Tempted by a Texan Page 4

  Shaken and hurting. And clumsy, all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Well, one arm, anyway.

  She took a breath and nodded. He wasn’t a man who would easily budge once he had his mind set on something.

  He closed and locked the interior door, lowered Trouble to the floor and steered Becca into the bedroom.

  Sliding the robe from her shoulders, he held back the covers as she got into bed, then piled every pillow she owned around her and under her arm.

  There were a couple of small bloodstains on her pajamas, but she was too exhausted to tackle the chore of changing clothes.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  She shook her head, not quite sure how she felt about all this attention.

  And Colby Flynn in her bedroom.

  “You’re supposed to take this pain medication with food. When did you eat last?”

  “Supper.”

  “That was a long time ago. I’ll go fix you some soup and get an ice pack for your hand.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I know darn well you’re not the nursemaid type. So what’s with you all of a sudden?”

  He cocked an eyebrow, a sexy challenge, and drawled, “1 wouldn’t say it’s all of a sudden, darlin’. We do go back a ways.”

  She waved her uninjured hand dismissively. “Bless it all, Colby. You know what I mean. We lived together, for goodness sake. You moved away, but you’ve been back more than a little while. Criminy, you’ve had your office across the street from me for almost a year. In all this time, you’ve not felt the need to coddle me or butt into my life.”

  “You think I’m butting in?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Some would call it friendship.”

  “I have plenty of friends. I certainly don’t need...” She stopped before she went too far.

  “What don’t you need?” he asked softly, making it clear that she had gone too far. He stepped closer, ran his thumb over the curve of her jaw, gently skimmed the bandage over her forehead. “Or maybe I should ask what it is that you do need?”

  Darn it, she wished he’d keep his hands to himself. What she needed was a husband, a lover, a father for the children she wanted to have.

  “I need two good working hands and a batch of bread dough.”

  “Bread dough?”

  “You don’t think the rolls and pastries I sell come from the supermarket, do you?”

  “I guess I never really thought about it. You make all that stuff by hand?”

  “With two hands, yes.”

  “Looks like you have a problem, then.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  He shrugged. “Guess it won’t hurt the town to go on a diet for a few weeks.”

  “I do a brisk business in pastries. Some days, I sell as much at the coffee-and-pastry bar as I do on the antiques-and-books side of the shop. I can’t afford to force a diet on the citizens of Hope Valley.”

  “Okay, how hard can it be? I can help you stir up some stuff.”

  The idea both stunned and tickled her. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Don’t look so shocked. I happen to own an apron or two.”

  Lord love a duck. If Colby Flynn was going to don an apron in her kitchen, she wanted pictures.

  4

  “As much as I’d like to see you up to your eyeballs in flour,” Becca said, “I’m pretty well done in for the night...or is it morning?”

  He checked his gold watch. “It’s 3:00 a.m.”

  She nearly groaned. “I might have to open late in the morning. It’ll take a while to check the merchandise, see if anything’s missing. I’ve already baked cinnamon rolls, and I’ve got some zucchini bread in the freezer that I can thaw. That should get me through the afternoon.”

  “1 don’t think anyone’s going to starve, sugar. Anna’s Café is just down the street, and if a person’s desperate, they can grab a candy bar from Chandler’s drugstore.”

  She smiled at him and settled into the pillows. “Won't be as good as my scones.”

  “Nothing’s as good as your scones. The food that comes out of your oven is pure heaven.”

  She was touched by the compliment. “Thank you.”

  “How’s your arm?” he asked, tucking the pillow more tightly under her elbow, making sure it was higher than the rest of her body.

  “My wrist and my hand are aching pretty bad.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll go get the soup and ice pack.”

  “Don’t bother with the soup. I’m really not hungry.”

  He left the room without commenting. Becca was tired, but her hand was truly throbbing. She looked around the room to see where Colby had put the sack she’d gotten from the clinic. Since the pharmacy wasn’t open until morning, the doctor had given her samples of pain medication—enough to get her through a couple of days.

  Naturally, the sack was nowhere in sight. And she didn’t have the energy to get up and go in search of it. Besides, Colby had practically built a fort around her with the pillows. She was totally snug and didn’t want to move because the pillows were supporting her just right, lessening the pressure on her bruised side.

  Lord, this felt awkward. Here it was, the middle of the night—or wee hours of the morning—and she was alone in her apartment with Colby Flynn. Mere hours ago, she’d been watching him outside her window, ducking behind the curtains, wondering if he was watching her, too, wondering if he was thinking about making babies with her.

  Criminy, Becca Sue. Get a grip!

  There was no time to start fantasizing about Colby Flynn eyeing her with ulterior motives.

  Silly ulterior motives based on a baby pact made when they’d both been drunk as skunks.

  Her heart somersaulted when Colby walked back into the room carrying an ice pack and a sleeve of saltines. He sat on the side of the bed and gently laid the ice pack over her wrist, then held a cracker to her lips.

  She shook her head.

  “Open. You gotta eat something before you take this pain medication. Since you nixed the soup, this is your other option.”

  She took the cracker from him, shoved it in her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “There. Now hand over the drugs.”

