A Weaver Wedding Read online

  Was it her imagination that his eyes narrowed a fraction? That his gaze became even sharper?

  Or was it just her screaming conscience?

  She made her feet move and brushed past him, heading into the kitchen where Jaimie was setting out several goldencrusted pies.

  “You’re a sweetheart,” she told Tara. “But don’t think you’re going to rinse and load the dishwasher.”

  That was exactly what Tara had been hoping to do. Anything to keep her busy so that she didn’t have to go back out and sit among the family.

  Only one Sunday dinner with them and she knew she was already in over her head. They were all just too nice. Too perfect. Anything that nice or that perfect would never last. Not from her experiences. “But I—”

  “Save it, honey.” Jaimie cut her off, looking amused as she wielded her knife over the pies with practiced ease. “It took me about fifteen years to get the point across, but the men in this house have to rinse and load.”

  Tara tucked her tongue between her teeth for a moment, imagining Squire Clay rinsing a dirty dish.

  “What you can do, though, is go out and count up the orders for dessert for me. Choices are apple, chocolate silk and pecan.”

  With no choice, Tara went back into the dining room. Lucas was tugging at his grandfather’s thick ponytail. Young Megan and Eli Scalise were squabbling over something while their sheriff father, Max, wiped the squirming hands of his and Sarah’s other child, Ben.

  She cleared her throat, hoping—and failing—to draw anyone’s attention. She tried a little more loudly. “Excuse me.” There. At last a dozen heads turned toward her and she cursed the flush that warmed her face. “Jaimie wants to know which pie everyone would like.”

  Keeping mental tally at the responses was easy until her gaze landed on Axel.

  “Chocolate.” The way he slowly drew out the word made it seem almost like a caress.

  Before heat could run screaming through her veins, Tara turned on her heel and nearly ran back into the kitchen.

  But even there she wasn’t safe from remembering just how lethal the combination was when Axel Clay was one of the ingredients.

  Chapter Eight

  “What time do you go into the shop?”

  It was the next morning and Tara was standing at her kitchen counter dunking another hated herbal tea bag in hot water while Axel sat at the table with the folded newspaper at one elbow and his computer at the other.

  And still she was battling down that surge of hormones that had nearly leveled her the afternoon before.

  “I like to be there by eight.” She lifted the soaked tea bag by the string. Slowly dunked it again. Anything to keep her eyes off the much-too-appealing man sitting at her table in a ragged gray sweatshirt, jeans and bare feet.

  For some reason, she couldn’t seem to get her attention off of his feet.

  She focused on her tea, but it took an embarrassing amount of effort. “It gives me a little time to get organized before I open at nine.”

  Except for the past several months when she’d considered bumping that back at least an hour because that was about how long it took before her wayward morning sickness was battled back under control.

  When she’d wakened this morning, however, she hadn’t been plagued with nausea. She’d been plagued by a craving that she couldn’t afford to indulge.

  Axel folded the sports section that he’d been reading. “I’ll grab a shower, then, and we can go whenever you’re ready.”

  She made a noncommittal sound. How could she possibly be ready for another non-stop day filled with Axel Clay?

  Eyes downcast, she watched from the corner of her vision as those long, bare feet padded toward the living room.

  In the quiet, she could hear him rummaging in his duffel bag, footsteps down the hall, bathroom door closing.

  She exhaled, dropping the tea bag once and for all. She didn’t want herbal tea.

  She wanted coffee.

  Strong. Blazing hot.

  She also wanted sex.

  Strong. And blazing hot.

  Unfortunately she already knew how well Axel Clay could meet her needs on that score.

  The pregnancy books really should warn a woman more thoroughly about the hormonal thing.

  She ignored the voice inside her head that claimed Axel was at the root of the issue, not her pregnancy.

  She scrubbed her hands down her cheeks, then dumped the tea down the drain and straightened up the kitchen. She was ordinarily a tidy person. But if she kept putting her frustration into cleaning, before long the old house would be able to double as an operating room.

  Annoyed with herself, she left the kitchen. Spotted the tumble of clothing hanging partially over the side of the battered brown leather bag.

  Not everything was spotless and tidy.

  She looked away from Axel’s untidy clothes, straightened the magazines on the table and went to her bedroom.

  She could hear the shower running now.

  Her imagination went berserk.

  She slammed her bedroom door before she did something really foolish…like invite herself into his shower.

  She was already dressed for a day at the shop in an untucked, blue silk blouse that was slimming without being revealing, and narrow black trousers with a forgiving, elastic waist. She paced around. Straightened the few items on top of her dresser. The mother-of-pearl hand mirror that had been her mother’s. A silver-framed photograph of the McCray family when Tara and Sloan had been just five years old. Too young to realize, yet, the kind of lifestyle a child could expect with a father who lived two lives.

  She wasn’t sure why she kept this particular photograph on her dresser when all of her other family photos—few though they were—were locked in the trunk in the closet. Was it the fact that they’d all looked happy?

