Beckett's Cinderella (9 page)

The buckets were all filling with rainwater, so she supplied pots and plastic wastebaskets, then waited at the foot of the stairs while Beckett set them under any drips he found in the cramped attic space. The thought of climbing the stairs was too painful to contemplate.

She tried to imagine how she'd be feeling if she'd been seriously injured—broken a leg or worse. She was one of those fortunate individuals who had never been seriously ill. Good thing, considering she'd turned out to be such a wimp.

“That's done.” He descended, grinning and brushing his hands together. “Now, what do you say we switch on the fans and try to get some sleep?”

“You know where the linens are. You'll pardon me if I don't offer to make up the couch for you? I've just learned that I despise physical pain.”

They were standing too close in the narrow stair landing. She could smell his shaving cream—he had obviously showered and shaved just before picking her up to go out for dinner. All that seemed aeons ago, but only a few hours had passed.

“Remind me never to accept a dinner date with you again,” she said dryly.

“Remind me never to ask you for another date.” He smiled, but the intensity of his look lingered after the smile had faded. She averted her face, her pulse suddenly kicking into overdrive.

Instead of moving away, he continued to stand in the attic doorway. “Liza?”

Just that. He said her name, and that was all it took. When he opened his arms, she moved into them as if he were a magnet and she a splinter of steel. No words were needed. Lifting her, he carried her to the bedroom door, then had to back up and reposition himself to maneuver her through the opening without bumping her legs.

“It never happens this way in the movies.”

“Wider doorways,” he said gravely. She snickered and he grinned, but the tension remained unabated. Carefully he lowered her to the bed. She held her breath. If he left her now, she didn't know what she would do. Beg him to stay? Swear at him? She was no better at begging than she was at cursing.

He reached for the tail of her shirt, eased it carefully over her head and draped it over the foot of the bed. “Liza? Are you all right with this?”

Was she all right with what? Letting him undress
her? That depended on whether it was an act of pity or an act of seduction.

Mutely she nodded. His eyes narrowed, and then he asked, “Where are your scissors?”

“My scissors,” she repeated. She was sitting here naked except for a skimpy bra, matching panties and three miles of gauze, and he wanted a pair of
scissors?

To cut off what?

“Kitchen shears in the third drawer down beside the sink, nail scissors in the medicine cabinet. Take your pick.”

He left, returning a moment later with the nail scissors and a roll of adhesive tape. “Might as well get you more comfortable before we…”

Before we
what?
she wanted to scream at him.

Gently but methodically, he removed several yards of gauze from her knee, retaped the rest and used the excess to bandage her hands, wincing at the sight of her raw flesh. Finally, setting the scissors and tape roll on the dresser, he said, “There now, that's better.”

She started to make a crack about playing doctor, but thought better of it. Obviously, she'd misread the signs.

But then he reached for his belt. While she watched, hardly daring to breathe, he shed his khakis and tossed them across a chair.

Neat, but not overly so, she couldn't help but notice. James would have spent minutes brushing off imaginary specks and wrinkles, draped his trousers
carefully over the mahogany clothes rack and then spent even more time taking care of his shirt and tie. It was no wonder their sex life had never been terrific. By the time he was ready to come to her bed, she'd usually been half-asleep.

He was tanned all over, from his feet upward. And upward led past some breathtaking scenery. In a pair of navy boxers, he was visibly aroused. Aroused and perfectly in control. That was somehow even more exciting than being aroused and out of control.

They were adults, Liza reminded herself. He was probably better at this than she was—he had to be more experienced. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. Other parts of her body were damp and throbbing. She felt like a nervous virgin, unsure of how to act, wanting so much to please, terrified that she wouldn't. Dressed in a designer gown, with her hair professionally done and her face carefully made up, she might have felt more confident, but stick-skinny and practically naked, with big, clumsy bandages on her hands and knees, confident was the last thing she felt.

“Liza, stop it,” Beckett said quietly. “If you don't want to do this, then just say so. I might not be able to walk upright for a while, but I'll survive. All you have to do is tell me to leave, and I'll spend the rest of the night on your potatoes.”

She blinked. “On my
what
?”

