lovely line of her throat work when she swallowed—nervously?—or how much he wanted to touch his tongue to the base of her throat, right where he figured her pulse was beating…

He watched her eyelids flicker, then go heavy when his fingertips found the nape of her neck beneath that wealth of thick, silky hair.

Her chin slowly lifted. But those eyes didn't close. Instead, her emerald gaze searched his.

What did she see?

Her boss? The man she claimed to believe was a good man? Or maybe the fallible guy who was not only a disappointment to the man he'd admired most in the world, but to the mother he still couldn't believe was gone?

And maybe it was none of them.

Maybe right then he was just a man.

A man who wanted her even when he tried not to.

The fingers he was still holding captured against his chest curled. She leaned closer into him. “Don't look at me like that if you're not going to kiss me,” she whispered.

So he did.

He slowly brushed his lips over hers. Explored the shape of her full lower lip, tasted the faint bow of her upper and absorbed the soft, soft, feel of the faint sigh she gave.

It might as well have been the first kiss he'd ever had for the way it shook him.

And when he finally stopped to pull in a breath and pressed his forehead against hers, still holding her close, he realized it could have been the last kiss he'd ever need for the way it soothed him.

Her free arm came up, wrapping behind him, her hand cradling his head.

He felt her tremble.

Or maybe it was him who was shaking.

Either way, it scared the hell out of him in a way that a jail cell never had when he'd been a stupid, foolish kid.

He lifted his head.

The sun was even lower. The sunset dwindling.

“We should get back.”

Deanna had tears in her eyes as she looked up at him and the sight of them had something that had nothing whatsoever to do with sex or grief aching inside him.

She nodded. Moistened her lips and looked down as she stepped away from him. Then she picked up his water bottle that had fallen to the ground without his notice and handed it to him before silently walk
ing around the truck and climbing inside and quietly shutting the door.

He took one last look along the creek bed that had led to his father's car. But he had no more answers when it came to his missing father than he did when it came to the woman sitting in the truck waiting for him.

So he did the only thing he could do.

He climbed in behind the wheel beside her, and they drove away.

T
hey made the trip back to Molly's Pride in silence.

It was dark out when Drew stopped in front of the house to drop her off and Deanna climbed out. Her legs felt stiff, not just from the unaccustomed trek they'd made, but also because the mud on her jeans had dried and turned hard.

“I'm going to take a shower,” she told him.

“Is that a warning?”

Had she meant it as one? Or had she meant it as an invitation?

She didn't know. Particularly after everything that had happened that afternoon. After the way he'd talked.

After he'd kissed her the way he had and destroyed once and for all the notion that she had any semblance of control where her feelings for him were concerned.

She looked at him. In the interior light of the truck, his hooded gaze was steady, but gave no hint whatsoever
of his thoughts. If he'd been as moved by that kiss as she'd been. Or if he was afraid she'd make something out of it that she shouldn't.

Maybe all it had meant to him was a moment of…comfort…in a difficult period.

Her fingers curled around the door handle. “Do you need it to be a warning?”

“Probably.”

Her heart clutched.

And even though she was no closer to understanding what emotions were going on behind those inscrutable brown eyes, she made herself nod. “Then that's what it is,” she said before closing the truck door.

Then she backed away as he put the truck in motion and drove toward the set of outbuildings next to the barn.

“So how bad was it?”

Startled, she whirled around to see Isabella standing inside the opened doorway of the house, light shining out around her like some sort of halo.

The other woman meant the accident site, of course, not the effect that Drew Fortune was having on her heart.

“Devastating,” Deanna answered. Which answered both.

She brushed her hands down the sides of her filthy jeans and headed toward the door. “The car was a mess, but there was no sign of William at all. Drew wonders if he was even in the car.”

Isabella was nodding. “Ross called J.R. and filled him in. I think that's something they're all wondering.”

“And Lily? How's she doing?”

“Her faith is unswerving, that's how she's doing. More than once she said how strongly she feels that
Ryan is watching out for William.” Isabella drew in a long breath. “Whether or not that's good, she was still steady enough to want to go home after we heard from Ross. Jeremy went with her. He's going to stay with her for a while and make sure she has no more episodes like she did here. Evidently, he arranged for a leave of absence so he could stay on in Red Rock until things are more…settled.”

“That's good.”

“I think so.” Her gaze traveled over Deanna. “By the looks of you, it must not have been a walk in the park getting there.”

“It wasn't. I'm aiming straight for the shower. But I shouldn't even walk through your house.”

