Kitabı oxu: «Tall, Dark and Cranky»
Grant Lifted His Hand To Cup Her Cheek.
He met her gaze and stared deeply into her eyes. He seemed as if he wanted to say something more. Something important.
But, finally, it was Rebecca who broke the silence. “I need to go now. I’ve stayed way too long….”
He looked sorry to hear she wanted to leave, but his expression quickly turned to one of resignation.
“Yes, of course. You’d better return to your own bed. If anyone finds you here, they might get the right idea about us.”
“The wrong idea, you mean,” she corrected him.
“Oh, right,” Grant said, as he leaned over and kissed her softly. “The wrong idea. Yes, that’s what I meant to say.”
Dear Reader,
Escape the winter doldrums by reading six new passionate, powerful and provocative romances from Silhouette Desire!
Start with our MAN OF THE MONTH, The Playboy Sheikh, the latest SONS OF THE DESERT love story by bestselling author Alexandra Sellers. Also thrilling is the second title in our yearlong continuity series DYNASTIES: THE CONNELLYS. In Maternally Yours by Kathie DeNosky, a pleasure-seeking tycoon falls for a soon-to-be mom.
All you readers who’ve requested more titles in Cait London’s beloved TALLCHIEFS miniseries will delight in her smoldering Tallchief: The Hunter. And more great news for our loyal Desire readers—a brand-new five-book series featuring THE TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB, subtitled THE LAST BACHELOR, launches this month. In The Millionaire’s Pregnant Bride by Dixie Browning, passion erupts between an oil executive and secretary who marry for the sake of her unborn child.
A single-dad surgeon meets his match in Dr. Desirable, the second book of Kristi Gold’s MARRYING AN M.D. miniseries. And Kate Little’s Tall, Dark & Cranky is an enchanting contemporary version of Beauty and the Beast.
Indulge yourself with all six of these exhilarating love stories from Silhouette Desire!
Enjoy!
Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
Tall, Dark & Cranky
Kate Little
MILLS & BOON
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KATE LITTLE
claims to have lots of experience with romance—“the fictional kind, that is,” she is quick to clarify. She has been both an author and an editor of romance fiction for over fifteen years. She believes that a good romance will make the reader experience all the tension, thrills and agony of falling madly, deeply and wildly in love. She enjoys watching the characters in her books go crazy for each other, but hates to see the blissful couple disappear when it’s time for them to live happily ever after. In addition to writing romance novels, Kate also writes fiction and nonfiction for young adults. She lives on Long Island, New York, with her husband and daughter.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
One
“Your recommendations are impressive, Ms. Calloway. In fact, they were positively glowing. One of your former employers even called you a miracle worker,” Matthew Berringer said.
“I love my work and I’m good at it,” Rebecca said in her usual straightforward fashion. “But I’d hardly call myself a miracle worker.”
“You wouldn’t, eh? That’s too bad, because I’m not sure that anything short of a miracle will restore my brother Grant, to his former life. To any sort of productive life at all.”
She saw instantly that her reply had dampened Matthew Berringer’s enthusiasm, and Rebecca wondered if she should have been more…diplomatic. She could have soft-soaped her answer a bit. She’d been warned that her pungent honesty was sometimes a shortcoming. Rebecca bit her lower lip. She needed this job. But she wouldn’t be hired on false impressions and she would never make any false promises.
She knew how demanding, physically and emotionally, a home assignment like this one might be. From what she’d heard about the patient, she wasn’t sure she’d succeed in rehabilitating him, much less getting him up and about his business by the summer’s end, which was Matthew Berringer’s explicit request. She wasn’t sure anyone could. From what she’d seen in the medical records, the problem wasn’t so much Grant Berringer’s physical condition as his attitude.
Miracle worker, indeed. All the Berringers’ money and then some couldn’t buy a miracle. And Rebecca knew she couldn’t live up to such high-flown accolades…and didn’t want to break her heart trying.
“Mr. Berringer, your concern for your brother is very touching. He’s fortunate to have someone so involved in his recovery—”
“Your kind words seem to be leading up to something, Ms. Calloway.” Matthew Berringer interrupted her. “Perhaps you should just say it?”