All innocence, he said, “Don't you store your excess stock of potatoes in your sofa cushions? I could've sworn…”

She sputtered, then burst out laughing. Before she could recover, he came down beside her, kissing his way up her throat while he skillfully unhooked her bra and peeled it off.

And then his mouth found hers and all rational thought fled. Her breasts, modest at best, swelled to his touch, her nipples rising to his kisses. Her thighs first clamped together, then fell apart and she forgot all about her injuries. His back felt warm and slick as she stroked it with her fingers, wishing her hands weren't swathed in gauze so that she could stroke him with her palms. She was still smiling when he removed her panties, carefully easing them over her knees. She felt an urge to giggle. In her wildest imagination she could never have come up with a seduction scene like this, but, oh, it was working. She lay there, helpless to take a much more active part, and relished every single sensation as he brought her to the brink, allowed her to drift back, then swept her up again. First with his hands, then with his mouth, he took her places she had never before been.

By the time he moved over her, she was frantic with need. “Please, please,” she gasped.

Swearing softly, he swung himself up and reached for his pants. “God, I hope it's still here.” His wallet hit the floor. Rolling onto her side she curled around him as he ripped open the foil packet. Moments later he was back, positioning himself over her again, and she reached for him, never mind her bandaged hands.

It was everything she had ever imagined and more. Within minutes she climaxed not once, but twice.

Later, when she could think rationally again, she thought of the times she had accused the authors of all those romances she'd read of exaggerating. The truth was, they hadn't done it justice.

 

Sometime later Liza awoke, sore but relieved to find him still there beside her, curved around her back, his arm around her waist. She had never been prone to messy emotions, but suddenly her eyes were burning and her throat had that thick feeling that meant tears weren't far away.

She knew what she wanted. She wanted it to go on this way forever.

It wasn't going to happen. He'd be leaving today; she'd known that all along. She could take his money or not. She'd done nothing to earn it, yet if she refused, he might construe it as a means of holding on to him. There was nothing she'd like better than to hold on to him, but not that way.

Meanwhile, she reminded herself, there were buckets to empty in the attic, and windowsills to mop up. Hard, blowing rains always leaked through. Maybe she could take the money and use it to buy storm windows…although the whole house was so far off square, she doubted if she'd be able to find any to fit.

What on earth was she doing, lying here beside the man who had sent her over the moon again and again—thinking about
storm windows?

There's no hope for you, Lizzy, none at all, she jeered silently. Here she'd been priding herself on the progress she'd made since her whole world had fallen
apart, and now this. Now she'd gone and fallen in love with a—with a pirate chaser, of all things.

Oh, God, I don't believe this. She groaned—silently, she hoped.

“In pain, are we?” said a sleepy voice from beside her.

“No, we are not in pain,” she snapped. “At least I'm not, I don't know about you.”

He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, a slant of sun highlighting his bristles on his jaw. Evidently, he was one of those men who needed to shave twice. “Not a morning person, hmm?”

She was so a morning person, but it seemed childish to insist. Sitting up, she pulled the sheet over her bare breasts and braced herself to swing her legs out of bed.

“Easy,” he cautioned, reading her intentions. “I wouldn't be surprised if you don't have a few bruises to show for your fall last night.”

Which one? When it came to which fall would hurt the longest, there was no contest. “At least there's no point in hurrying out to the stand this morning. Why don't you shower and get dressed, and I'll make you some breakfast before you leave.”

He was quiet for so long, she stole a look at him. Surely that wasn't anger she saw on his face? Lips clamped tight; jaw squared; those coal-black eyebrows that contrasted so dramatically with his hair practically glowering at her. “Beckett? Are you all right?”

“You're dead set on getting rid of me, aren't
you?” he asked, his voice silky enough to put her on guard.

“I only offered—”

“I know what you offered, dammit.”

All right, Liza, time to take charge. She might not be used to waking up with a man who was practically a stranger in her bed, but it was no more disconcerting than what had happened to her back in Dallas. She had taken charge then; she could do it again. The storm was obviously over. Her one-night stand had been terrific. But it was just that: a once-in-a-lifetime thing. He hadn't offered more and she was too proud to beg.

She said, “Give me a minute in the bathroom first, okay?” Gritting her teeth, she eased out of bed, took a deep breath and stood, waiting for the pain to ease. Then she hobbled, stiff legged, toward the door.

