Assuming he was inclined to look, that is.
“No.” The word slipped out more tartly than she’d planned, so she tried again. After all, they were supposed to be working together. “No, I don’t need to rest, thank you.” She stopped and waited for him to climb closer. “I thought we were going to talk to them.”
He wiped perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. “We have to catch them first.”
“If you hadn’t yakked on your phone the entire drive up here,” she accused, “we might’ve already made some headway.”
One dark eyebrow lifted. “What, you can’t talk without me?”
She jammed her hands on her hips, nearly throwing herself off balance with the heavy backpack. “Try to talk over you and the big band music they were listening to in the front seat,
and
be casual about the fact that this marriage is a dead end street.”
He propped one foot on a stump and leaned on his knee, slapping a streak of dried red mud from his navy canvas shorts. His legs were thick with muscle and covered with dark hair. Standing next to Clay, she felt diminutive. Her neck warmed because she knew she looked a fright. Her ponytail clasp hung loose, a tree branch had torn the sleeve of her white T-shirt, and the stripe of pink zinc oxide on her nose, while smart, she knew wasn’t exactly attractive.
Not that she was trying to be attractive.
“I presumed your job required you to be sly and persuasive,” he said, but the cynical gleam in his eyes squashed any hint of a compliment.
“No more than your job, I suppose,” she said, matching his tone.
“And are you good at your job?” he asked, surprising her.
“Good?”
“Squeezing lucrative settlements out of inattentive husbands?”
Anger sparked in her stomach, then quickly caught flame. She lifted her chin. “For your information, most of my clients do well to get child support, and I haven’t handled a case yet where the marriage failed from lack of attention.” She scoffed. “Besides, you act as if I receive a percentage of the settlements.”
“You don’t?”
In one glance, she took in the distinctive sunglasses tucked in the neck of his pale blue T-shirt, the hand-tooled leather waist pouch, the worn, but expensive lace-up boots—Clay Castleberry had always enjoyed a pampered lifestyle, and he was questioning
her
financial motives?
Her body sang with anger as she perused over six feet of unadulterated arrogance. Men! Her mother actually wanted to marry one of these? “My fiscal status is none of your business.”
She’d been known to make men flinch in the courtroom with that tone, but Clay stood as still as the pine trees around him, an innocent smile on his lips. His shrug was a mere ripple of shoulder muscles. “I was simply trying to figure out why an attorney would steal underwear.”
Annabelle looked around for something to gouge him with, but was interrupted by Martin’s voice ringing out above them.
“Are you two slowpokes ready to stop for lunch?”
She looked up to the tree-studded ridge, but their parents had already disappeared around a rock formation. Annabelle huffed and swatted furiously at a fat bee, then set her sights on the incline before her. But when she took a hurried step forward, the offending pebble in her shoe jabbed the tender ball of her foot. She yelped, lurching sideways.
Powerful hands encircled her arm and waist from behind before she hit the ground, and her momentary pain relief was overridden by the realization that Clay was holding her, and the now-familiar sensation wasn’t wholly unwelcome. Just unsettling.
“I’m going to start thinking you fall just so you can lean on me,” he said in her ear.
His words rankled her, but his tone sent a thrill up the back of her neck. “I’ve learned not to lean on anyone,” she said fastidiously, determined there wouldn’t be a repeat of last night’s lapse, no matter how tempting.
“Did you twist your ankle?” Clay asked, slowly righting her, but maintaining his grip. He sounded almost concerned as he lowered her to sit on the stump.
Though tempted to milk the situation as he molded his hands around her ankle, her conscience kicked in. “It’s just a rock in my shoe.”
He frowned and plucked at her thick brown sock that bagged around the top of her boot. “How did a rock get inside?”
“It must have been in my boot when I put it on, and I didn’t notice.” At the moment, all she noticed was that his eyes in the sunlight were the shade of blue that belonged in a television commercial selling diet soda. Or jeans. Or ice to an Eskimo.
Clay fumbled with the laces on her boot. She watched numbly as he loosened the boot from her leg and freed her foot. She wriggled her warm toes as he upended her boot to shake the rock into his hand.
“Did you lose a button?”