Rebecca was taken aback, then found his frankness refreshing. There was something more she wanted to say.
“You can’t will your brother to get well again, to resume a productive life, if he doesn’t want to. You can hire a hundred therapists. Even some that will promise you miracles. But no one can snap their fingers and give your brother the will to fight his way back. He has to want it. He has to want it very badly.”
He stared at her, looking angry at her words, she thought. Or at least greatly irritated. Then, without replying, he looked at her résumé and letters of reference again, as if reviewing the pages for final questions.
She’d blown it totally, Rebecca realized. She wasn’t going to get this job. She could always tell when the interviewer started studying her résumé in the middle of everything. She predicted he would soon lift his head, bestow a dismissing smile and send her off with some polite comment that would let her know she was low on the list.
Rebecca glanced at her surroundings. She’d been so intent on answering Matthew Berringer’s questions, she hadn’t taken much notice of the room. Sunny and spacious, it appeared to be a library or study. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and the furnishings were large, comfortably worn pieces upholstered in leather and tapestry fabrics. There were many framed photos. Some looked quite old. Most looked like family groups.
Area rugs in traditional designs covered the polished wooden floor, and an impressive carved oak desk stood in front of glass doors that led to a covered terrace. The doors stood ajar, allowing the spring air to fill the room.
When the interview began, she’d expected Matthew Berringer to take a seat behind the big desk. Instead, he’d sat on a couch across from her and offered her coffee from a silver service. The gesture, though small, had helped put her at ease.
She took a moment to raise her china cup and take a sip. The coffee was cold, but at least it gave her something to do.
In the tense silence, Rebecca could hear the ocean, just steps away from the terrace of the beachfront property. The steady rhythm of the waves was soothing and helped her relax.
It was a pity she wasn’t going to work here. The Berringer mansion—merely Grant Berringer’s summer home—was so beautiful, the kind of grand old place she’d so far only admired from a wistful distance. Earlier Matthew Berringer had told her a little about the estate, which was set on ten acres of ocean-front property. The twelve-bedroom mansion, designed in the style of a French Norman manor house, was built in the 1920s for a wealthy oil magnate, part of New York’s aristocracy. The stones had been shipped from Europe, as well as the craftsmen who had put the place together. The carved stone architectural details included gargoyles with all too human faces. With its wide, rambling structure, courtyards, slate roof and turrets, the place looked more like a miniature castle, Rebecca thought, nestled in a grove of woods near the sea. The decor within was fit for royalty, as well.
Not only did she need a new job, but she and Nora, her six-year-old daughter, needed a new place to live by the end of the month and an apartment in one wing of the huge house was part of the deal, in addition to a generous salary. Matthew Berringer had already shown her the rooms, which were lovely. Certainly enough space for her and Nora for the summer. If Grant Berringer required her services for longer than the summer and Nora had to return to school, Rebecca had told Matthew Berringer some other arrangements would be necessary. But he hadn’t seemed put off by that potential complication. He’d stated that he’d be happy to hire a tutor for Nora or enroll her in one of the fancy private schools nearby. Rebecca felt satisfied by his reply. Although she had read Grant Berringer’s medical records and discussed his condition with Matthew, she still needed to see him with her own eyes to gauge how long he would need her help.
Living on the beach for the summer, in such luxurious surroundings, no less, would have been heavenly. But…she’d blown it all with her irrepressible need to be honest.
Well, she wasn’t really sorry. She’d only told Matthew Berringer the truth. People always say they admire honesty. In theory, perhaps, but not in actuality, she’d noticed. Not in her case, anyway. Perhaps she’d helped him, in a way. He’d be wary of the next applicant, who might claim to be able to have Grant Berringer behind his desk in no time flat.
Finally, Matthew Berringer looked at her. The irritation in his expression had disappeared.
“I know what you’ve told me is true, Ms. Calloway. I know the real motivation has to come from within Grant. I just don’t want to believe it, I guess. I keep wishing I might find someone who could snap their fingers and make my brother well again,” he admitted.
“I understand. I really do,” she sympathized. “Just about everyone I meet who is caring for a loved one feels the same.”