“Hurts, huh?”

“I'll live.”

“Trouble with injuries like that, you can't sew 'em up, you just have to grow new skin.”

“If your shirt's still wet, you might want to hang it on the line. It should be dry by the time you're through with breakfast.”

He was watching her, dammit. She could feel his eyes on her backside as she hobbled to the door, clutching her damp shirt in front of her.
Idiot! It's not your pitiful boobs he's staring at, it's your scrawny rump!

The mere thought of having to bend her knees to step into a pair of panties made her cringe. She'd
simply have to find something to wear that would cover her decently without much underneath.

“You won't be able to drive for a while, you know,” he said so close behind her she jumped. She hadn't heard him, but then, breathing through clenched teeth was a rather noisy process.

“I'll manage.”

“Don't be a damned martyr, Eliza. Would it kill you to ask for help?”

B
eckett took a moment to gather his thoughts after clipping his cell phone onto his belt. His last call to Carson had relieved him on several points. PawPaw was holding his own and might even be allowed to go home in another week or so if a private nurse could be found.

And one could, of course. When it came to seeing to the welfare of her family, Rebecca Beckett was more than a match for any five-star general.

The storm had passed by offshore, doing little more than surface damage. “Your end of the coast probably took more of a beating than ours,” Carson had said early this morning. “How'd you and your fair lady fare?”

“Fair. A few minor scrapes, a few leaks, a few
branches down. Nothing too serious.” He wasn't about to elaborate, not until he'd analyzed the data and decided on a course of action.

As to how Beckett himself had fared, that might be another story. He'd set himself up for what had happened, coming back again and again on a mission that had waited a hundred years and could easily wait another hundred.

Except for PawPaw. He couldn't go back and report failure; neither could he lie about it. Which meant he was stuck here until they reached an agreement regarding the money. If nothing else, he could set up an account in a local bank in her name. It would help to know where she banked, but it wasn't the sort of question a man could easily work into a conversation. From the looks of things, she probably didn't have much left to deposit after the usual monthly outlays.

Despite the fact that his family had always had money, Beckett was no snob. At least, he didn't think he was. Still, it struck him as all wrong for a woman like Liza Chandler to be eking out a living selling fruits and vegetables. She was no Eliza Doolittle. The woman had style. She had class. She had intelligence and integrity.

Not to mention sex appeal that was all the more potent because it was so understated. If she'd done anything to attract his attention, he might have been able to resist, but she hadn't. Just the opposite, if anything.

Granted, he had a weakness for needy women.
Maybe it was genetic; maybe it was an acquired trait—he didn't know. He did know he had trouble refusing any woman who'd ever asked for his help.

Liza Chandler was needy as hell, only she refused to admit it, much less accept his help. What woman in her right mind, with a roof that was about to fall in, would turn down ten grand, no strings attached?

“I'm out of the bathroom if you want to shave before you go. Didn't you mention something about seeing someone up in Virginia?”

Virginia. Newport News. McKee Shipping. He'd forgotten all about it. “I'm in no hurry,” he called back. He'd never even gotten around to making an appointment. “I'll bring down the buckets from the attic.”

“Just empty them out the window, it's a lot easier than trying to bring them down the stairs.”

She was stalking around the house like a giraffe, mopping up windowsills and throwing open windows. Barefoot, with her hair in an off-center ponytail, she was wearing something that looked as if it was made to go over a tent pole. And all he could think of was taking her back to bed, making love to her until they both collapsed.

Great. Just bloody, blasted great. He was damned if he stayed and damned if he left. He had a feeling that Dublin wouldn't be far enough to cut him loose from her spell.

Worse, he didn't know if he even wanted to be cut loose.

Beckett knew from experience that he was bad
news to any woman looking for more than a brief fling. Maybe it was a conditioned reaction, a defense against his weakness for needy females, but it didn't change the facts. He'd been running from commitment far too long.

Not that Liza was looking for anything long-term. Not from him, at any rate. Over the years he'd gotten pretty good at reading the signals, and the only signals he'd picked up from her were confusing, to say the least. On the other hand he knew damn well that she was as conscious as he was of the physical awareness that had sprung up so unexpectedly between them. Uneasy, awkward and inappropriate as it was, recent circumstances had only served to heighten that awareness.