Isabella just waved away the words as she backed into the house and closed the door after Deanna. “You can borrow some clothes. You're taller than I am, but I'm sure I have a few things that would work.”

“I don't want to impose any more than I already have.”

“Oh, now that's just silly.” Isabella tucked her arm through Deanna's as they headed along the hallway. “If I'd been thinking straight at all, I would have thought to offer before. You must think I'm a terrible hostess.”

“I think you've had plenty on your mind,” Deanna assured, “and none of us expected for us to be here this long. But—” she looked down at herself again, thinking about the meager contents of their guest closet that she'd laundered more than once already “—maybe a pair of pants would be handy while I get these jeans washed. Assuming they'll even come clean.”

Isabella smiled. “They will. You're no muddier than J.R. has been on occasion.” They'd reached Deanna and Drew's guest room door. “I'll bring several things in for
you, not just one pair of pants. And if there's something you need that I don't think of, just say so. Please.”

“Thanks.” Her practical nature overrode her natural inclination not to impose any more than she already felt she was doing. “So, how did the doctor visit go?”

“Wonderfully.” Isabella's smile told the story, though, and Deanna was struck by the similarity between her hostess's expression and the one that Molly Fortune had been wearing in the photograph.

She gave the other woman a hug, her true delight almost enough to drown out the tinge of envy she felt. “Congratulations. I'm so happy for you all.”

“Thank you.” Isabella returned the hug. “And thank you. For listening that day. You're very easy to talk to, you know. You have a very sympathetic ear.” Then she stepped away and smiled again. “I'll get those clothes while you clean up. J.R. insists we plan a little celebration later this week, even if the timing is bad.”

“I don't think there is bad timing when it comes to celebrating a new baby.”

“Which makes you sound like J.R.,” Isabella pointed out, looking amused as she turned toward her own room.

Deanna closed herself in the bedroom and went straight through to the bathroom. She flipped on the shower and peeled out of her clothes. Her jeans were so stiff they practically stood up on their own.

She started to step into the shower, but went stock-still when she heard movement in the bedroom.

“Just me,” Isabella called out. “I put some things on the bed.” And then Deanna heard the door close again.

Her shoulders slumped. What had she expected? That Drew would have changed his mind?

She sighed and stepped into the shower. And although it was easy enough to wash away the grime from the day, it wasn't at all easy to wash away the wish that he would have.

And impossible altogether to wash away the realization that she was irrevocably, wholeheartedly in love with her boss.

 

Drew sat on the bed in the bedroom, listening to the sound of the shower running.

He didn't have to work hard summoning an image in his head of Deanna standing beneath the spray, water flowing over her limbs, turning her hair to wet fire and her skin to wet silk.

He shoved his hands through his hair. Pressed the heel of his palm against his closed eyes.

The images remained.

And it was only when he realized his fist was making a crumpled mess of the stack of clothes that were sitting on the bed beside him, did he realize, too, that the water had stopped running.

He made an attempt at smoothing the stack of clothes.

He had been deliberately spending as little time as possible in this room they shared. He'd walked nearly every inch of Molly's Pride. He'd sat in the bar at Red until closing time. He'd sat on the freaking back porch until the sun was nearly ready to dawn in the sky.

But could he make himself move off the foot of the bed just then, even knowing what sort of danger he was inviting?

His nerves tightened as he heard the creak of the bathroom door. He stared down at his mud-caked boots, way too aware of the mirror across from him that would have
reflected her in the doorway, if he'd allowed himself to look. “You're not alone,” he announced abruptly.

“I see that,” she answered after a moment.

He heard her soft footsteps on the floor and in his periphery, knew that she'd stopped at the closet door, because he could see her bare feet.

And her bare calves.

Hell.

His gaze lifted to the mirror, just long enough for him to know that she had a bath towel wrapped around her torso.

Sweat broke out on his brow and started creeping down his spine. He'd never thought of terry cloth as an instrument of seduction, until the day she'd lost hers right in front of his very eyes.

“You done in there?” His voice was rough.

“Yes.” She plucked one of the garments off the stack sitting beside him and shook it out. It was a yellow dress that looked just like Isabella, and nothing like Deanna's usual severe style.

And he was damned if he didn't want to see it on her.

And off.

“Good.” He shoved off the bed and brushed past her, heading into the bathroom himself.

It was filled with steam, but that would be solved quickly enough, because the only thing he needed on himself right now—because having her wasn't an option—was cold water.

And a lot of it.

He shut the door between them and nearly swallowed a groan as the smell of her seemed to hang in the steamy air. The clothes that she'd discarded were lying in a heap in one corner. The jeans were as filthy as his own and
the minuscule strip of filmy white that was resting on top looked even whiter as a result.