“But my brother’s case is different from most you’ve had in the past,” Matthew Berringer said. “He has had an extraordinary loss. Many people use the word tragedy when they’re describing a sad but not necessarily unusual event. My brother, however, has lived through a tragedy, a devastating event that cost him…everything. And left him with an impossibly heavy burden of guilt, in the bargain.”
So far, Rebecca had only learned that Grant Berringer had been in a car accident. She’d heard that he’d been the driver and there was one passenger involved who had died instantly. Grant had escaped with multiple injuries the most severe to his right hip and leg. Those were the basic facts, but obviously there was more to the story.
“Why don’t you tell me everything about your brother’s accident? Everything you think is relevant to his recovery, I mean. I do need to know the complete details in order to evaluate the case.”
Loss was something she knew about. She could empathize with Grant Berringer. But at the same time, she had been through so much in her life, Rebecca wasn’t sure she had the resources to handle an unusually demanding assignment.
Matthew Berringer’s cool blue-eyed gaze met hers, then he looked away. It seemed he was gathering his thoughts. “I’ll try to keep this brief and to the point,” he said. “My brother was engaged to be married. He and his fiancée, Courtney Benton, were returning to the city after spending the weekend at the country home of one of my brother’s clients. It was bad weather, a sudden heavy rainstorm, and my brother apparently lost control of the wheel. The car skidded off the road and crashed into a cement wall. Courtney was killed instantly. My brother was in a coma for two weeks. When he woke up and learned what had happened, he barely had the will to go on living.”
“Oh, dear…that is heartbreaking,” Rebecca said softly. She had heard many sad stories during her career, but this was one of the saddest. That poor man. She couldn’t imagine his grief…or his guilt.
“And to complicate matters even further, my brother has some memory loss. He can recall events leading up to the accident. Leaving the home they were visiting and such. But he can’t remember anything that happened right before the crash occurred. He can’t even remember if he and Courtney were trying to pull over and wait out the rain.”
Matthew Berringer sounded amazed but somewhat frustrated. “The doctors say he may never remember.”
“They may be right,” Rebecca agreed. “I have heard of such situations before. It’s a reaction to extreme trauma or stress. It’s the mind’s way of protecting itself from memories that are too painful to relive.”
“Yes, I understand all that.” As Matthew Berringer nodded, a lock of his smooth brown hair dropped across his brow, and he impatiently brushed it back. “But I often suspect that if Grant could remember all that happened that night—no matter how distressing those memories might be—perhaps he’d be able to move forward, to work through his grief and rebuild his life.”
“Yes, it might help him a great deal. But it’s a catch-22 of sorts, isn’t it?” she added. “He will get stronger if he remembers. But he’ll only be ready to remember when he gets stronger.”
“It’s a riddle inside a riddle.” Matthew shook his head, and Rebecca could sense his frustration and sadness. Matthew had also experienced a loss, she realized. The loss of a brother who was once vital and strong, an equal in friendship and camaraderie, for it was clear that the two were quite close.
Rebecca did not know how to reply and thought it best to say nothing. Sometimes it helped people to talk, even if she couldn’t supply an easy answer. She sensed that Matthew Berringer needed to talk right now to someone he thought could understand not only his brother’s dilemma, but his own, as well. “So you see, if he’s fallen into some dark pit of despair and is reluctant to return to the land of living, I believe, that after all he’s been through, it’s an understandable reaction.”
“Completely understandable.” Rebecca nodded and looked at her hands, which were folded in her lap.
Now that she knew the tragic story, she could see why Matthew was looking for a therapist who might be part superhero, part saint. The question loomed even larger—was she the right person for this job?
“I know the will to return must come from him,” he added, echoing her earlier words, “but I was hoping—praying, if you must know—that I could find the right…messenger. Someone who understands such matters and is willing to go down into that dark place and convince him to come back to us.”
His voice, which had been calm, increased in emotion, so that finally, Rebecca was quite moved by Matthew Berringer’s caring speech.
He was an uncommonly good man, she thought. A kind man. The type who would never give up on someone he loved. Rebecca admired that. Yet, despite his striking good looks and admirable qualities, she did not feel the least bit attracted to him.
