Beauty and the Brit (11 page)

“That has to have been hard.”

“Sometimes,” she agreed. “I miss my dad. He worked a lot, but when he was home it was like Thanksgiving and Fourth of July all rolled into one.”

“This explains a lot about why you’ve got too much responsibility. It doesn’t seem fair.”

“My life was what it was, and is what it is. Life is a series of puzzles. And now there’s another puzzle to solve.”

Her pragmatism had a sad, or maybe just weary, edge to it. His heart fell a little harder, and once again he fought an urge to hold her. She should be falling in love, living her dream in Wyoming. Instead she’d already raised two kids and was dealing with . . . this.

“When you see the picture once a puzzle is completed, it’s usually worth the work,” he said. “For all the work you’re putting in, this one must be terribly intricate and beautiful.”

Rio’s mouth curved into its rare full smile. “You didn’t really say that!” She laughed. “Not many
girls
could come up with lines like that in the middle of a conversation. Did you learn poetry in Scouts, too?”

He’d been inordinately proud of making her smile, but that flash of ego burst at her teasing. “Maybe my mother just raised a sensitive, new age guy.”

She laughed again. “Well, she did a fine job then. You’re sweet.”

Sweet? Fantastic.

He’d seen her face when they’d met that morning, the way she’d taken in his riding clothes with surprise. He knew why. Not only didn’t he look like the bare-chested cowboys she’d had hanging in her bedroom, he had a perfectly decorated home, and now he’d shown her he was a girly-lines sort of bloke. He worked hard to bury stereotypical macho attitudes because of his chosen profession—dealing with the public and mostly females at that. But “sweet” when someone like Rio Montoya said it pretty much signaled the kiss of death.

A tone from the pocket of his jeans cut off the thoughts, and his heart fell. His mother. Her call schedule was normally as regular as Old Faithful, but this wasn’t on that schedule. There was either an emergency, or some new, disastrous plan that included him.

“Sorry,” he said to Rio and answered the phone. “’Lo, Mum.”

“Surprise, sweetheart!” Stella Pitts-Matherson’s thick North Yorkshire accent had softened over her years away from the dales, but it still rolled round-voweled, bossy and friendly from across the miles.

“This is a surprise. Anything wrong?”

“Nothing at all. In fact, everything is quite wonderful, and that’s why I’m calling.”

“Good news is always welcome.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. I hope having your dear old mum visit is considered good news, because she’s on her way to you.”

“Pardon me?”

“I’m coming early, love. I’ll be there day after tomorrow.”

“Mum!” His heart dropped in full dread. “This is perhaps the worst moment you could choose. My big annual show is coming up in just weeks, I’ve got houseguests, there’s no time to work on decorating—”

Not to mention the lack of a single extra quarter to dole out for that purpose.

“Houseguests?” Her voice turned even chirpier. “Who’s there? Anyone I know?”

“Absolutely nobody you’d know.” He rolled his eyes at Rio, who smiled back despite no comprehension. “And they’ve only just arrived, in fact. Could your visit be moved back just a month?”

“Oh, I know it’s rude of me,” she said. “But I have a surprise for you—a traveling companion of my own.”

A man? David hoped beyond hope his mother had found someone on whom to lavish at least a little of her abundant energy. He adored the woman, but she could be exhausting.

“Brilliant. What’s his name?”

“Oh, not a him, sweetheart. It’s a lovely surprise. We’ll take the unfinished rooms if you have guests already. And we’ll stay out of the way.”

He couldn’t imagine his mother staying out of the way were she on hallucinogenic drugs.

“Of course you’re always welcome, Mum. I just know there won’t be a lot of time.”

“It’s fine, love. I have things to work on while you’re busy. You know I don’t require entertaining. It’s just always wonderful to see you.

That much was true. His mother created her own entertainment. He was tired already.

“And you, too, you old blouse.” His fifty-seven-year-old mother laughed at the age insult.

“Who raised you, you cheeky little bugger? Be nice. Can you write down the flight information or shall I send it?”

“Text it if you would.”

“All right. I will see you in two days’ time. I’m an old woman aflutter.”