  He grinned and produced the pills, along with a bottle of water. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She took the pills and settled back against the pillows. Colby didn’t seem in a hurry to leave, and if Becca was honest with herself, she would admit she wanted him to stay.

  “It seems so surreal that someone actually hit me. I would have never imagined something like that happening in Hope Valley. We don’t have crime here.”

  “Actually, we do, or I would have been out of a job long ago.”

  She noticed that his tone was edged with anger, his eyes hard as he glanced at her arm, then at her head. When they’d been together before—seven years ago—she hadn’t seen this protective streak of his.

  “What were you doing at the office so late tonight?” she asked.

  “Packing.”

  “For what?”

  “Moving to Dallas.”

  A deflating sensation, like a balloon that had suddenly been pricked by a pin, stole her breath. And she had no business feeling this way.

  “I guess I didn’t realize...I’d heard Darla Pam talking about you, but I just figured she was gossiping so I didn’t pay attention.” Actually, she hadn’t wanted to pay attention. She’d felt so sure that Darla Pam was wrong. With news as important as this, Becca had been nearly positive that Colby would have given her a heads-up before he let it become the talk of the town.

  Again, she wondered why she was thinking along these lines. Colby’s life was none of her business. It hadn’t been for many long years. They’d both moved on. She’d dated several guys in the interim—alas, no Mr. Right in the bunch—and even though she’d never actually seen Colby with a woman since he’d had his law office across the street from her, she was sure he, too, maintained an active social life. Especia
lly during the years he’d been away from Hope Valley.

  “I got an offer for a partnership at a law firm in Dallas. It was too good to pass up.”

  The idea of him moving away again should not have given her such a pang of disappointment. “Well, if that’s what you want, then I’m happy for you.”

  Lamplight glanced off the crystal face of his gold watch—the very watch she’d given him just last week. She’d found the watch at a pawnshop and had noticed the engraved name on the casing—D. J. McGee. Since she’d always been into family history, she’d naturally looked into Colby’s. The initials on the back of the watch led her to believe that it had once belonged to Colby’s great-grandfather, Daniel James McGee.

  Figuring he would want the heirloom, she’d packaged it up, along with a note, and mailed it to him.

  There was no denying that her delivery method had squawked like a plucked chicken.

  “How come you didn’t bring the watch over yourself?” he asked, obviously noticing the direction of her stare.

  “How come you thanked me by mail?” she countered, not wanting to admit that she’d hoped he would seek her out, if only to talk about the watch.

  “Touché,” he said quietly. “Ever wonder why we do so much of that? Tiptoeing around each other?”

  She shrugged, feeling the strap of the sling dig into her shoulder.

  “Suppose it’s because we’ve seen each other naked?” he asked.

  “Colby!” She felt heat rush to her cheeks.

  He grinned. “Well, it’s true.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “I’ve got a good memory.”

  She glanced away—not because she was embarrassed, but because thoughts of the past made her sad. No matter how much she wished things were different, they weren’t.

  She was still single and childless.

  Colby was still reaching for his own brass ring.

  The fact that they were both, very clearly, still attracted to one another didn’t change anything.

  He put a finger under her chin. “Hey. You okay?”

  No. She was not. Her head hurt, her side and her hand hurt, and Colby intended to move to Dallas.

  “When you left...before—” when you dumped me, she wanted to say, but didn’t “—you said you wanted a fancy career, power and recognition. If you were so ambitious and money-conscious, why’d you come back to Hope Valley?”

  “Having a private law practice is nothing to sneeze at, darlin’.”

  “It wasn’t good enough for you back then.”

  “Dude Wayland was still here and in business. Until he retired, there wasn’t room for two law firms.”

  Colby set the sleeve of crackers on Becca’s nightstand. He knew he was evading her question, but he wasn’t keen on examining his motives quite so deeply, nor sharing them with Becca.

  She yawned and he jumped at the chance to sidestep this conversation. “Pain meds kicking in?” he asked.

  “Probably.”

  “You’d better get some sleep.” He stood and tucked the sheet around her. “Want the window left open?”

  “No. If you don’t mind shutting it and turning on the fan, that’d be great.”

  He saw the wariness in her eyes, knew she was thinking about the intruder. He lowered the casement window and pulled the shade that was tucked up under the sheer Priscilla curtains, then tugged the chain on the overhead fan. “Better?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  He started back toward the bed, then stopped because he didn’t wholly trust himself. He wanted to kiss her and make her wounds better, hold her and ease her fears.

  But he’d given up that right a long time ago. And since he hadn’t changed his mind about his reasons, he had no business playing with their emotions, either hers or his. The problem was, he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  “You sleep, sugar. I’ll be right out here on the couch.”

  “You don’t need to stay, Colby.”

  “Hush now, and go to sleep, tough girl.”

  He backed out of the room and pulled the door halfway closed. It wasn’t likely that he’d fit well on the sofa, but that was his only choice, other than the floor or Becca’s bed. The latter wasn’t an option.

  As he rummaged through the linen closet for a blanket and pillow, he thought about her question.

