Billionaire Bachelors: Garrett Read online

  “At least wear a life jacket,” he shouted after her.

  “Garrett?” It was Eileen calling down from the deck where he’d left her. “I hate to break up the evening, but I need to get home soon.” God, he’d forgotten all about her. Hell. Now he was stuck with her until Ana decided to come back in. No way was he leaving until he saw with his own eyes that she hadn’t come to grief out there alone on the dark water.

  “I can’t leave,” he said grimly. “It would be dangerous to leave while Ana’s out on the lake alone.”

  Silence. He wondered if he sensed her surprise and rising suspicion, or if it were merely his conscience creating it in his head. Finally Eileen said, “She’s a big girl,” and there was the first touch of annoyance in her tone. “I suspect she’s gone canoeing before without you to baby-sit.”

  He didn’t bother to answer that, simply turned and stood at the edge of the deck, wishing to hell there was at least a little moonlight so that he could see where Ana had gone.

  “I have to get going.” Eileen tried again. “I have to work in the morning.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be back soon,” he said.

  But Ana didn’t come back soon. Half an hour passed. He started to get concerned. What if something had happened to her out there on the pitch-dark water? Concern escalated into near-panic, and when Eileen said, “Calm down, Garrett. I’m sure she’s fine,” he realized he was pacing back and forth from one end of the deck to the other.

  “Probably,” he conceded. “But I still don’t want to leave until she’s out of the water.”

  His date cleared her throat. This time, when she spoke, there was a definite note of unhappiness. “Garrett, I really need to go home. Your roommate, or whatever she is, is being awfully inconsiderate, if you ask me.” It was a blatant fishing expedition for an explanation.

  “I didn’t,” he said between his teeth.

  Eileen drew back with an affronted look on her face. “I beg your pardon?” she said in a frosty tone.

  He dug his hand into his shorts’ pocket and fished out his car keys. “Here,” he said, tossing them at her. “Why don’t you take my car? I’ll get it tomorrow.”

  Eileen missed the keys. She bent to retrieve them, and as he watched her, he suddenly realized that when Ana made those same motions, it elicited a very different reaction. The sight of Ana’s hair sweeping down, the bared, tender flesh of her nape, and the sweet curve of her bottom all turned him on. Totally, completely turned him on. As undeniably shapely as she was, when Eileen did it, it wasn’t memorable in any way. At least not to him.

  “Well, thank you,” Eileen said in a voice that implied he deserved no thanks at all.

  “I’m sorry this didn’t turn out to be such a great evening.” He knew he ought to at least go through the motions if he wanted to get this woman out of his hair without a scene.

  “I’m sorry, too.” From her tone, he surmised that he’d just been forgiven. She crossed to him and raised her arms to give him a brief hug. “If your…roommate moves out one of these days, give me a call again.” She moved away then, a pretty woman sure of her appeal as her high heels tapped across the deck and around to the porch. “I’ll leave your keys under the mat.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Thirty minutes later, Ana still hadn’t returned. He was sitting on the deck nursing a beer, moodily reflecting on the past three weeks, when he heard the cat meow behind him. Actually it wasn’t so much a meow as it was a squeak, and he wondered if its vocal cords had been damaged when it was hit.

  Not it. She. It figured that Ana would have a female cat. Contrary critter. He turned and saw Roadkill sitting at the sliding door. “What’s the matter, cat? Do you hate your name that much?”

  The cat meowed again.

  “I don’t blame you,” Garrett said. “I’d hate it, too. You deserve something prettier.”

  He’d slid shut the screen but had left the glass open and as he spoke, the cat raised one delicate paw and patted at the screen door.

  “I can’t let you out,” he told her. “Ana would kill me if something happened to you.” He looked down into his beer. “She probably wants to kill me, anyhow.”

