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“We keep a phone here for the convenience of our guests,” she told him as she crossed to a table and pulled open a drawer. She took out a thick directory, flipped to the Yellow Pages, then gestured for him to join her. “Other than Parker House, Braesburg only has a motel, and unfortunately, it’s closed for repair. The closest place will be in Austin and that’s a good hour’s drive.” She frowned and tapped the page of the Austin directory. “But you might have a difficult time driving there tonight. I heard on the news a few minutes ago that they’re predicting an ice storm. Unusual for this part of Texas, but coming our way nonetheless.”
He tried to appear properly crestfallen. “Do you have any other suggestions?”
“Not really,” she said, worrying her lower lip as she stole a glance his way. She must have noticed the weariness of his stance or the dark circles under his eyes, for she closed the book with a decided snap. “I can’t very well send you out on a night like this. You can stay here.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Your staying here wouldn’t be an imposition.” She pushed back a wisp of hair that had escaped her bun, exposing a wan smile shaped by full, moist lips. “In fact, I’d welcome the company.”
“You’re sure?” he asked hesitantly.
“Positive.” With the decision made, she replaced the directory and shut the drawer. She angled the guest book his way. “If you’ll sign in here, Mr.—” She looked up at him inquiringly.
“Sinclair,” he said without thinking. “Brett Sinclair,” he finished more slowly. He extended his hand, watching her face for some sign of recognition.
But her facial expression never changed. She simply accepted his hand, smiled softly and replied, “Gayla Matthews. It’s nice to meet you.”
After he’d entered his name, she closed the register. “If you’d like, you can park under the portico in the back and get your things while I prepare a room for you.”
“No need to go to any trouble.”
“No trouble. Use the kitchen door just off the portico. There’s a pot of coffee on the stove in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
Without further ado, she caught up the fabric of her dress and climbed the stairs. Brett stood at the foot of the staircase and watched, her every step awarding him a more revealing view of her bare legs. Long, graceful, well shaped, he could almost imagine the feel of them wrapped around him. He shook his head, dispelling the image. What in the world had come over him? This woman was his grandfather’s mistress, for God’s sake!
He continued to watch until she reached the landing and disappeared down the dark hall, and wondered at his own sanity.
A night in his grandfather’s house with his grandfather’s mistress. What in the hell had possessed him to ask for a room? He shook his head at his own stupidity and headed out the front door.
Brett poured himself a cup of coffee, nursing its warmth between his hands as he rested a hip against the countertop and stared over his shoulder out the kitchen window. Outside sleet fell, exposed in the glow of the security light above the garage. The weatherman had been right, he acknowledged ruefully. The ice storm had arrived and in a matter of hours, the roads would be closed. Thanks to Gayla’s generosity, though, he wouldn’t be caught out in it.
Gayla? Generous? He sipped his coffee, puzzling over that particular possibility. At least in this instance she was, he amended. She might not be so accommodating when she learned who he was and his plans for Parker House.
He shook his head as he thought about her. It was hard for him to believe that she was his grandfather’s mistress, but he couldn’t think of any other plausible explanation for her presence at Parker House or the extent of her grief. Although he didn’t have much to commend his grandfather for, he could certainly salute his taste in women. Gayla was slender—he had detected that much through the shapeless dress—yet blessed with enough curves to satisfy any man’s tastes.
“I see you found the coffeepot.”
Brett jumped at the sound of her voice, fearful that somehow she’d managed to read his thoughts. He forced himself to take a deep breath before he turned to fully face her. He shifted the small of his back to rest against the countertop and lifted the cup in salute. “I did. And thanks.” He tipped his head in the direction of the window behind him. “It seems the weatherman was right, for a change. It’s already sleeting.” He offered her a grateful smile. “If not for you, I’d probably be stuck on the side of some road out there, freezing.”
She waved away his thanks. “Never turn away a guest,” she said as if quoting some unwritten law. At his puzzled look, she explained, “An innkeeper’s rule for survival.” She crossed to the coffeepot and poured a cup for herself. “Have you eaten? I could prepare something for you, if you like.”
“Thanks, but I grabbed a bite at a café on Main Street before I came here.”
“Dessert, then?” she asked. “I made a pound cake this morning, just in case—” She stopped herself before confessing she’d baked the cake in hopes that Ned’s daughter would show up for the funeral. When Brett continued to look at her, waiting for her to finish the statement, she blushed and turned away.
“In case what?” he pressed.
“In case any of the mourners came by after the funeral,” she finished lamely. She set her cup aside and busied herself gathering plates and silverware.
Brett couldn’t resist asking, “Did anyone come?”