Annabelle frowned, then reached for the item he held out. But when the little pewter button bounced into her palm, she inhaled sharply. Memories assailed her, blurring her vision. Tears spilled over before she could gather herself.
“What’s wrong?” Alarm rang clear in Clay’s voice. He covered her knee with his hand. “Annabelle? What is it?”
She bit her lip to stem the tears, but her chin wouldn’t stop quivering.
“Annabelle.” She lifted her gaze to see genuine fear in his expression. “For God’s sake, tell me.”
She sniffed mightily, then touched the button stamped ‘U.S. Army’ with the tip of her finger and tried to smile. “It’s from a vest my dad used to wear.” His favorite item of clothing, a flak vest left over from his stint in the military as a young man. Tattered olive green with baggy pouches that held his favorite pocketknife, his best fishing lures, and the stash of hard candy he loved to share.
The image of her gray-haired, broad-shouldered father wearing the vest stood out in her mind as clearly as if he were standing next to her.
What do you say we go tease the trout in Johns Creek, Anna?
She closed her fist around the button and pressed her knuckles to her mouth. How had the tiny disc found its way into her boot, and what was she to make of the timing of its discovery? It was as if the button were a sign, a reminder of her promise to her father.
“You must have been very close to him,” Clay said, his voice surprisingly gentle.
She nodded, unable to look up. “We used to talk several times a week about a case I was studying or politics or…nothing at all.” A sigh escaped her and she lifted her head. “Sometimes I forget he’s gone and pick up the phone to call him.”
He made a sympathetic sound, and removed a monogrammed handkerchief from his back pocket. “Here.” Relief that he wasn’t laughing at her quickly evaporated when she remembered Belle saying that Clay’s mother had died when he was very young.
“Do you remember your mother?” she ventured as she wiped her cheeks, almost breathless to breach such a personal boundary. The songbirds in the branches above them suddenly seemed very loud.
Clay scooped a pinecone from the ground and ran his thumb down the side. “Yes. Although I’ve looked at her pictures so often, sometimes I wonder if I just remember the poses.”
Her heart cracked for the little dark-haired boy who must have adored his glamorous mother. “How old were you when she died?”
He drew back his arm and casually tossed the pinecone into the woods, and for a few seconds she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he looked back to her, his face impassive. “I was nine. My mother had several miscarriages after she gave birth to me, and she was thrilled to finally carry another baby to full-term. But the delivery was complicated, and she died.”
“What—” Annabelle swallowed. “What about the baby?”
“Stillborn. A girl.”
She pressed her lips together. “Oh, Clay, I’m so sorry.”
He gave her a sad smile. “It was a long time ago.”
“Your father must have been devastated.”
Clay nodded. “Honestly, I don’t think he ever truly recovered.” A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. “Hence the parade of women through his life.”
And his son’s
, she realized, who’d had to share his father’s attention when he’d needed him most. Resentment ballooned in her stomach toward Martin, reinforcing her opinion that he wasn’t the kind of man to whom she would entrust her mother.
“Clay?” Martin’s voice rang out. “Is everything okay?”
Speak of the devil.
Annabelle scowled.
“We’ll be right there,” she and Clay yelled in unison, then looked at each other and smiled awkwardly.
Glad for the lighter moment, Annabelle bent to reclaim her boot and promptly banged heads with Clay—hard. She moaned and lifted a hand to explore the onset of a knot.
“Sorry,” he said, laughing and massaging his own forehead.
“Just a reminder of how hard-headed we both are,” she offered, managing a smile through the pain.
“I’ll take care of your boot,” Clay said, waiting for her slight nod before he knelt again. Her breath came in shallow little gulps as he held open the thick-soled boot and slipped her foot inside as gently as if he held a glass slipper. He rested her foot on his thigh, his knee to the ground, and methodically drew up the gold-colored laces. Her heart hammered as she watched his fingers, wide and blunt-tipped, securing the ankle-high boot. This man puzzled her—one minute she disliked him, and the next she…she….
“There,” he said, patting her boot. He met her gaze and gave her a little smile that made her heart jerk. “Wow, you’re going to have a goose egg,” he said, lifting his hand to her forehead.