It was funny how that worked, Rebecca reflected. The chemistry was either there…or it wasn’t. In this case, it clearly wasn’t. Not for him, either, she suspected. She could tell these things by now. Though he seemed to respect her professionally and to like her well enough in a friendly way. Which was all for the better, she thought, if he was possibly to be her employer.
“I’d like you to meet my brother. Will you come with me now and talk to him?”
“Yes, of course.” Rebecca was surprised at the invitation. Then pleased. She usually wasn’t asked to meet the patient if the interview was a total loss. Perhaps there was more hope of being hired here than she thought.
Besides, she was curious to meet Grant Berringer. It would help them both to decide if she was right for the job.
Matthew led her through the elegantly decorated mansion, and Rebecca quickly peeked through doorways and admired her surroundings. The house was furnished with a mixture of antiques and traditionally designed pieces, with sumptuous drapery, original artwork and interesting porcelain and statuary. Yet the decor didn’t look at all stuffy or museumlike. The rooms retained a fresh, light-filled look Rebecca found inviting.
“Grant has a few rooms upstairs, but when he was released from the hospital, the doctors advised me to set him up on the ground floor. I fixed a suite of rooms for him in the west wing of the house, including an exercise room with all types of equipment for his therapy. I’m in the city during the week, but I’ve hired a private nurse to take care of him during the day. A young man named Joe Newton. He’s been great with Grant, very patient.”
While most health-care professionals needed to extend patience to their charges, Rebecca sensed Grant Berringer required an extraordinary effort in that respect. Not a good sign.
“Our housekeeper, Miriam Walker, lives in,” Matthew continued. “There’s an intercom system throughout the house, so Grant can call her if there’s any need.”
Rebecca listened and nodded. It sounded as if Matthew had thought of everything. They had passed several large main rooms—a banquet-size dining room, an impressive parlor and a huge kitchen stocked with professional-looking cooking equipment. Lured by the view, Rebecca couldn’t help but slow her step to glance inside the doorway.
“Great kitchen,” she remarked when Matthew turned to glance at her.
He smiled. “You must like to cook if the sight of all those pots and pans and gadgetry turns you on.”
“I do. When I have the time.” She thought of the tiny, ill-equipped kitchen in her apartment in the city. It was a challenge, but she still managed to turn out some great meals for dinner guests or for herself and Nora when she had the time and inspiration to experiment. What a treat it would be to cook in a kitchen like this one.
“It’s a very relaxing hobby, I hear,” Matthew said. “Never caught my interest, though. I much prefer to work out my frustrations on a golf course…then visit a good restaurant for dinner,” he joked. “But my brother loves to cook. He had just had the kitchen redone before the accident. He was quite a chef. He had so many interests—tennis, sailing, skiing, traveling to the most exotic places. He played hard and worked hard. He’s known on Wall Street, too. Notorious, in fact, for being tough, even ruthless, some say. Grant is a successful, self-made man who knows how to live life to the fullest. Or did, before the accident,” Matthew added. “You couldn’t guess it, though, to see him now.”
“He could be that way again,” she said optimistically. “In time.”
“Yes, I suppose,” he agreed with a heavy sigh. “But it’s hard to believe when you see him now.”
They had arrived at double doors at the end of a long hall. Matthew knocked once, and a male voice answered. “Just a moment.”
A young man with short dark hair answered the door. Joe Newton, the private nurse, Rebecca assumed. He smiled at Rebecca in greeting. He had a kind, gentle manner, she thought, if first impressions were any clue. He looked quite strong, as well. Was Grant Berringer so incapacitated that he required a weight lifter’s aid? From what she’d read of his injuries, it shouldn’t be as dire as all that.
Matthew led her into the room and made some quick introductions.
“How’s Grant doing this afternoon?” Beneath Matthew’s casual tone, Rebecca could sense his concern.
Joe shrugged a hefty shoulder. “About the same, I’d say. I persuaded him to go out on the beach after breakfast, then he wanted a nap. He refused to do any exercise today. Said his hip hurt too much,” Joe reported with a frown. “He’s been resting for some time now. I was just about to try to get him up.”
A nap, in the middle of a day like this one? His depression was deep. While she had a degree in psychology as well as one in physiotherapy, she wondered if she was professionally equipped to treat this man.