Once they'd ended up in bed, he'd put her awkwardness down to her injuries. Now he was beginning to wonder if there hadn't been something else behind it. The woman had been married for what, eleven years? Had the jerk been a eunuch as well as a crook?

From a few things Fred Grant had said that first night, Beckett had learned that she hadn't gone out on a single date in all the time she'd been living here. Which probably meant she was lonely. And lonely women were vulnerable. Lonely women had been known to latch on to the first reasonably healthy, solvent and available man who showed an interest in them.

Beckett qualified on all counts. Add to that the spice of the sexual attraction that had unexpectedly sprung up and it was trouble waiting to happen. A
smart man would have been gone before things got out of hand.

Trouble was, he had never claimed to be smart where women were concerned. Wary, was more like it. His first experience had set the stage for that. At twenty-two he'd thought he knew it all. He'd thought that because his family was prone to long, happy marriages, it would happen for him whenever he was ready.

And he'd been ready. Ripe for the picking. Fresh out of college with family money behind him, he'd been ready to launch a career. It hadn't taken much to convince him he needed a wife at his side. Someone to help him keep his eye on the ball.

What a pathetic jerk he'd been. Shows you what comes of having a happy childhood, he thought now with no real bitterness. You grow up with unrealistically high expectations, and then one day, whammo! You wake up in the real world. There ought to be a vaccination.

Even now he could remember the scene. Both families already seated in a church that was overflowing with guests, the whole place reeking of flowers and carpet cleaner. The organist giving it her all while he stood there wondering if his collar had somehow shrunk a full size since he'd put it on less than an hour earlier.

The organist paused, waiting for a signal to launch into the pièce de résistance, when a kid about five or six years old darted in through a side door, slipped him a note and ducked out again.

Puzzled, Beckett had read the few lines in growing disbelief. He'd stood there for what seemed like an eternity, and then he'd looked up at all the curious faces: friends, family—people he'd known all his life—and told them calmly that the wedding was off.

Pam's family had blamed Beckett; his family had blamed Pam. Never mind that she and her new conquest, a middle-aged drugstore mogul, had already left for Bermuda. He never did know what happened to all the postfestivities food. He'd ripped the tin cans and ribbons off the back of his car and headed out of town with no particular destination in mind. Eventually he'd wound up at his best man's cottage on Kiawah Island, where he'd gotten royally soused on vintage champagne and been sick as a dog for days afterward.

Since then, the word
commitment
hadn't been in his vocabulary. He'd enjoyed a number of brief, mutually satisfying relationships, but he wasn't about to do to any woman what Pam had done to him. In retrospect, he figured she'd done him a big favor.

Now it was time to pass on the favor by moving out before any real damage was done. He both liked and respected Liza Chandler for the way she'd pulled herself through what had to have been a grueling experience. The last thing she needed, he told himself, was to get involved with a guy who would take all she had to offer and leave her to deal with his absence.

No way. The biggest favor he could offer her was
to get out before things got too complicated. Now that the storm had passed he would simply thank her and—

Wrong. She might take his thanks the wrong way.

Okay, so he wouldn't thank her, he'd just explain why he had to leave and—

Oh, hell. Why not just hand her the money and go?

But first he had chores to do. She would have enough to handle without having to climb those stairs half a dozen times. Anything that required bending those knees was going to be a problem for the next several days. Which meant he'd have to offer to bring the old guy back home.

He'd better check out the stand, too, else she'd be out there struggling with that section of tin roof. It would never occur to her to hire someone to do the work. Dammit, why couldn't she take the money and build something decent, as long as she insisted on staying here?

And she'd stay, of course, as long as the old guy needed her. That was something else about her he liked. Loyalty.

By the time he came downstairs with both hands full of empty containers, she was standing on the back porch, gazing out over the flattened cornfield beyond. He turned over the buckets on the edge of the porch and came to stand beside her.

“Did you ever see such a gorgeous sky?” she murmured.

“Yeah. Matter of fact, you see those colors a lot in the tropics. Don't ask me why.”

