February 22, 2010 by admin
Filed under Contemporary Romance, Looking for Home, Nan Donahue
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Chapter Six
The next morning, M bounded out of bed with her resolve firmly in place. No more sucking it up. No more dealing with the lemons life had handed to her. Her world centred on food, the creation of delectable dishes. She had a gift in being able to throw together seemingly random ingredients and ending up with a work of art. With her skill she’d produce the best lemonade anyone on the planet would ever taste.
Time for a change, M, my girl.
That meant accepting Jonathan’s offer of help, but she decided the end justified the means. So what if he thought of her as some pro bono, charity case? She’d never been a fool—well, for the most part—and she didn’t plan on becoming one at this stage of her life.
If Jonathan Davenport wanted to be her gift horse, fine. She’d take what he offered, and not ask to see his teeth.
Although…checking out his mouth did sound like a delicious idea. But looking wouldn’t be enough. Uh-uh. No way. She’d have to touch and taste as well. Oh, yeah.
Stop it, stop it, stop it!
Thinking about him on a sexual level was courting disaster. In a big way. For the time being she lived in his house and despite a rocky start, she planned to make this work. It’s wasn’t like she planned to stay here forever, but she didn’t want to do anything to make him ask her to leave.
She knew from experience people could turn against her because of assumptions. Even people who claimed to love her. While in this house she’d tread carefully. She wouldn’t hand over the gun and the ammunition for someone to use against her.
After showering, she stood in front of her closet. Her clothes—all her earthly belongings actually—had arrived yesterday. She’d spent some time before dinner yesterday pressing everything—in a laundry room the size of her last bedroom—and now had a few more options on what to wear.
Which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Why this overpowering need to make a good impression? It so wasn’t like her.
Yet here she stood, hemming and hawing.
She finally decided on a pair of tailored, but figure hugging, white capri pants, then topped them off with a fabulous silk cotton sweater set she’d picked up in Winner’s for a steal. It’s deep, sapphire blue color looked incredible on her. Ha! Who cares about how it looked on her? She looked incredible in it!
After dressing, M returned to the bathroom. She inspected her face as she pulled out giant steam rollers, leaving her hair in soft waves—which would magically disappear as soon as she stepped out into Toronto’s soupy August humidity.
“Hmmm. I know I saw my makeup bag while hunting for the rollers. Why didn’t I pay more attention when packing them? Hah! Because you rarely—if ever—use makeup and rollers, that’s why!”
She looked into the reflection of her eyes and considered what she’d just said to herself.
Was she primping for Jonathan?
“Nope. This isn’t about Jonathan. This is about me. I need to do this for myself.”
M rediscovered her makeup bag, applied the barest hint of blush, eye liner, and mascara, and felt good to go. She refused to put lipstick on, because that would be pushing it. Really pushing it.
She stood at the top of the grand staircase, and surveyed her new lodgings while chewing her lip. It’s only temporary, but I’ll make this a home. I want to know what a home feels like.
M grabbed a hold of the beautifully carved oak banister and descended.
Mrs. Brickman hadn’t arrived yet—or was skulking in that huge pantry—but thanks to the wonders of modern technology, a pot of coffee stood ready on the counter.
After pouring a cup and making it to her liking, she leaned back against the counter and took a sip. Closing her eyes, she savoured a surprising sense of well-being.
“Morning.”
At the unexpected sound of his voice she gasped, and some of the coffee flowing down her throat took the wrong route.
Her gasp turned into a coughing fit as coffee hit her windpipe. Tears welled as she tried to gain control.
Before she regained her breath, she found herself surrounded by Jonathan. He stepped in front of her, pulled her chest flush to his, then with his right hand, sharply slapped her between the shoulder blades.
And suddenly her breathless state had nothing to do with the coffee dancing in her trachea.
Her nipples realized where they were and sprang up to high-five—uh, high-two—his upper abs.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, her body betrayed her even farther when her olfactory senses caught the scent of his cologne. A brain cell destroying need to discover its source had her crowding in even closer as her nose nestled into the valley between his shoulder and ear, then traveled eastward to land in the hollow of his throat. And since her lips were right there with her nose, she skimmed them lightly across his skin.
After all, as a cook, this is what she did. Tasted things to make sure they were just right.
Mmm. Oh, yeah. Just. Right.
Jonathan froze.
M’s brain reactivated. Oh, God! What am I doing?
He grabbed her upper arms, about chest level, and thrust her away. Okay, he hadn’t missed the little darts digging into his chest, but really, how could he?
Needing to create distance—both physical and mental—M took another giant step away, went on the defensive, and blasted him.
“What’s wrong with you? Don’t you read? You’re not supposed to slap a choking person on the back! Don’t ever do that to your sister. If it was food she was choking on you could force it down into her lung.”
Hello? Had he even heard a word she said?
Jonathan’s face wore a glazed expression as he stared at her breasts. Really, was he about to start drooling?
Barely restraining a desire to clap her hands over them like some puritanical maiden, M tapped her foot—hard—and thought about buying new bras. The padded kind. Which she hated.
But since she didn’t know which muscles and nerves to use to control her nipples—she couldn’t wiggle her ears either, so no surprise there—and the sight of them seemed to affect him so much, maybe she needed to reconsider.
Now, there’s a thought!
No, no, no! Get a grip!
Apparently the toe tapping finally registered and his synapses re-engaged. Watching as his eyes traveled up to meet hers, she barely suppressed an evil chuckle. She’d never experienced this kind of raw, sexual power over a man, and she found she enjoyed it.
Given the way his face snapped into a scowl, she hadn’t done a very good job of hiding her thoughts.
Installment 20 Coming Soon!
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Thanks to Nan Donahue for sharing one of her manuscripts.