  When he’d come back to Hope Valley, it had represented prestige to him. He’d still been in Houston when Donetta had called and asked him to handle her divorce—she didn’t want folks in town knowing her business, that her sleazy husband at the time, the model-perfect public citizen, the town’s respected banker, was abusing her. That was around the time Colby had gotten the sappy idea about coming back to his hometown and being the hero—righting wrongs and untangling legal messes.

  Instead, he’d been tortured by the presence of Becca Sue, by what he’d had and thrown away.

  Now here he was, teetering on the wave of change. His monetary ship had come in—or was waiting at the dock for him to board. The partnership with Wells and Steadman was a very prestigious career move, a guaranteed salary of three times what he could make here in private practice.

  The offer had come about through the senior partner’s daughter, a woman he’d dated off and on over the past couple of years. Nothing serious—although he suspected Cassandra might not object to it becoming so.

  Cassandra Wells was the opposite of Becca Sue. Where Becca was soft-hearted and sweet, with a compact body and a love of family and history and home and hearth, Cassandra was a workaholic like him, tall and statuesque, her total focus on getting ahead. She was friendly, but could easily become a shark. Worldly, gorgeous and scrupulously organized. Hell, on the surface, she was perfect for him.

  He shoved a pillow and blanket under his arm and glanced into Becca’s room once more. She was sound asleep.

  Unable to help himself, he stepped farther into the room. The light from the hall spilled over her pale face, illuminating the dark hair feathering her cheek. He noted the robe lying next to her bed, the jewelry and discarded coffee cup on top of the dresser, shoes under the chair, a tote bag next to it filled with yarn and knitting supplies. A half-burned candle that would probably drip wax if it were relit sat atop the cedar chest, and three different kinds of lotion were on the bedside table, along with an untidy stack of books and magazines, each with a bookmark, business card or scrap of paper marking the spot where she’d left off reading.

  It was all he could do not to pick up after her, find a place out of sight for all her things.

  On the other hand, with its handmade quilts, harlequin masks and feathers hanging on the wall, and the framed photos and collectibles lining the marble-top dresser, this room looked and felt lived in. It was warm, colorful, eclectic. He couldn’t imagine her with white furniture or glass-and-chrome tables that displayed only sparse pieces of expensive art.

  Like the rooms of Cassandra’s elegant town house in Dallas.

  No, Becca Sue was by no means elegant. If he suggested such a thing, she’d probably slap him for being stupid.

  She was, however, unique. She surrounded herself with people and possessions that brought her pleasure. She considered her little groupings of treasures cherished friends. He still didn’t understand how she could sell stuff she’d formed such attachments to.

  One thing he knew for sure by looking around her apartment was that she could definitely use a helping hand.

  That was what he was here for.

  When Becca awoke the next morning, she was sure that she’d been run over by a semi and that the guy had backed up and had a second go of it just to make sure he got the job done right. It took a few minutes for her fuzzy brain to summon up the events that had put her in this state.

  Someone had actually broken in to her shop.

  Malicious burglary was so unheard of in a town like Hope Valley that she wondered for a moment if she’d dreamed it. But the aches and pains all over her body
told her that last night’s drama had been very real.

  She clutched at the sheet and glanced at the closed window. Normally, it would have been open, letting in the summer breeze and the morning’s birdsong. But the sense of safety and security she’d always taken for granted had been shaken. But, darn it, she wasn’t going to let some lowlife get the best of her.

  A noise from her kitchen made her freeze. It sounded like someone rummaging through her cupboards. Every muscle in her body went rigid.

  Then she remembered.

  Colby.

  Colby Flynn had spent the night with her.

  He’d touched her, ran his hands over her body. So, okay, he’d been checking for broken bones and injuries. Still...

  A part of her felt giddy with excitement knowing he was just in the other room. Another part of her was scared to death. Colby Flynn was very dangerous to her peace of mind—and her good sense.

  Right now, her good sense told her she’d better get up and get moving. The shop was due to open at nine.

  For the first time in as long as she could remember, she wasn’t looking forward to going to work. Normally the store was her sanctuary, one of the things in life that gave her incredible joy.

  But today she felt like roadkill. And she’d barely had four hours of sleep. If that wasn’t enough, she had no idea what kind of mess she’d face in the light of day, and didn’t relish the tedious job of inventorying her merchandise to determine the extent of her loss. But at least she had insurance.

  Rolling to her side, fighting her way through the mound of pillows, she got out of bed and decided to go sit in the bathtub, see if that would ease her soreness. It felt as though her entire body had been beaten up, not just her side, her hand and her head.

  Despite some difficulty getting comfortable last night, she’d finally dozed off and ended up sleeping like the dead. Those were some powerful pain pills. She still felt woozy this morning.

  Her apartment only had one bedroom, but it had two baths—one of them attached to her bedroom—so she didn’t have to worry about darting through the hall or running into Colby before she was good and ready. Closing the bathroom door behind her, she turned on the hot water in the tub, adjusted the temperature, then plugged the drain and poured in scented bath salts. Draped over the edge of the tub was a plastic bag. Colby’s doing, she knew, so that she wouldn’t get her splint wet. Did the man think of everything?