“Let me go into him alone first,” Matthew said.
Matthew disappeared into the adjoining room and Rebecca was left alone with Joe. “Are you interviewing as a physical therapist?” he asked her.
Rebecca nodded. “Have there been many others here so far?”
“Matthew has hired plenty. But they don’t last very long. Grant scares them away,” Joe replied with a laugh.
Matthew Berringer had neglected to add that tidbit of information during their talk, Rebecca realized. Perhaps her chances of getting this job weren’t as bad as she thought.
“I don’t scare easily,” Rebecca told Joe with a smile.
“He’s tough,” the nurse assured her. “I try to help him as much as I can. To get his strength back and such. But he prefers me to be more of a glorified baby-sitter.”
“Matthew said you were patient with him. He appreciates that,” Rebecca confided.
“I try to be.” She could see that the compliment had touched him. “Grant’s a good guy underneath it all. I’d like to see him get back to his old self.”
It seems everyone who knew Grant shared the same hope, Rebecca reflected. Then she heard Matthew’s voice. “Ms. Calloway, could you come in here, please?”
“Be right there,” she replied. She turned away from Joe and began walking to the open doorway.
“Good luck,” he whispered as she passed. She simply smiled in reply. She didn’t know why she felt such a fluttering in her stomach. She was never nervous about meeting prospective patients.
She entered the room slowly. It seemed very dark and stuffy, considering the weather outside. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light, then she could still see that the place was a mess, with books and newspapers scattered about, a tray of food that looked barely picked over and an unmade bed in the midst of everything. Considering the appearance of the rest of the house, she could only assume that Grant Berringer preferred his personal area to be left in such a state.
Some distance from the doorway, she could make out Matthew’s tall form, and beside him a man in a wheelchair who she assumed was Grant. His back was turned to her. Not a good sign, she thought.
As she walked toward them, Rebecca’s first instinct was to pull open the long curtains that covered one wall. From the layout of the adjoining room, she guessed the drapery covered glass doors that led to the long deck and framed an ocean view. Some sunlight and fresh air would do a world of good in here, she thought.
But she didn’t touch the curtains. Instead, she continued to approach the two men. Matthew’s voice cut through the tense silence.
“Ms. Calloway, I’d like you to meet my brother Grant.” His tone was so smooth and sociable, Rebecca thought she might have stumbled into a garden party instead of this dark, stuffy lair.
“I would like to meet him,” Rebecca replied, standing just a few feet from them. “If he’d be so kind as to turn around.”
Matthew looked at Grant, a tense expression on his face. But he didn’t say anything. They waited what seemed a long time, though it was perhaps only a moment or two.
Then finally Grant Berringer spun his wheelchair around and Rebecca had her first look at him. His hair was dark and thick. Appealingly so, she thought. She couldn’t tell if he was growing a beard or had just neglected to shave for a day or two. His cheeks had a scruffy appearance that could not detract from his strong good looks. With his hair combed straight back from his forehead and his broad, high cheekbones and angular jaw, his face had a distinctly regal, lionlike appearance.
He was extremely attractive, she thought, though not in a smooth, typical way, the way his brother, Matthew, was handsome.
She’d learned the basic facts of his physical appearance from his medical records—six feet in height, one hundred and seventy-five pounds. At thirty-eight years old, he was almost ten years her senior. Yet the basic facts had not prepared her for some undefinable quality he possessed—his sheer intensity, which was as much a characteristic of the man as the dark eyes that took her in from head to toe.
“You’ll forgive me for not getting up.” He greeted her in a gruff, sarcastic voice.
His eyes, framed by thick brows, looked large and luminous in the dimly lit room. The rugged lines of his face held a serious, almost angry expression.
“No apology necessary,” Rebecca replied lightly. “Of course, considering your condition, Mr. Berringer, you could be out of that chair by now, you know.”
“You think so, do you?” he challenged her. He gave a bitter laugh, then turned to his brother. “Did you find yet another Mary Poppins for the job, Matthew?” His voice sounded weary and vaguely amused. “One would think the supply would be exhausted by now.”
“One would think your brother would be exhausted by now, trying to help you, Mr. Berringer,” Rebecca replied quietly.
