Leslie LaFoy (18 page)

The unexpected compliment warmed her. It also flustered her and tied her tongue.

“Now,” Jackson went on, apparently unaware of his affect on her, “tell me just exactly what you did—or failed to do—that caused my dinner plans to fall apart?”

She was going to lose the contest; she could sense it. Jackson was cool and logical and determined to methodically destroy her every point. All she could do was finish it out with all the dignity she could muster and hope that he was a gracious winner. “I should be stomping my foot and insisting that Henry and Agatha cancel their plans for the evening and come here for dinner.”

“Sometimes things don't work out like you thought they would, Lindsay. It's no one's fault. You learn to roll with the punches and make the best of it. One day, one week, one month—It won't make a bit of difference in what I'm going to say to your brother and sister and how I'm going to say it.”

Dear Lord. What
was
he going to say to Henry and Agatha? She needed to know, needed to prepare. If it was horrible, she had to try to change his course.

“So, I'll ask you again, Lindsay…,” he drawled. “What do you have to be sorry about?”

“I'm sure there's something,” she said offhandedly, her mind still focused on the likely conversation to be had with her brother and sister.

“Nope.”

She managed a smile, but only because she knew that it would imply that she was actively participating in the conversation. “You're being very kind.”

Her attention hadn't been wholly on their conversation and Jackson knew it. He'd mentioned her siblings and her mind had wandered off down a path of its own. He knew enough about her already to guess that she'd been fretting over how to keep him from upending their little versions of Eden. Apologizing wasn't the only bad habit she had. Misplaced loyalties appeared to be another. As long as he was going to tackle one, he might as well take a shot at the other while he was at it.

He only knew one way to go about the tasks. Learning another one had never been necessary. There were ladies and there were cantina girls, but, under the differences of money and social class, they were all female. And he'd long ago discovered the incredible power of a wink, a smile, the promise of a kiss. Hell, he hadn't done his own laundry in at least fifteen years. But there was one big difference between Lindsay MacPhaull and all other women. She wouldn't be drawn to a suggestion of intimacy. The personal frightened her. As for himself… Kissing Lindsay MacPhaull didn't seen like it would be at all painful.

“No, I'm not being kind,” he said, his course charted. “I'm being honest. If there's ever anything I think you need to apologize for, I'll let you know.”

The concerns for Henry and Agatha were swept aside by the sudden tide of anger. “And what if I don't care to apologize on cue?” she retorted.

He slowly rose from the chair and his grin turned devilish. “It would be a welcome change. I might even applaud.”

“It's a very old habit—my apologizing,” she responded tightly. “I'm afraid that it might take some time to end it.”

“Tell you what,” Jackson drawled, liking how the anger sparked in her blue eyes. “Every time you needlessly say ‘I'm sorry,’ I'm going to kiss you.”

As he fully expected, her eyes instantly widened and she took a full step back. “You wouldn't dare!”

He closed the distance she'd put between them, saying, “No matter where we are, what we're doing, or who's there
to see. I figure that ought to motivate you to think before you slip into being needlessly contrite.”

“Wouldn't you rather punch me in the shoulder with your fist?” she asked, holding her ground. “Or perhaps pinch me? Either would accomplish the same end.”

“Hardly. You could take those without blinking and you'd probably hit or pinch me right back. But a long, sweet kiss…” Jackson started as the light in the depths of her eyes flickered and changed. His pulse tripped at the realization that Lindsay wasn't as angry as she was intrigued. Good God. He'd picked the threat because he'd thought it would be enough to force a change in her behavior, but now … How intrigued was she? How much tolerance for risk did she have? “I'll bet money that you wouldn't even think about kissing me back,” he whispered.

Lindsay deliberately ignored the instinct that urged her to escape. She wouldn't run from him, wouldn't retreat in the face of such a blatant challenge. “This is a most unseemly conversation,” she declared regally.

His smile was roguish. “Are you sorry you walked into it?”

“No.”

“Good girl.”

“I'm not a girl,” she retorted. “I'm a woman full grown.”

He caught the inside corner of his mouth between his teeth as he struggled to bring his grin back under control. “I kinda noticed that already.” He cocked a brow. “More than once.”