  The cat meowed a third time and patted the screen harder, and he heaved himself to his feet. “I’ll feed you,” he offered. “Maybe that’ll take your mind off the great outdoors.” The cat ran a few steps away when he went to the door, but to his surprise, she stayed close, meowing around his legs as he went to the kitchen and got out her food. The moment he set it down, she attacked it, and in minutes the bowl was licked clean.

  “Good stuff, huh?” he asked her as she finally walked away from the bowl. She kept a wary eye on him as she sat and began to wash herself.

  He might as well get his book, he decided, and read until Ana decided to come home. Ignoring the images of the canoe, overturned and empty, floating on the lake that assailed his imagination, he walked up the stairs. To his surprise, the cat came with him. He went into his bedroom and picked up the book he’d been reading from his bedside table, and she jumped up on his bed and daintily pranced across the quilt until she was close enough to touch.

  “Tease,” he told her. He slowly reached out his hand and her ears went back. He didn’t move back but he stopped moving. They eyed each other. After a moment, she arched her head up beneath his hand, and he heard the ragged sound of her purring as he tentatively stroked her back. A ridiculous satisfaction leached through his tension. It was pretty pathetic when all it took to make him happier was one dopey cat.

  She jumped down then, and went to the doorway, looking back over her shoulder as if she wanted him to follow her. He was going back downstairs anyway, so he snapped off the light and obliged. But she didn’t go downstairs. The minute she saw him coming, she began to walk down the hallway, her tail held regally high, still purring like a poorly-tuned motorcycle. She went straight to the door of Ana’s studio and disappeared inside—

  Ana’s studio! The door stood wide open. He knew she usually kept it closed because she didn’t want the cat to get into any of the ribbon or lace that was all over the room. He knew because he’d checked a million times to see if the door was open and he could casually stroll by, maybe catch a glimpse of what she was working on. He’d seen very little of her work.

  The door was open. The cat had gone in. He was going to have to go into her studio and get that cat. It wasn’t snoopy; it was the act of a good…housemate? Roommate? Eileen had called her that, and her tone of voice had given the term a decidedly sexual meaning. His whole body tightened with a different kind of tension at the thought of sharing a room with Ana, of stripping away her clothing and baring that magnificent body, of laying her beneath him on his bed, of letting her masses of hair fall across his pillow.

  He stood in the upstairs hallway and faced what he’d been avoiding for all these days, since the very first time he’d laid eyes on Ana. He wanted her. Not just the general wouldn’t-it-be-nice kind of wanting, but a very specific I-have-to-have-this-woman kind of wanting. Even more than that, he was determined to have her. The kiss they’d shared could have started a fire in the kitchen and he knew instinctively that sex with her would be better than anything he’d ever known.

  Had it been that way for Robin? The thought still pricked at him—at his pride?—but he was rapidly growing past caring that she’d been his stepfather’s lover first.

  If, indeed, she ever had been. Deep down, he couldn’t reconcile the two images of Ana. The woman he was coming to know had integrity, honesty. She wouldn’t have slept with an old man for his money. And though she’d undeniably known and loved Robin, he didn’t get the sense that she was grieving for a lover.

  But how else could she have known Robin? He knew for a fact that the only child Robin and his first wife had ever conceived had been stillborn. A son. The lack of children had been one of Robin’s deepest regrets, and it spoke volumes about his integrity that he’d refused to divorce his first wife desp
ite her obvious mental illness. No one would have blamed him, Garrett was sure. And after her death, he’d married Garrett’s own mother Barbara, who at forty-nine was well past considering a pregnancy. Robin himself had been in his mid-sixties then, and his dream of children had died a quiet death years before.

  No, Robin had no children. Otherwise, Garrett might have thought she was a grandchild. He tried to superimpose Ana’s wild strawberry-blond ringlets and green eyes over the blue eyes and dark hair his stepfather had had in pictures he’d seen of Robin at a younger age, but he failed. The two looked nothing alike. Besides, he was sure Robin had had no other living relatives. They’d discussed it several years ago when Robin was drawing up his will naming Garrett his heir.