“So, Mum, who’s the companion? What’s—”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get along fine.” She brushed him off. “Just someone I ran into by chance. Love you.”

She was gone—after blowing through the past five minutes like a sudden squall leaving nothing changed and everything different.

“Well,
that’s
the dog’s bollocks,” he said, and Rio peered at him curiously.

“That sounded sarcastic so I’m thinking it can’t mean anything good.”

“Oh, it was sarcasm all right. My mother. Coming two months earlier than planned.”

Her face made its mercurial morph into concern. “Oh David, we’ll be in the way.”

“You will not. You’ve seen the house. I have countless bedrooms, and she’ll take the unfinished ones. I’m just sorry she’s bursting in on you and Bonnie. She’s a bit of a force of nature, that one.”

“Sounds formidable.”

“Yes. She’s quite lovely and no mistake, but not much stands in her way. I could have told her no, but she’d have shown up with a tent and pitched it in the back garden.”

“Did you know your accent gets heavier when you start talking faster?” The lightness returned to Rio’s eyes.

“Sorry. I try not to let that happen, but I don’t hear it.”

“It’s—”

“If you say sweet I’ll clock you.”

“Sexy.”

The word hit him like a piano falling unexpectedly from the sky. She smiled, clearly joking, yet a flash of candor shot through her blue eyes. American women tended to focus far too much on his accent. They fawned over his odd phrases and giggled over pronunciations. But an utter lack of guile in Rio’s face sent excitement coursing through David’s body. She was the most different sort of person he’d ever met. He hoped her little glints of humor were truer markers of her personality than the sadness that pervaded her eyes and words the rest of the time.

Chapter Eight

L
OADED DOWN WITH
four stuffed grocery bags, Rio followed David and his four equally overfilled bags into the house. She listened for Bonnie, but the rooms were silent. Part of her couldn’t help but worry, but when the opulence from the shopping trip overflowed onto the center island in David’s kitchen, she had a hard time concentrating on anything but nagging nausea. She’d never bought eight bags of groceries at a time in her life. David had just plunked down a hundred and ninety dollars for everything from salad greens to three thick New York strip steaks—“to celebrate your arrival.”

“I still can’t believe this,” she said, surveying the mound of food.

“It’ll last us a good week,” he assured her.

“A week? This stockpile better last at least a month.”

She was used to buying things as needed and stretching supplies to the breaking point. A seventy-five-dollar spree was a huge shopping trip, and rare. Extravagant items like a bottle of wine and a bag of frosted animal cookies, especially purchased at the same time, were seldom on her list.

He simply smiled and directed the stowing of supplies so she could learn the layouts of the cupboards and refrigerator. By the time they’d finished, she was surprised at how the activity had relaxed her. Once she couldn’t see the purchases all at once, her guilt over receiving so much bounty dissipated, and her curiosity over the perfectly appointed kitchen space took over. It was like stocking the pantry in Wonderland.

“A job well done,” David said.

“This is a lot for you to take on.”

“It’s good to do a proper shopping. Now you can make yourself at home, eat when you wish, help yourself.”

“And you’re going to start showing me what you need help with around here.”

He leveled a blue gaze at her and sighed. She steeled for a lecture. He’d admonished her enough times already about equating acceptance of his hospitality with the need to pay him back.

“Tomorrow. Today you are getting settled. Remember?”

“Yes.”

“It’s only one-thirty. Don’t you want to come out and play with the horses a bit?” His resonant voice enticed her with its hint of playfulness. “Or, if not, why don’t you get things sorted upstairs and then just have a wander about? You’ve been nothing but responsible all day; you can let go. What would you do if you were still at home?”

“Be working.”

“Of course you would be.” He set his hands on her shoulders, spun her toward the kitchen door, and gave a little push to get her walking. “But not here. Not this afternoon. For today only I’m dictating what you do.”

“Excuse me?” She tried to be angry, but there was too much of a twinkle in his eye.

“Stop arguing and listen. You’re going to go upstairs and unpack your case. You’re going to come back down and
then
check on your sister. After that you’re going to do nothing of import. You have the rest of your stay here to muck about in the barn and find things to help with.”

“But I—”

“Nope. I have spoken.”