Her cheeks darkened the way they had the last time he'd complimented her. And, as last time, she struggled for words in the aftermath. He let her find them this time.

“I think your brains were rattled loose when that beam came down on your head,” she finally said, her defiance still there but clearly wavering. “At the very least, your sense of decorum was knocked out of kilter.”

It hadn't been a beam that had taken him down, but for the moment he let her keep the illusion. “It doesn't have anything to do with the gash on the back of my head. My devotion to propriety shifted when I opened my eyes and
you were standing over me with my lapels in your fists. You called me Jack.”

“I shouldn't have,” she said on a sigh. “Another impulse I wasn't able to resist.”

“But you crossed the line and there's no going back.”

“I think we should try. The less you give people to talk about the better.”

“People like Winifred, for instance?” he guessed.

Anger once again coursed through her. Bitter, painful memories came with it. “Winifred Templeton is a prime example of a tongue hinged on both ends.”

“That's not very nice,” he chided. “Neither was refusing to do the polite thing and introduce us when we were all standing there. It was very awkward.”

Jackson Stennett thought that it had been awkward? He didn't know the half of it. “Well, I'm—” She bit the rest off, her heart lurching. He grinned knowingly, forcing her to hastily protest, “That doesn't count. I didn't actually say it.”

“You thought it, though. It counts.”

“And I was speaking facetiously, not sincerely.”

He reached out and trailed a fingertip along the curve of her jaw and Lindsay's heart rose into her throat. Of its own accord, her body leaned into the caress, thrilling to the gentle touch. Her mind reeled, remembering, warning. She didn't have the good sense to resist handsome men with dark intentions. She'd proven that in the past. If she allowed him to kiss her, even once, it would end in disaster. She was too hungry, too needy, too desperate. And above all else, she was afraid. Better to be forever alone than humiliated.

“This is utterly childish, Jack,” she said, turning her head even as she stepped beyond his reach.

Jackson let his arm fall back to his side. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Lindsay wanted to be touched. But it was just as obvious that her fear was stronger than her desire. Why was she afraid of him? Even as he wondered, the answer came, crystal clear and sharp-edged. Damn fool that he was, he was trying to plow his way across a bridge he had no business crossing. He was here for the next sixty
days and then he'd be gone. He was going to walk out of her life just as permanently as her father had. Lindsay had every right to be afraid. She knew the pain to be had in being abandoned by someone she cared about.

And he knew the pain to be had in losing them. The secret to surviving it all lay in keeping a safe distance, in making all relationships passing friendships. Anything more than that was asking for trouble. “I'll let you off the hook this one time,” he offered. “On one condition.”

“Which would be?”

“You never call me Mr. Stennett again. From now on I'm Jack, and the Winifred Templetons of the world be damned.”

“Fair enough,” she agreed with a small sigh of relief. Her gaze darted to the door. “I hear Dr. Bernard downstairs. Since he'll be up in just a minute, I'll leave you. I need to check on Richard.” She turned on her heel and headed for the door, adding as she went, “And not to worry. I won't promise Havers anything I can't afford to give.”

As he watched her slip out, it occurred to him that Lindsay had spent her entire life giving. How deep was her well? How much more did she have left? He knew for a fact that her bank accounts were damn near dry. Adding Mrs. Kowalski, Jeb and Lucy and the baby to her household was going to empty them within a week. As for the well of her heart… Jackson dragged his fingers through his hair and reminded himself that it was none of his business.

L
INDSAY LEANED A SHOULDER
against the wall outside of Richard's room and closed her eyes as she tried to settle her mind. She'd escaped—albeit narrowly—Jackson's advance. She should be relieved and steadfastly committed to staying well out of his reach in the future. But intellectually knowing that and actually feeling it were two very different things. There were just too many feelings inside her right now, all jumbled up and twisting around each other. Sorting it out was necessary, but so daunting a task. All she wanted to do was lock herself in her room, curl up in a little ball, and cry. She wanted to stay there until someone knocked on
the door and told her that it had all been fixed and that she didn't need to do anything but come out and be happy.

Tears slipped from beneath her lashes. No one was going to rescue her, take care of her. No one ever had. What order there would be in her life, she was responsible for imposing. Her father had dealt her a cruel hand and all she could do was make the best of it.

