it’s settled. Come with me. I’ll show you the guest room.”
A frown line appeared between his eyes, but he lifted the battered duffel bag and slung its strap over his shoulder. She led him down the hall, past Carolyn’s open office and her own. She noticed that he glanced in both rooms. He seemed to be observing the house with unusual keenness.
The guest room was a large, airy room with an adjoining bath. The white curtains had been pushed open, and the windows overlooked a garden of native Texas wildflowers. It was May, and they bloomed in profusion, the delicate gold of the daisies, the bolder gold and scarlet of the Indian blankets and the deep, tender blue of the bluebonnets.
Mickey had set a white vase of the flowers on the antique oak dresser with its framed oval mirror. Matching the dresser was a four-poster bed. It had a long white skirt and was covered with a colorful patchwork quilt.
A bookcase was filled with volumes old and new, from classics with faded spines to recent best sellers, their covers still crisp and shiny. A television sat on a low oak bench across from a pair of chintz-covered armchairs. Framed Audubon prints of songbirds hung on the walls.
She said, “The den’s next to the living room. There’s a bigger TV there, videos, more books and a pool table. If you need me, I’ll be right down the hall in my office.”
She moved to the door and stepped into the hall. “Supper’s at seven-thirty. Since there’s just you and me, I thought we’d eat in the kitchen, if that’s all right with you.”
He looked her up and down, then nodded. “It’s fine.”
She had never before thought of the guest room as womanish. But in contrast to his masculinity, it suddenly seemed so. He looked out of place in the midst of the snowy curtains and polished furniture and delicately framed prints. He didn’t seem a man suited for chintz and flower arrangements.
With his faded jeans and work shirt, and his skin so burnished by the sun, he would have looked far more at home on the deck of a boat on a lonely sea, tugging ropes and raising sails. As she closed the door, she had the uneasy feeling that he was the sort who wouldn’t be comfortable shut up in any room. He gave off the air that he wasn’t quite tame.
What sort of person was he, anyway? Who was this man, really, suddenly sharing the house with her and Bridget?
WHAT THE HELL have I walked into? Adam thought, staring at the closed door. He felt like an animal trapped in a cage.
He’d known this trip was going to be hard. And he refused to lie to himself; he’d felt edgy about meeting Carolyn Trent. What sane man in his position wouldn’t?
During the whole trip, he’d hardened himself to face her. When he’d climbed the front stairs, his heart had pounded like a sledgehammer. He’d supposed she’d be polite—initially. After that, he’d been prepared for anything.
Except for this. The woman he’d come so far to meet was gone. Because of a sick, newborn baby. Maybe a mortally sick baby.
He swore under his breath and pitched his bag onto the bed to unpack it. He’d been thrown off from the first moment by the strange, starchy Mickey Nightingale.
When she’d first opened the door, she’d stared at him as if he were a freak. He supposed that in her eyes he was. She was neat as a pin. The creases in her jeans looked sharp as blades. Her long-sleeved white blouse was ironed to perfection. Almost everything about her radiated purity and order, except her tousled hair. And the wildly startled look in her eyes.
She’d even put on her glasses, as if to make sure of what she was seeing on Carolyn’s respectable porch. He supposed he looked like a bum.
Before he’d come, he’d thought about getting a haircut. He’d thought about buying new jeans, even a dress shirt. Then he’d remembered the maxim: Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes. To hell with upgrading his wardrobe.
He’d meant to show up as himself, not pretending to be anyone or anything else.
Yet he’d been immediately daunted by the Nightingale woman. She was attractive in an odd, unattainable way. In spite of her primness, there was something about her that was—only one word came to him—exquisite.
Her skin was so perfect he’d been tempted to reach out to find if it could possibly feel as smooth as it looked. She wore no makeup except for a touch of pink on her lips. Could her face really be so flawless?
Her hazel eyes were a rich, brownish gold. Her hair was brown slightly tinged with dark gold—a color as mysterious to him as autumn, a season that never came to the Caribbean. Her curls were rumpled, the only slightly untidy thing about her. Yet that one touch of disorder became her. It made her seem human, after all.
Otherwise she was the very essence of a proper, civilized, well-bred young woman. The complete opposite of him.
But as haunting as he found her looks, her manner had set his teeth on edge. She’d seemed snippy and stuck-up.
Or so he’d thought until the moment she’d burst into tears.
He’d been confounded by her news about Carolyn Trent and the ailing baby. He hadn’t noticed Mickey’s growing distress in talking about it. He’d been bewildered, wondering what in hell he was going to do now.
Then, before he knew it, the facade of her primness broke. Who could have thought such storms of feeling could toss within her?
What alarmed him was how deeply grieved she seemed. Her body had heaved in the effort to control the sobs that threatened to break out of control. She said she was a secretary, but she obviously cared a great deal about Carolyn Trent and her family.
Adam was not cruel. When he saw suffering, his first impulse was to ease it. And her tears brought the reality home to him: Carolyn might well be a person worth caring about. And Carolyn, too, was suffering.
He swore aloud again. What to do now? Everything had to be rethought. Everything.
And as for the Nightingale woman, she’d gone from tempestuous sorrow back to cool efficiency so quickly that she’d thrown him off balance yet again. Well, he was stuck here with her until Friday. He supposed that having dropped her guard once she’d be careful not to do it again.
So be it. It’d be easier on both of them.
He hung his two spare shirts and other pair of jeans in the closet. He truly wasn’t much for clothes. For him, living on his small boat, wearing more than a pair of ragged cutoffs was dressing up. What he had on now was like formal wear to him.
The rest of the contents of the duffel bag were books, photos, a videotape, a folder, two sealed manila envelopes with Enoch Randolph’s legal papers and some documents. He put everything but his books into a dresser drawer.
He looked about the room, and homey as it was meant to be, he still felt trapped. He resisted the impulse to pace. He picked up one of his books and flopped down in a chair, draping one leg over the arm.
He opened the book and began to read, although he knew it nearly by heart. His eyes fell on one of the opening sentences.
“At present I am a sojourner in civilized life again.”
That’s me, he thought, more restless than before. A sojourner in civilized life. I don’t live here. I’m just here for a temporary stay.
CHAPTER THREE
“VERN?” MICKEY HELD the receiver so tightly her knuckles paled. “Are you in Denver?”
“We got here about two hours ago.” Vern sounded exhausted in body and soul. “We’re at the hospital.”
“How’s the baby? How’s Beverly?”
“The baby…” He paused, as if uncertain how to say it. “The baby’s hanging in there. They—they say she’s a fighter.”
“She