  She couldn’t even remember where they’d been living when she was five. Couldn’t recognize the furniture they were sitting on in the portrait, or the stone fireplace behind them, complete with a glowing fire. But her dark-haired mother had looked beautiful and carefree with Tara sitting on her knee and her father had looked handsome and relaxed with Sloan on his.

  Or did the photograph merely serve as a reminder about how fleeting that happiness was?

  She realized the shower had stopped and looked away from the photograph.

  Most days she hardly even noticed the frame sitting there. But “most days” had passed since Axel had returned and complicated everything more by revealing what he really did for a living.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin when he knocked on her closed door. She pulled it open and heat curled through her, low and intense.

  The black crew-neck sweater he wore clung lovingly to his torso. His jeans had been replaced by another pair. Just as well-washed. Just as appealing. “You ready?”

  Was she ever.

  “Yes,” she said more or less sedately. She glanced down. “You might want some shoes.”

  He wiggled his bare toes and when she looked up, she caught a faint grin on his face. “Really?” He turned away, heading back into the living room, mercifully missing the shaking hand she pressed to her heart.

  She had on her coat if not her emotional armor by the time she reached the front door.

  But he stopped her. “Wait. I’ll go first.” He stomped his foot into the work boot he was lacing. “I haven’t been outside yet this morning to check around. I’ll tell you when it’s okay to come out.”

  It should have been a needless reminder of the reason why he was under her roof at all, but it wasn’t. She swallowed down a ripple of unease. “What if it’s not okay?” She didn’t like acknowledging the fact that someone might want to hurt her. She really didn’t like Axel’s intention to get between that someone and her if—or when—it happened.

  “Stay locked inside, away from the doors and windows, get on your cell and call Hollins-Winword.”

  “And how would I do that? By calling directory a
ssistance? Somehow I don’t think this agency that ‘nobody should have to know about’ is listed in the yellow pages.”

  “I programmed the number in your cell phone.”

  Her lips parted. Unless the phone was connected to the charger in her bedroom—which it usually was at night—the phone was always dumped somewhere in the bottom of her purse. “When did you do that?”

  “Yesterday.” He reached a long arm for his leather jacket that was tossed over the back of the couch. “Don’t worry. I didn’t peek through your little black book.”

  She grimaced. “Funny.” He surely knew at this point that there was nothing of the sort in her purse.

  She was only grateful that the paperback edition of After Nine Months had been relegated to the drawer of her nightstand several days earlier.

  Now, she pulled out her cell phone and started to scroll through the numbers, but he’d programmed it to be the very first number. She eyed the digits with surprise. “It’s a local number.”

  “Yeah.” Shrugging his jacket over his shoulders, he flipped out the collar and reached for the door.

  “Wait!”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “What?”

  She felt foolish. “What about you? I mean, don’t you have a, um, a gun or something?”

  His lip quirked and he pressed a hand flat against his chest. “Worried about me?”

  “Shouldn’t I be? You and Sloan are the ones who insisted there was a reason I needed a bodyguard. Do you think I want anyone hurt as a result?”

  “Put your conscience to rest, darlin’. This is what I do.” He pulled open the door and slipped through.

  She darted to the door after he closed it. Her hand hovered over the knob. Her other hand clutched her cell phone.

  But she heard nothing from outside. No commotions. No shouts. Nothing, until a car horn bleated twice.

  She dismissed her nervousness with a stern exhale and pulled open the door. Shutting it behind her, she locked the brand new dead bolts he’d installed himself when they’d gotten home from the big house the evening before.

  He was waiting in his truck, which was once again backed into the driveway, passenger door open.

  She lifted her chin, resisting the urge to rush down the steps and dive into the truck. She only felt this way because of Sloan’s paranoia.

  For five years she’d lived and worked in this community. She refused to be anxious now every time she stepped out of her front door. So she sedately walked to the truck and climbed inside.

  It took only a matter of minutes to drive the few miles to her shop. Again he parked alarmingly close to the rear entrance.

  Inside, she hung her coat in the back room on the antique iron coat stand, lit a coffee-scented candle, and plugged in her electric teapot while Axel roamed around the front of the shop. She unlocked the safe, removed the till and carried it out front to add to her old-fashioned cash register.

  Axel was sprawled on the long leather couch that sat opposite the mahogany bar, which she’d picked up at a fire sale and refinished to use as a counter.

  “Too bad you don’t have this baby in your living room,” he said, tucking his hands behind his neck and crossing his boots at the other end. “It’s a lot more comfortable than your couch.”

  “And two feet too long,” she countered. He looked entirely at home on the piece, stretched fully out.

  In fact, there’d easily be room for two—

  She closed the cash drawer with such a snap that the entire machine jingled. “Drawer sticks,” she lied when he gave her a curious look.

  “How much is it?”

  “Why?” She pulled out a dust cloth and ran it over the counter. “You’re not moving it into my living room.”

  He turned on his side, propping his head on his hand. His eyes were full of wicked humor. “Why not? I’m living with you.”

  “You’re staying with me,” she corrected. “There’s a world of difference.”

  “Yeah.” He waited a beat. “No sex.”