Lindsay straightened, brushed the tears from her cheeks, and took a deep breath. She'd check on Richard, then placate Havers. And then, while she was still filthy from the fire, she'd climb up into the attic for the cradle. There was no point in having Jeb do it when she needed to see what among the stored goods could be sold to pay for the food this week anyway. Next week … The tears welled in her eyes again. Lindsay blinked them away and rapped her knuckles firmly against Richard's door.

The door opened within seconds and the slim, small, impeccably attired George Havers started at the sight of her. He recovered his composure quickly, however, and bowed slightly at the waist. “Miss MacPhaull,” he said, pulling the door wider and stepping aside. “Your housekeeper led me to believe that our meeting was to be postponed until tomorrow. ”

“I would be most appreciative if we could put it off until then, Mr. Havers,” Lindsay replied, entering the room. Richard lay just as he had the last time she'd seen him. She managed a smile for the manservant and added, “This morning has been the longest day of my life and I'm afraid that, at present, I wouldn't be able to give your concerns the full and considered attention they deserve.”

“I understand, Miss MacPhaull,” he said with another bow. “Tomorrow will be quite acceptable.”

“Thank you.”
And thank Abigail for smoothing my way.
“I was tending to Mr. Stennett's head wound and thought that, since I was nearby, I might sit with Richard while you see to the preparation of his luncheon and to having your own.”

“That is most considerate of you,” Havers replied, easing toward the door. “I shan't be gone overlong. Mr. Patterson seems to be resting comfortably.”

And how would they know if he was uncomfortable? Lindsay wondered, watching the slow rise and fall of Richard's chest. “Please take what time you need, Mr. Havers,” she said absently as the manservant pulled the door closed behind him.

The bedcovers were smooth, the drapes drawn, and a small fire was burning in the hearth. Richard had been shaved that morning and his hair had been combed in its usual manner. There was nothing that needed her attention. Lindsay stood at the lower corner of the bed and leaned her shoulder against the carved bedpost. Did he know that she was there? Was he aware of anything going on around him?

Part of her yearned to hear his voice, to share her burdens with him and receive his wise counsel. And yet part of her sensed that there were things she wouldn't have been able to tell him, things he wouldn't have been able to understand. She had learned long ago the necessity of acceptance, of making the best out of the less than ideal. Richard, despite being paralyzed from the waist down, had always believed in his ability to eventually mold circumstance to his will.

“I know what you expect of me,” she said softly. “And I expect it of myself. I should be making it difficult for Mr. Stennett to exercise control. Legally, he doesn't have the power to make decisions yet.

“But he strikes me as being a good man, Richard. He risked his life to bring people out of the burning apartment building. How many men can you name who would have done that?”

There was no answer and Lindsay watched him for several long moments before beginning again. “He's intelligent, too. It took him all of an hour yesterday afternoon to look at the books and see that the company is in desperate straits.

“You'll be pleased to know,” she offered with a weak smile, “that one of his first priorities is to put an end to Henry's and Agatha's spending. The caterwauling will be ear-piercing, of course. I've warned him and he isn't the least bit deterred. Nothing seems to give him pause, Richard. Nothing. In terms of resolve, he's really a most admirable man.

“I know,” she admitted, staring into the dancing flames of the hearth fire. “I'm letting myself be distracted. I should be focusing my attention on his less than redeeming qualities and my efforts on doing everything I can to keep him from taking his fifty-two thousand dollars out of the company.”

And yet?

The unspoken question hung in the still air of the darkened room, heavy and quietly demanding. She looked at Richard, lying so still and pale. He'd spent the last twenty years of his life confined to a wheeled chair and never let the disability deter him from his responsibilities. He'd adapted and compensated and held to his purpose. How could she tell him that she was weary of struggling against the tide of circumstance? Her body was whole and sound. She was almost forty years younger than he was. How could she tell him that she found comfort in Jack's strength and determination? That the real reason she couldn't hold the fight against Jackson Stennett was because she couldn't fault either the soundness or the logic of his actions? That she knew instinctively that his course was the necessary one and that he was an honorable man? How could she explain any of that without hurting Richard's feelings, without denigrating all that he'd put into the maintenance of her world?