A vibration in his jeans pocket startled the hell out of him, and he muttered an oath, looking away from Deanna's skimpy panties.

He'd forgotten he'd shoved his phone in his pocket after he'd returned J.R.'s truck to the oversize garage where the ranch vehicles were kept, and he pulled it out now, looking at the display. Stephanie Hughes.

He grimaced and silenced the vibration.

Even if he hadn't already ended things with the woman, the minimal interest he'd had in her would have been blown out of the water by the tidal wave that had become Deanna.

He pushed the phone back in his pocket and opened the bathroom door, leaning out, and knew he was a dog when disappointment snagged at him that Deanna had already pulled on the bright yellow dress and was standing in front of the mirror, working a comb through her wet hair.

Not because the dress didn't look nice. It did, particularly against her satiny-smooth, tanned skin.

But because he knew only too well that she looked even better with nothing on at all.

She was giving him a startled look through the mirror's reflection. “What?”

He barely managed to unscramble his thoughts. “Remember I mentioned Red? The restaurant?” He didn't wait for her wary nod. “We'll go there for dinner,” he said abruptly.

She lowered her comb, still watching him through the mirror. “Why?”

“Because after this afternoon, we need a break from everything.” God knows he did.

Of course, the logical thing would have been to take a break from the other source of his problems—her—too.

But he'd been trying to do that every night when she headed off to bed, and it had been failing him miserably.

“And I figure I owe you something. You know.” He felt strangely inept and didn't particularly like it. “For handling everything at the office for me the way you have been. You've been taking care of everything for me and…and I owe you.”

She looked over her shoulder directly at him then. Her brows pulled together. “I've been trying to do my job.”

“And you've basically been doing mine, as well,” he returned. “You've managed to keep everyone on task in San Diego and Los Angeles.”

“Because everyone in both offices knows how to do their jobs,” she pointed out.

“Maybe,” he allowed. “But I just want you to know that everything you've done hasn't gone unnoticed.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Put it in my next performance review.”

“Dammit, Deanna, I'm trying to show some appreciation here.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Fine,” she said mildly. “We'll go out to dinner, then.”

“Good.” He pushed the door shut between them and shook his head. Why had he ever thought she was the least complicated, most predictable woman he'd ever met?

His gaze landed on the filmy white panties again.

The only thing predictable about her was turning
out to be his increasingly unquenchable interest in everything about her.

He muttered a low oath again, directed solely at himself, and flipped on the shower.

Cold.

 

“You're right.” Two hours later, Deanna sat back in her chair and folded her napkin, setting it beside her dinner plate. “The food here is wonderful.”

Sitting across the small round table from her, Drew smiled faintly. “There's a reason why Red's made a name for itself well beyond Red Rock. The food can't be beat.”

Even as often as she warned herself otherwise, Deanna knew that ninety percent of the appeal that evening for her was Drew himself.

He'd set himself out to be charming, keeping her amused with no seeming effort at all, and not once dwelling on either his father, or the company that he was willing to marry her to get.

For a seeming gesture of appreciation for her work of late, if she hadn't known better, the evening would have had all the trappings of romance.

But her head did know better, even if the rest of her kept getting caught up in him.

Obviously, the appeal for the rest of the diners was the restaurant itself, which was housed in a converted hacienda that Drew told her dated back to Texas's early statehood.

Even on a weeknight at the relatively late hour, the main dining room—which struck Deanna as blatantly romantic with its seductive dark woods and touches of passionate color—was still packed. Marcos Mendoza, Isabella's handsome half brother who managed the
restaurant, was frequently on the floor, visiting with his patrons, his flashing white smile clearly as much an attraction to the female part of the crowd as was the excellent fare. He'd met Drew and Deanna at the door when they'd arrived and even as consuming as her emotions for Drew were, she was no exception to that. Isabella was a beautiful woman and her half brother was an equally arresting man and he seemed quite at home helming the busy restaurant.

“We can't leave without having Maria's famous flan, though,” Drew was saying as he poured the last measure of sangria into their glasses.

“I couldn't possibly eat another bite,” Deanna protested. She hadn't even been able to finish her entrée, excellent as it was. The menu at Red wasn't like any menu she'd ever seen before in a Mexican restaurant. It wasn't abnormally extensive, but the choices were far more varied and inventive than the budget-friendly restaurants she was used to. In the end, she'd depended on Drew to choose, and the spicy grilled tuna concoction had been nothing short of amazing.