She moved along at his urging, masking a smile with a scowl. She had to admit she reveled a little in the unfamiliar experience of having someone else take charge.

“Are you always this tyrannical?”

“Hardly ever.”

She actually believed that. A streak of overaccommodation ran through nearly every action he took—from taking her and Bonnie in, to allowing the rude police chief to have his say, to letting his mother come barging in with no notice.

“Fine. I’ll unpack my twelve things like an obedient guest. You’ll let me know, I assume, if my sister is lying under a tractor or a horse somewhere?”

She glanced over her shoulder to see his head and his shoulders shaking in amusement.

“Why are you so worried about her? I guarantee you, there are plenty of kids around here along with Jill, who can keep her safe in a barn. Bonnie is fine. Let her have a free afternoon, too.”

Her spine stiffened, and she stopped, turning back to face him. “Look. One thing I won’t let you do is lecture me about my sister. You don’t know her. Groups of kids are her downfall. She has an IQ to die for, but I promise you, emotionally she’s nobody’s Einstein.”

Skepticism fogged his bright eyes, but the familiar David Pitts-Matherson surfaced. “You’re right. I don’t know her. You can certainly go check on Bonnie any time you wish.”

For a few seconds she stared at him, as frustrated as she’d been at the café earlier. The man’s control of his backbone slipped around like a transmission going bad. He had the ability to engage her like no one she’d met in years and, unnerving as it was, she forgot the world when he locked wills with her even in fun. But he couldn’t seem to sustain it.

“I’m fine if you check on her.” She continued toward the stairs again, shorter with him than she should have been but tired of analyzing him.

If he cared she’d been curt he didn’t bat an eye. “I will do that. I’ve also got a few things I can work on if you’d like some time to yourself. Or come find me anytime, and I’ll officially show you ’round the place.”

She purposefully pushed thoughts of him to the back of her mind once he left. Why dissect the personality of a person she’d known one day? She’d had enough men in her life to know they were barely worth analyzing as a gender. Good or bad, what you saw was generally what you got.

Her room hadn’t grown any less stark, and she still didn’t regret her choice. Her suitcase, filled with a few changes of clothing and personal hygiene products she’d been given at the women’s shelter, sat on the single bed. She ignored it while she explored the space more thoroughly than she’d been able to with David and Bonnie standing in the doorway.

The purple-gray walls opposite the windows were faded. She didn’t mind them as they were, but a new coat of paint wouldn’t hurt either. The mostly bare bookshelves along the back wall held an eclectic smattering of books and oddities. She squatted to examine a pile of a dozen children’s books and found a copy of
The House at Pooh Corner,
a set of Narnia books, and eight, small red-covered books all with titles that included the name William.
Just William, William the Outlaw, William the Pirate, William and the Masked Rancher.
She mused over David being the type to keep children’s books. She supposed . . .

She spun a miniature globe on its axis, sifted briefly through a basket of seashells, and turned over an old Magic 8 Ball without asking it a question. “Better not tell you now,” she read.

“Fine, I don’t want to know anyway,” she replied, scoffing at the soft echo in the room.

She opened a door to find a tiny empty closet. Then she pulled open both doors of the large, oak wardrobe. The bar inside held at least two dozen hangers, far more than she’d need, and two garment bags hanging against one side of the cupboard. She slid them curiously to the center. Unzipping one, she found a sequin-spangled, royal-blue gown. The other bag held a cocktail dress in stunning black and white. Like every woman, she’d eyed such dresses in stores, but there was no call for a diner cook in inner city Minneapolis to own one.

Nor for a sexy male to own two.

She studied the gown and chuckled as she spread the bodice. These were definitely not David’s unless he’d once been five-foot-five and a solid D-cup.

After zipping the bags back up, it only took a few minutes to hang her things beside the garment bags and stash underclothing in the two drawers at the bottom of the wardrobe. She carried her personal items to the bathroom. They hadn’t had wealth at their old house, but she and Bonnie had had their girlie creature comforts—nail polishes, makeup, jewelry. At the shelter the loss hadn’t seemed real. Here, stripped to toothbrushes, shampoo, conditioner, and some tampons, the sparseness of her new existence smacked her with full force.