She was holding her hands up in postscrub position
again, palms inward. The bandages were damp and filthy. He couldn't see her knees for the denim tent that touched her shoulders, skimmed her breasts and flowed around her like a circus tent. “Want me to look at your hands before I go?”

“No point in it,” she said airily. “I'm all out of gauze. I'll get some more while I'm out.”

“Out? You're planning on driving in that condition?”

The look she shot him could be described as haughty, but he recognized defensiveness when he saw it.

Damn.

“Uncle Fred's probably dying to get home by now. I thought I'd wait until the grocery store has had time to restock and stop by on the way home.”

“Why don't I go for you?” Beckett heard himself asking, just as if he hadn't planned on making his excuses, thanking her for her hospitality and hitting the road before he got in any deeper.

She hesitated, then said, “Thanks, Beckett, I'd appreciate it. You'd better get several rolls of gauze and some more of that ointment while you're out, too, if you don't mind. I'll reimburse you for everything when you get back.”

He wouldn't argue with her now. Instead, he would strike a bargain. He would take her money if she'd take his. “Sure. Make a list.”

“But pick up Uncle Fred before you go shopping, will you? He likes to sit in the parking lot and watch people come and go.”

“As good as holding a reception.” He'd seen the way the old guy held court out at the roadside stand.

By the clear light of morning, she looked even paler than usual, with shadows around her eyes and a faint pink rash on her throat where his beard had rubbed against her. Her hair was still shower damp, with red-gold strands curling on the surface. Remembering the warm weight of it in his hands only a few hours ago gave rise to a reaction that was both untimely and inappropriate. Not to mention downright embarrassing.

“I'll go make that list,” she said, sidling past him to escape inside the house.

Thank God one of them still retained a few grains of common sense.

He gave her enough time to make a list before he followed her inside. She was in the kitchen, awkwardly digging a spoon into a jar of peanut butter. Neither of them had taken time for breakfast. Of all crazy things, it was when he saw the guilty look on her face that Beckett knew he was fighting a losing battle.

“You know what they say about emergencies,” she said with that too quick, too bright smile again. “You need more fuel. The last time I got caught eating peanut butter from a jar, I was twelve years old.”

It wasn't fuel he needed, it was enhanced powers of resistance. Crossing to the silverware drawer, he took out a tablespoon, then held out his hand.

By the time the red pickup pulled into the driveway, the jar was half-empty, Liza was holding up her
skirt and frowning at the frayed bandages on her knees, and Beckett had surrendered to the inevitable: no way was he going anywhere, not until they had dealt with all the unfinished business between them. And this time he wasn't thinking about the damned money, either.

The doorbell rang.

Liza dropped her skirts, mumbled, “'Scuse me,” and stalked off to answer the door. Beckett figured either a neighbor or someone from Bay View must have brought the old guy home.

“Patty Ann!” He heard her exclaim from the front hallway. “What on earth…! Come inside. We're in sort of a mess right now on account of the storm—did you know about the storm? Well I guess you did, with all the rain and wind we had last night.”

This was obviously not the time to settle things between them. Waiting until she herded her company into the living room, he'd intended to poke his head through the doorway and tell her he was leaving and would be back in a couple of hours. It would take that long to get the old guy's things together, get him out to the car and then stop for the groceries and first aid supplies.

Patty Ann—whoever she was—was not alone. Seated beside her on the potato-stuffed sofa was a big guy with rookie cop written all over him. Brush cut, small eyes busy taking inventory of the shabby old room.

Something triggered a silent alarm. Not danger,
just…trouble. Stepping inside the room, he said, “Morning, folks. You headed back to the beach?”

“Oh, Beckett, this is Patty Ann Garrett. She used to work for me back in Dallas, and this is—Mr. Camshaw?”

Big guy. Wrestler's torso, thick neck, face like a high-school heartthrob. Beckett stepped inside the room and extended his hand, first to the woman, a pocket Venus with freckles and a minor overbite—then to the man who rose slowly to tower a couple of inches over Beckett's own six-one. Mutt and Jeff, he thought, wondering what the devil they were doing here at this particular time.

“We were, um…in the neighborhood and thought we'd stop by,” Camshaw said. “Patty Ann, she's been sort of worried about you, Ms. Edwards, not knowing where you was and all.”