She saw Matthew Berringer’s eyebrows pop up at her tart response. But he said nothing. Grant finally lifted his head and stared into her eyes. He seemed impressed. Almost animated. She gave herself two points for that achievement, anyway.
“Well, well…this one’s got some spunk, I’ll give her that much,” he said to Matthew. Rebecca thought she’d noticed a spark of appreciation in his eyes as he gazed at her, then thought she must have been mistaken. His gaze remained flat and dispassionate. “I’ve always preferred a tart, cool taste myself, as opposed to something sticky and overly sweet.”
“None of my patients ever accused me of being too sweet,” Rebecca replied. “More like the opposite.”
“I’m not your patient yet, Ms. Calloway,” he reminded her harshly. “Not by a long shot.”
Rebecca was taken aback, but only for a moment. The wounded lion, cornered in his den, she thought. All he could do was give a loud roar and hope to scare the intruder away.
There was a small chair near his wheelchair, and she walked over and sat in it. She knew that being on the same eye level as the patient—not staring down at them—should help ease a tense moment like this one.
“You’re right. My mistake,” she said simply.
He stared directly at her, and she had her first good look at him, up close and personal. Intimidating was the word that first came to mind. But as she gazed unflinchingly into his dark eyes, she saw his vulnerability, as well, and the wellspring of pain and fear that had driven him to this dark place.
A thin white scar extended from the corner of his eye to his jawline, marring one cheek. Rebecca had read in the medical report that Grant could have easily had the scar erased with plastic surgery, but for some reason preferred not to. Did he keep it to help him mourn his loss? Or as a penance he felt bound to pay?
Her heart was touched by him, moved by him. Not by pity or compassion, exactly, but by some inexplicable urge to restore him, physically and spiritually, to siphon into him some of her abundant strength and will.
She had never felt quite this reaction to a prospective patient before, Rebecca thought with a mental jolt. Why this one?
Then suddenly, Grant’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“I like a person who can admit when they’re wrong,” he said in a low, deep voice.
“I do a lot of that,” she admitted. “Maybe you’ll end up liking me, after all.”
He suddenly laughed, and the deep, warm sound skimmed along her nerve endings, lighting a path in its wake—a reaction that alarmed Rebecca and one she forced herself to ignore. Still, she couldn’t ignore the sudden change in Grant Berringer’s appearance. His smile was like a sudden burst of light exploding in the shadowy room. His face was transformed, softened, making his dark good looks even more appealing, Rebecca thought, as her gaze lingered on the small, attractive lines fanning from the corners of his eyes and deep dimples beside a full, sensual mouth.
Rebecca quickly pulled her gaze away. What was going on here? Was she attracted to him?
No, it couldn’t be. Mustn’t be. She’d been warned about this but it had never happened to her. She tried to find some rational reason it would happen now. It was his sad story, she told herself. Matthew had drawn Grant as a tragic—even romantic—figure. The story had gotten to her. It had to be. She couldn’t compromise her professional standards by taking on a case when she had a romantic interest in the patient.
As if reading her mind, Grant said, “You know, Ms. Calloway, there are women, like yourself, who have come here hoping to bag a rich husband. If that’s your intention, I may as well warn you now, you’d be wasting your time.”
Rebecca knew his insult was merely a tactic, a ploy to drive her away, but it stung nonetheless to hear her ethics—and those of her colleagues—disparaged.
“Grant, please,” Matthew urged his brother. “Why do you have to do this?”
Matthew had been quiet until now. He seemed to think Rebecca and his brother should sort things out, and she was grateful for that. She could hear his frustration and embarrassment for Grant’s rudeness.
“No, it’s okay,” she assured Matthew. She turned to Grant again. “Mr. Berringer, I can promise you, the last thing in the world I’m looking for is a husband, rich or otherwise.”
She watched him blink in surprise, but he showed no other reaction to her words.
“All right, point taken,” he replied. He paused, then looked at her. “My brother says you’re highly qualified. The best he’s found so far. But I want you to give me one good reason I should hire you for this job. Especially when so many others before have clearly failed at it. One good reason, Ms. Calloway,” he added, the note of challenge in his voice growing sharper. “That’s all I’m asking for.”
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