“No,” she replied, her voice carrying a tinge of disappointment. “I’m sure it was the weather that kept them away.” She turned to him and forced a cheerful smile. “But you’re here, so it won’t go to waste. If you’ll have a piece, that is?”
And how could he refuse when she looked at him that way, obviously not wanting to be alone? He nodded his agreement. “Can’t let a good pound cake go to waste, now, can we?”
He pushed away from the sink and followed her to the table. She lifted off the domed top of a crystal cake plate, cut a generous slice of cake and levered it onto a dessert plate. Her movements were graceful and sure as she moved to the refrigerator and removed two bowls. From one she poured a measure of thick strawberry sauce onto the cake and from the other, a dollop of whipped cream. In spite of the fact that he wasn’t one bit hungry, Brett’s mouth watered as she slipped the plate in front of him. She stepped back, folding her hands neatly at her waist. “Would you care for anything else?”
Brett picked up his fork and gestured to the chair opposite his. “Sit down and join me. I hate to eat alone.”
She sat—although he could tell she would rather have fussed around the kitchen—and twisted a napkin she plucked from the table between her fingers. He toyed with his fork and tried like hell to think of something to say to fill the awkward silence. He finally took a bite of the cake. “This is real tasty. Do you do the cooking around here?”
“Thank you and, yes, I’m the cook.” She laughed softly. “And the upstairs maid and the downstairs maid and the concierge and the gardener.”
He lifted his gaze, his jaw slack with surprise. “You mean you do it all? There’s no staff?”
“No one other than myself, but really there’s no need. Business is usually slow in the winter months. In the summer, if we are booked for several weeks, I’ll hire a temporary to help out with the cleaning, but for the most part, I can handle the work.
“That’s what makes a bed-and-breakfast so appealing,” she explained. “People want to feel as if they are staying in a home, not a hotel. And that’s what I try to provide. Home-cooked meals, served in a warm and homey environment.”
Her sincerity and enthusiasm for Parker House and her job surprised him. It also drew a few questions. Like, how did she find the time—or the energy, for that matter—to serve as the old man’s mistress if she had all the responsibilities of running the place? From what he could see, the place was huge. -
“How many guests can you put up at a time?”
“There are six guest rooms, plus, last year we remodeled the carriage house and turned it into a bridal suite for honeymooners. It’s more private and there is a little sitting area off the back with a hot tub. It makes a romantic setting on a summer night.”
He absorbed all this, wondering how he could establish her relationship with Ned without asking outright. “Has the house been in your family long?”
She looked surprised, then quickly shook her head. “The house doesn’t belong to me. I just work here. The house is—” She swallowed and amended, “Was Mr. Parker’s.”
“The man who was buried today?”
“Yes.” She rose, picking up her still-full coffee cup, and carried it to the sink.
“What will happen now that he’s gone?”
Her back to him, she lifted a shoulder. “That’s up to his heirs.”
“Do they live in Braesburg?” Brett asked, wanting to see how much Gayla knew about his family.
“No,” she replied as she ran water into the cup. “I’m not sure where they live. Mr. Parker never spoke much about them. His attorney is handling all that.”
She finished washing out the cup and laid it gently on the drainboard. She stared out the window for a moment, her wrists resting on the sink’s edge, her shoulders slumped as if weighted by an unusually heavy burden. Then she seemed to shake herself from whatever thoughts she’d been focused on, and plucked a dish towel from the drainboard. She slowly dried her hands as she turned. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?” she asked, all signs of the melancholy gone. “I can give you a quick tour, then show you your room.”
Brett shoved back from the table, anxious to see more of the house his mother had grown up in. “Yes, ma’am, I would.” He retrieved his duffel bag from where he’d left it by the back door, then followed her through the kitchen door and out into the hall.
“The house was built in the 1830s,” she told him, as they walked to the front entry, “by Mrs. Parker’s family. They were of German descent, as were most of the town’s residents.” She stopped at the arched doorway that led into the living room and flipped on a light switch. A grand piano dominated one corner, while the rest of the space was sectioned into several cozy sitting areas, each with an antique sofa and a couple of overstuffed chairs.
“The furnishings, for the most part, are all original pieces, some brought to this country from Germany by Mrs. Parker’s family. Our guests are free to gather in here…play the piano, read, or just relax.” She switched off the light and crossed the hall to a large dining room, with Brett following close at her heels.
She flipped another switch and twin chandeliers flickered on above a long mahogany table.
“Most of our more formal meals are served in the dining room, although when the weather is nice, I like to serve breakfasts in the garden room.” She switched off the light and motioned for Brett to follow her. “The garden room is my personal favorite. It’s smaller and more intimate. When we decided to convert Parker House into a bed-and-breakfast,” she explained as she pushed back pocket doors, “I had the back porch enclosed.” She switched on the light.