  Nice try, he told himself. He was barking up the wrong tree, trying to come up with reasons, excuses, that would allow him to consummate this raging lust he felt for Ana without feeling too weird about the whole thing. Even he could see that.

  Disgusted, he shook his head started down the hall. At the door of the studio, he stopped to flip on the lights, then blinked for a moment before moving forward. The light was bright. Very bright. He supposed that made sense for someone trying to work with color.

  There were seven completed sets of hats and matching handbags laid out on the long counter along the wall. He studied each one, standing before them for long moments. He didn’t know squat about women’s fashions, but he did know that women wanted to look chic and expensive. And these accessories certainly looked to be both of those. They were good. She was good.

  He’d known Robin must have thought she had talent, but discovering it for himself was another matter. No wonder Robin had wanted her to have time to pursue her craft!

  The cat meowed, and he started for the door. But as he passed her big worktable, strewn with felts and fabrics, ribbons, feathers and other decorative items, he paused and stared.

  The sketchbook she used to draw up rough drafts of her ideas lay open on the table. But there was no headgear displayed on the page. Instead a sophisticated sketch of a man’s figure caught his eye. It was him! Himself? He? Whatever. The drawing showed him in profile, standing on the dock with his hands in his back pockets, eyes squinted as he looked out over the lake. He’d stood that way many times. And she’d noticed.

  Curious, he flipped through a few of the other pages—and was struck dumb.

  She’d drawn at least a dozen images of him. Standing, sitting. Sleeping, laughing. Close-ups and full-length views. It was extraordinarily odd to see himself drawn, though the sketches were so cleverly done that she’d made him look as if he were ready to step off the page.

  Was there any significance to the fact that she’d drawn him? Or was it simply that he was the only person who was around on any regular basis? Why was she spending her time drawing a person at all?

  The sound of the deck door sliding open and shut made him jump. Ana was finally back. Relief deeper than anything he’d ever experienced rushed through him; then he realized where he was. The last thing he wanted was for her to catch him snooping around in her studio, so he looked around for the cat. She was sitting atop a counter, washing herself again. He strode across the room and picked her up. “Come on, trouble. You don’t belong in here.”

  Just as he stepped out of the room and turned back to close the door, Ana appeared on the stairs. Her eyes were huge, dark pools that looked bruised and weary in the harsh hall light and she hesitated when she saw him. He had the distinct impression she was about to flee again, but then she saw the cat in his arms. “You’re holding Roadkill!”

  Abruptly he realized that in his agitation he hadn’t even thought about the cat’s skittish nature.

  Hastily he set her on the floor. “The door to your studio was wide open and she went in. I figured you probably didn’t want her in there.”

  “Thank you.” She was looking at the cat rather than at him, and she didn’t appear to even have thought about the fact that he’d been in her workspace. “I could tell she was getting used to you but I can’t believe she let you touch her.”

  He shrugged. It seemed silly to tell her he’d been courting her cat. Instead he said, “Why did you go out on the lake alone? You know how dangerous it could be at night.”

  It was her turn to shrug. “I figured you and your date would appreciate the privacy.” There was no mockery in her tone, only a quiet resignation, and he shifted uncomfortably.

  “You figured wrong. Tomorrow you’re going to have to take me to town to pick up my car.”

  “Your car?” He’d startled her into looking at him and as her eyes met his, he felt an increase in the tension.

  “She needed to get home and I didn’t want to leave while you were out on the lake,” he said. A flash of incredulity lit her gaze and she opened her mouth. Knowing that she was about to argue with him, he forestalled her by saying, “I need to talk to you.” He didn’t try to move closer; she was radiating distress signals that he knew he’d caused and at his words, she tensed as if she might flee and her gaze slid away from his.

  “I—not now.” She was looking at a spot somewhere around his shoulders rather than into his eyes, and he felt his frustration rise at the small gesture of avoidance.

  “When, then?”