  She snapped out the rag and turned to wipe down the other side of the counter. “That’s the way you wanted it.”

  “I said it would be inappropriate under the circumstances,” he returned immediately. “Not that I didn’t want…it.”

  She went hot all over and couldn’t manage a suitable response to save her soul.

  After a moment, he spoke again. “So, how much?”

  She named an outrageous sum.

  “Okay. Sold.”

  She gaped a little and turned to face him. “And just where do you think you’re going to put a seven-foot couch?”

  “At my place, obviously.” He rolled off the sofa in a smooth motion only to lean against the counter, all of two feet from her nose.

  His place. The one he’d told her about that weekend in Braden. Built just before he’d left the country and located midway between his parents’ house at their horse farm and the Double-C Ranch.

  It was torment the way she so easily recalled every word that had passed his lips all those months ago.

  “I told you I had only a few pieces of furniture so far,” he reminded her. “So do you want a sale or don’t you?”

  She realized he had a gold bank card tucked between two fingers and argued with her conscience for a while, because the price she’d given him was ridiculously high. “Something this costly should be out of your budget.”

  His grin widened. “If you want to compare tax returns, I’m pretty sure you’ll stop worrying about whether an overpriced couch is in my budget or not.”

  “If it’s overpriced, why want it?”

  “Because sometimes I like to get exactly what I want.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “And one day, you and I are going to make love on that couch.”

  She trembled and snatched the card. “In your dreams.”

  “Definitely,” he agreed.

  She shoved the card through the credit machine only to realize she had the card backwards and she flipped it around. Ignoring him was close to impossible so she took refuge in the mundane. “How are you going to get the couch there? It took three guys to get it off the truck when it was delivered here.”

  “I think I can manage the delivery.” His voice was dry.

  She printed off the charge slip and set it in front of him, along with a pen. “Do I need to see your driver’s license as proof of identity?”

  His eyes glinted. “I never realized before what a laugh riot you are in the mornings.” He added his slanting signature to the slip.

  “Hopefully, there won’t be many more mornings where you’ll have to suffer.” She slid the pen out of his fingers and dropped it back into the cheery little clay pot that held her pens. “And we can both get back to our lives.”

  He folded his arms on top of the counter. His shoulders looked wider than ever as he leaned so close that his lips were only a hairsbreadth from hers. “This is my life.”

  She practically jumped a foot backward so there was no danger that she might sink into that almost-kiss. She tucked the sales receipt into the register drawer. “It isn’t my life.”

  She deliberately turned away and went back into the storage room. There were a half-dozen shipping crates she needed to unpack. But before she could display the contents, she’d have to make room in the shop.

  Selling the enormous couch would help; she’d have plenty of space then to rearrange the various pieces of much smaller furniture and her clothing displays.

  “Why’d you choose to open a store like this when you came to Weaver, anyway?” His voice came from behind her.

  “What else was I going to do?” She cast a sideways look at him as she slit open the smallest crate with a box cutter. “The magazine I wrote for was in Chicago.”

  “What magazine?”

  “That detail not in your logbook?” She gave him the name anyway and his eyebrows rose.

  “My mom reads that.”

  “A lot of people read it. Which was one of the reasons I was thr
illed to get a position there.” She made a face. “That lasted all of two years. Now, I’m here.”

  “Writing is one of those things you can do from a distance, isn’t it?”

  “Not when you’re covering lifestyles in Chicago.” She pulled out the protective Bubble Wrap from the box to reveal two small wrought-iron garden tables. She began to lift out the first one.

  “Here.” He brushed her hands away.

  “I can do it.”

  He ignored her and pulled both tables from the box. “It’s not a crime to accept help, you know.”

  She pulled the cardboard box away and flattened it. “Yes, and when the help goes away, it’s easier to have never gotten used to it in the first place.” She carried the cardboard to the back door only to stop short and look back at him.

  “You’re learning.” He took the cardboard out to the large bin in the alley that served all of the small businesses in her little strip. He was back in seconds. “So why open a shop, though? Especially one like this? It’s not like anything Weaver’s ever had.”

  “Which is why it could have been just as miserable a failure as it was a success,” she explained.

  “Right.” He picked up the squat jar holding the coffee-scented candle. “The smell of this is making my mouth water.”

  “You can fix some real coffee here.” She gestured at the small coffeemaker sitting on the corner of the desk she rarely used. “Coffee is in the top drawer. I keep it around for the customers.” She opened the second drawer of her desk to reveal several boxes. “Crackers and cookies. I usually have a tray by the register with something tempting on it.”

  “Full-service shopping.”

  “Something like that.” She went to the small sink in the corner and washed her hands. Then she set the crystal tray she used for the edibles on the desk, added a delicate doily to it and began arranging the pretty, imported cookies on top.

  “Still, why a shop?”

  She tilted back her head, sighing. The man gave “persistence” new meaning.

  She added a few more cookies to the tray. “My mother always dreamed about having her own little shop.” Talked about it, but could never realize it because they were constantly on the move with Tara’s father.