Brett felt as if he’d stepped into a summer garden. Floorto-ceiling windows dominated three walls. The fourth was painted a pale yellow. Trails of hand-painted ivy framed the windows and crept onto the ceiling, giving the room its garden theme. Three round tables filled the center of the room, each draped with brightly colored floral cloths. The same fabric was swagged above each window, giving the effect of flowers coming into full bloom. An antique buffet stretched the length of the only solid wall, holding place mats, a coffee maker and a wooden basket filled with silverware and napkins.
Brett looked at Gayla and noticed the pride that showed in her eyes. “You did this, didn’t you?”
“The remodeling?” She shook her head. “No, I’m no carpenter by any stretch of the imagination. I just did the painting and sewed the drapes and the tablecloths. We hired a local man to enclose the room.”
She made her contribution sound so slight, but Brett could see that it was her touch that gave the room its ambience.
“Would you like to see the upstairs now?” she asked politely.
Brett shifted his duffel bag to his other hand. “Yes, ma’am, if you don’t mind.”
He followed Gayla back into the hall and then up the stairs.
On the landing, Gayla stopped in front of the door at the top of the stairs. “This will be your room, but I’ll save it for last.” She turned down the hall to her left. “There are three rooms in this wing of the house and four in the other, with your room separating them.”
She stopped in front of the first, chuckling, and tapped a finger on the brass plate attached to the front of the door. “It was Ned’s idea to name each room after Texas politicians. He insisted on putting all the Democrats on the left and the Republicans on the right, to keep them from fighting, he said.”
So he had a sense of humor, Brett thought, unmoved by this new knowledge. He followed Gayla into the right wing, only half listening as she expounded on Parker House’s history. At the end of the hall she stopped, her hand resting on the knob of the last door. Unlike the other rooms, no brass plate marked this door. Brett looked at her inquiringly.
Gayla dropped her hand to her side, her eyes bright with tears. “This was Mr. Parker’s room,” she said in explanation, then turned away.
She quickly moved to the door at the head of the stairs that she had told Brett would be his for the night, appearing anxious now to end the tour. “This room was named for Ned’s wife, Marjorie. Ned always referred to her as ‘the peacemaker,’ thus her placement here between the two parties. From what I’ve learned about her from Ned and others, she was a gentle woman, soft-spoken, but with a knack for handling even the most stubborn individuals. Being married to Ned, I’m sure that came in handy. He was devoted to her.”
A devoted husband? Brett thought, stifling a snort of disgust. Not according to the stories he’d been told by his mother.
Gayla opened the door and quickly crossed to switch on the lamp beside the bed. “I think you’ll be comfortable in this room. You have a private bath, there,” she told him, pointing to a door at her right. “Linens are in the closet behind the door.”
She turned to him, looking suddenly tired and anxious to escape his presence. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said as she twisted her hands at her waist. “I think I’ll go on to bed now. Help yourself to more coffee in the kitchen. There’s a television in the study. Stay up as late as you’d like. We like our guests to feel at home.”
Brett watched her until she closed the door behind her, blocking his view. At home? he thought with a snort. Not in this lifetime, and certainly not in this house.
Two (#ulink_e15e4390-3916-502e-8489-9ac9e1e3c070)
Although he hadn’t slept in over two days, Brett lay on his back on the feather bed in the room Gayla had prepared for him, wide-awake, his fingers laced beneath his head. He stared at the ceiling, hoping and praying that sleep would come soon. His entire body ached with weariness.
When he’d received the message to call his mother’s attorney, he’d just returned from an exhausting three-state inspection of all the Sinclair department stores. He’d been tempted to ignore the call, at least until he’d gotten some rest, but then had decided not to put it off. Now he wished he had waited.
The attorney was the one who had given him the news of his grandfather’s death. He’d said he’d received a telegram from an attorney in Braesburg, Texas, notifying him of the old man’s death and requesting that Christine, Brett’s mother, come home for the funeral.
Brett had almost laughed at that. So the old man had wanted his daughter to come home. His request had come too late. Christine Sinclair wouldn’t be coming home. Not ever again. Brett had buried her less than six months before.
The attorney had then reminded him that as Christine’s heir, he would inherit his grandfather’s estate.
That was worth a laugh, as well. Brett didn’t want the old man’s money. Why should he? The old man had never bothered to acknowledge his family before.
He would have ended the conversation then and gone to bed, but the attorney had insisted that he attend the funeral, saying that he owed it to his mother to do so. Brett disagreed with that bit of logic, but had finally gotten the attorney off his back by telling him he would give the lawyer in Braesburg a call after he’d had some rest.