  She moved to the door of her bedroom, making way for the cat who scampered in ahead of her. “We only have to be here for four more days and we’ll have fulfilled the terms of the will. I’m sure we’ll be called to the lawyer’s office again when we return to Baltimore. You can say whatever needs to be said then.”

  She shut her bedroom door in his face almost before she’d uttered the last syllable, leaving him no opportunity to reply.

  He stood perfectly still as he counted slowly to twenty. Even then, it took every ounce of self-persuasion he owned to make him turn and walk back to his own room. She’d never know how close he’d come to breaking down her door and demanding she listen to him.

  She deliberately rose later than usual and took her time about getting down to the kitchen. As she’d hoped, he was already in his office. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was talk to him, so she grabbed a pastry and an orange and closeted herself in her workroom for the morning.

  Images from the night before continued to flash through her brain until she felt like screaming. She didn’t know what to feel, what to say, what to believe. He’d brought home a date, that much was unassailable. And even worse, he’d seen the warm welcome she had been prepared to offer him—until she realized he wasn’t alone.

  “Humiliated” didn’t come close to describing how she’d felt. She’d bolted for the lake without even thinking about the inadvisability of paddling a canoe through the water in the dark.

  But why had he pursued her? Was it really simply that he thought it wasn’t safe to be out there alone at night? Giving the keys to his SUV to his date and letting her drive herself home seemed a little extreme, considering that he knew Ana was both a good boatsman and an excellent swimmer. She chose a pleasing shade of forest-green and began to form the felt on the wooden block, but when she realized she was still thinking about Garrett rather than the placement of the pert little brim she’d envisioned, she laid down the scissors and sighed through a mouthful of pins.

  We have to talk. She could swear his eyes had been telegraphing an apology, but she wasn’t sure what he would feel the need to apologize for. Unless it was to tell her he was sorry for asking someone else out, to tell her he only wanted her, Ana.

  Fat chance of that happening in this lifetime. The animosity he’d shown early in their relationship might have faded, but she wasn’t going to be stupid enough to let herself dream of happily-ever-after with him. What could—

  “Ana?” Garrett’s voice sounded as if it were just outside her studio door. “May I come in?”

  “I—yes,” she said, though her heart sank. “Come in.” The last thing she wanted to do was conduct a postmortem on the events of last night. But he seemed determin
ed. She might as well get it over with.

  The door had been slightly ajar. He pushed it open and slowly came into the room, smiling tentatively at her. “I, uh, just wondered how your work is going. Are you getting as much accomplished as you’d hoped?”

  She shrugged, trying for nonchalance when she met his eyes. “I didn’t really have any quantifiable amount of work that I wanted to produce. But I’ve been working steadily every day, and I’ve got more designs in my head than I’ll get finished in the next year, so I’d have to say it’s going well.”

  “Good.” He prowled the edges of the room. “What do you do with your finished pieces?”

  “Pack them up and ship them to one of the two boutiques that’ve been selling me.”

  “No,” he said with surprising patience. “What do you do with them here?”

  “Oh.” She waved a hand at the large closet along the wall. “They’re in there.”

  Garrett walked to the closet. He had his hand on the doorknob when he stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. “May I?”

  With the laser intensity of his blue eyes trained on her, she could barely think. “Sure,” she managed.

  He opened the closet doors wide so that the long rack she’d installed was completely visible, then stepped back a few paces and took it all in. He stepped closer, examining each set, picking up a hat here or a small clutch purse there.

  Ana found she was holding her breath. She was attaching far too much importance to his opinion, she told herself sternly.

  Then he turned to face her, shaking his head and smiling. “These are amazing. I bet women fight over them.”

  She stared at him. “You like my work?”

  He grinned, and her heart skipped a beat at the flash of white teeth as his eyes warmed. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

  She exhaled a shaky chuckle. “Artists are notoriously insecure about their efforts, no matter the medium. I’m no exception.”