Struck silent by the electricity of his touch, she could barely breathe. A second later, his eyes changed from rueful to regretful, an odd expression on which to lean forward and claim a kiss, she thought fleetingly.
Chapter Twelve
ANNABELLE CLOSED HER EYES a split second before his mouth descended on hers. The salt of perspiration, the warmth of sunned skin, the sweetness of surprise mingled on her tongue, and she reveled in the familiar textures of his mouth. He had controlled the first kiss, they had shared the second kiss, but she took possession of this one, coaxing him closer and deeper with her tongue. He came willingly, his lips firm and responsive, following her cues. A surge of female power gave her the energy to loop her arms around his neck. In answer, Clay’s hands slipped to her waist, but he held her loosely, as if she might break.
The kiss took on a life of its own, gaining momentum and transferring pent-up frustrations and desires and emotions that were foreign to Annabelle. She strained against him blindly, not knowing what she wanted, only that she wanted more. But through the swirl of red passion, a rustling sound reached her ears. She stiffened and Clay drew away, swinging his head toward the noise on the path behind them.
Her gaze flew to the rise where her parents had vanished—what if they’d seen the kiss? After scanning the ridge, she sighed in relief, but her face burned from the near-miss. What was she thinking? How credible of an advisor could she be for her mother if she was indulging in stolen kisses with a man she barely knew—or liked, for that matter. Annabelle’s mind spun—she had to get herself together.
Meanwhile, below them, a thin man with binoculars around his neck came into view. His safari-style hat and handheld guide identified him as a bird watcher. He waved with animation. Clay stood and pulled Annabelle to her feet, his expression perturbed.
“The trail’s not too crowded today,” the man observed with a tip of his hat as he passed them.
“Speak for yourself,” Clay muttered at the man’s back.
Annabelle laughed behind her hand, allowing herself to wonder where the kiss would have led if not for the timely interruption. She tingled under Clay’s scrutiny, sensing he was just as confused by their kisses as she was. “Annabelle, I—”
“We’d better get going,” she cut in, swallowing hard. “We still have a job to do.”
He pursed his mouth and considered her for a few seconds, his gaze lingering on her lips before moving on. Then he simply nodded, and gestured for her to precede him on the path.
She exhaled and straightened her clothing unnecessarily, then marched ahead of him with as much dignity as she could salvage. Her wantonness shamed her. With every step up the dusty red clay path, she chastised herself.
Clay Castleberry tried to buy you off, remember?
The man represented most of the things in life she railed against—entitlement, arrogance, superiority.
He doesn’t think your mother is good enough to marry his father, but he thinks you’re good enough to trifle with. He thinks you’re engaged, for goodness sake.
Her world was a cramped office on the twelfth floor of a state building in Detroit, Michigan. How foolish to expose her heart to a rich globe-trotter.
He mocked your measly state job—he’d never understand the satisfaction it gives you, helping women balance the scales against oppressive spouses.
Annabelle picked up the pace, digging her boots into the sandy soil, eating up the ground between them and their parents. Clay’s footsteps crunched behind her, but she tried to squash the awareness of him skittering over her arms. She’d marveled over the gullibility of her mother, yet scant minutes ago she’d allowed tingly feelings and base attraction to compromise her own self-respect.
Grasping the trunk of a tree to leverage herself, she stepped up on the rocky ridge and followed the narrow footpath around an enormous boulder. A few yards down the trail, the natural stone wall beneath her left hand led to a plateau, a sparsely wooded area off the trail, heavily carpeted with pine straw and dotted with picnic tables. Martin and Belle leaned against one, kissing.
Anna, promise me you’ll look after your mother if something happens to me.
“Hi, Mom,” she yelled through cupped hands, effectively distracting the older couple. She waved with enthusiasm and hurried over to the table on which their picnic lunch was already spread.
*****
Clay watched Annabelle walk across the clearing, irritated that he had folded under her kiss, especially since he still didn’t trust her. If he were going to get Martin out of this mess and return to his own business concerns in Paris, he’d have to keep a clear head. And that meant reverting to his previous plan to join forces with Annabelle
only
to dissuade their parents from marrying.