But for some reason he’d found he couldn’t sleep. In the end, he’d thrown some clothes into a duffel bag and climbed back into his truck and headed for Braesburg. He’d driven all night and part of the next day, arriving just as the funeral procession was heading for the cemetery.
And now here he was in his grandfather’s house, wide-awake and with his ulcer burning a hole in his stomach. On a weary sigh, he dragged another pillow beneath his head, then leaned to turn on the bedside lamp. He fell back against the pillow and looked around the room. Nice little touches were scattered about, obviously Gayla’s work—a basket of fruit and crackers on the bedside table, a porcelain dish filled with green and pink mints. A pitcher of ice water. A crystal glass. He leaned over and thumbed up the lid on the pitcher, then promptly fell back against the pillows, unconsciously rubbing his hand across his stomach. No, water wasn’t what he needed. He needed milk to ease the burning.
She’d said for him to make himself at home, he remembered. He levered himself from the bed and hoped she’d included raiding the refrigerator in that invitation. He pulled on his jeans, but didn’t bother with his shirt and boots, then headed downstairs.
Careful not to make any noise, he eased down the stairs and across the hall. He was almost to the kitchen door when he heard a noise. He hesitated, listening, and was sure the sound had come from behind the study door. Thinking maybe he’d forgotten to turn off the television, he quickly crossed to the study and pushed open the door but froze when he saw Gayla sitting in an old leather chair by the fireplace, her back to him, bent at the waist, rocking back and forth. White-knuckled fingers clutched the ties of her robe against her mouth, muffling her sobs. He took a cautious step back, meaning to leave her to her grief, but then he stopped, his heart squeezing in time with each rise and fall of her slender shoulders.
She shouldn’t be alone at a time like this, he told himself angrily. She ought to have family or friends here to share her grief.
He took a step closer.
“Ma’am? Is something wrong?”
She whirled at the sound of his voice, then lurched to her feet. “No,” she said, swiping at her tears. “Nothing’s wrong. I couldn’t sleep and I—” She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle the sob that rose.
She looked about ready to collapse. Brett pressed her back into the chair. “You just sit down there and rest a minute. Can I get you something? A glass of warm milk? A shot of whiskey?”
“No—no, really,” she stammered, pulling the folds of her robe across her knees. “I’m sorry I awakened you.”
“You didn’t wake me. I couldn’t sleep, either.” Wearily, he dropped down on the floor beside the chair and pulled his knees against his chest, trying to think what to da. “Is there someone in your family that I can call? You know, to keep you company?”
She squeezed her hands between her knees, unable to meet his gaze. She shook her head. “No. No one.”
A shiver shook Brett clear to his toes at the bleakness in her tone. “It’s cold in here,” he said, blaming his reaction, in case she’d noticed, on the chill in the room.
“I’m sorry,” she said, instantly apologetic. “I turn the heat down on the first floor after I go to bed. But if you’re cold,” she said, rising to her feet, “I can turn it up.”
Brett caught her hand and pulled her back into the chair. He’d never seen a woman so intent to please. “How about if I just light that stack of wood in the fireplace? That ought to take the chill off.”
“I can do it.”
Brett laid a hand on her arm before she could rise. “And so can I,” he said firmly.
Seeing the stubborn glint in his eye, Gayla reluctantly sat. She watched as he carefully prepared the fire. The flame caught, then rose higher. Picking up the poker, Brett punched at the wood, rearranging it on the grate.
The fire’s glow radiated off his bare chest, capturing the gold in a necklace that swung from his neck. From the necklace’s delicate links hung a thin gold band and with each jab of his arm, the necklace swung, the band slapping against first one muscled pec, then the other.
Gayla had never really considered herself sexually deprived, but at the moment she couldn’t take her eyes off the sight of so much raw maleness. His shoulders were broad and muscled, tapering down to a slim waist and hips. A cowboy’s butt, she decided a little breathlessly, noticing the way his jeans cupped his rear end. She’d heard the bawdy phrase at Betty Jo’s Beauty Salon, but had never seen anything that fit the description quite so appropriately.
His skin glowed in the firelight, taking on a coppery hue, and she had the most irresistible urge to lay her hand on his back and feel the play of muscle as he poked and shoved at the dry wood. But thankfully, before she could act on the impulse, he replaced the poker and scooted back to sit beside her chair.
After a few moments, Brett tipped his head up to look at her. “What were you doing down here, anyway?”
His question brought the grief rushing back. “I don’t know,” she replied, swallowing the threat of more tears. “Lonely, I guess.” She dipped her head, embarrassed by the admission. “Ned spent most of his time in this room. Being here just seemed to make him closer.”
Brett turned his gaze back to the fire. “I used to do the same thing,” he replied thoughtfully.
