Sandra Brown - The Rana Look

“I’m not interested in my appearance.”

Ruby assessed Rana’s flat, functional shoes, her shapeless dress, and the heavy hair hanging on either side of her thin face, a face made to appear even more gaunt by oversized round eyeglasses. Ruby’s disapproving expression clearly said, “That’s readily apparent.” Her actual words were, “ Trent ’s just arrived.”

“Yes, I met him upstairs.”

Ruby’s brown eyes sparkled. “Isn’t he the most adorable boy you’ve ever seen?”

“I didn’t expect him to be so… young.” So young, so good-looking, so virile, and so dangerous to have around, Rana added to herself. What if he recognized her? “I thought you said the new boarder was your cousin.”

“Nephew, dear, nephew. He’s always been a favorite of mine. My sister spoiled him abominably. Of course I constantly chastised her for it. But she couldn’t help herself. Who could? He could twist any woman around his little finger. When he called and said he needed a place to stay for the next few weeks, I pretended to be aggravated, but actually I was delighted. He’ll be such fun to have around.”

“It’s only for a few weeks?”

“Yes, and then he’ll move back into his house in Houston.”

Divorce, no doubt, Rana thought. This nephew of Ruby’s, this Trent, needed a place to stay while waiting for a nasty divorce to become final. Well, Aunt Ruby might think he was an “adorable boy,” but Rana knew an arrogant, conceited, sexist chauvinist when she saw one. She had every intention of staying out of Mr. Adorable’s way. It wouldn’t be difficult. A man like Trent Gamblin would never look twice at a woman like “Miss Ramsey.”

“Something smells wonderful.”

Rana actually jumped at the sound of his cello-mellow voice as he came striding through the portiere that hung across the doorway. His sure footsteps thudded on the hardwood floor. Each strike of his boot heels made the floorboards groan and the china and glass bric-a-brac tinkle against each other.

Ruby was encircled from behind by a pair of brawny brown arms that Michelangelo would have loved to sculpt. Trent bent over her spare body and nuzzled her neck. “Whatcha got cookin’, Auntie?”

“Let me go, you big gorilla.” She wriggled out of his suffocating embrace, but her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were more animated than usual. “Sit down and behave. Did you wash your hands before coming downstairs?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, winking slyly at Rana at the same time.

“If you can mind your manners, I’ll let you sit at the head of the table. Ask her nicely and Miss Ramsey might pour some sherry for you. Now, excuse me and I’ll bring dinner out.”

With her electric-blue skirt rustling, Ruby sashayed through the swinging door into the kitchen. When Trent turned around, he was still grinning in approval of his saucy elderly aunt. “She’s something, isn’t she?” he asked Rana.

“Yes, she is. I like her immensely.”

“She’s outlived three husbands and one daughter. But none of that got her down.” He shook his head in perplexed admiration. “Where do you sit?”

Rana moved toward her accustomed place setting, but he rounded the table with the grace of a danseur noble and moved her chair away from the table for her.

Rana was tall. He was much taller. It was odd, and disconcertingly pleasant, to have a man tower over her. Even if she were wearing the highest high heels, Trent Gamblin would be taller than she.

When she was seated in the rosewood lyre-back chair, he took his place at the head of the table. “How long have you lived here?”

“Six months.”

“Before that?”

“Back East,” she answered obliquely.

He grinned broadly. “I didn’t think that was a Texas accent.”

She laughed softly. “Hardly.” To keep from looking at him, she toyed with her spoon, tracing the elaborate silver pattern with the pad of her middle finger.

“Did you know the other boarder?”

“Guest.”

“Huh?”

“Your aunt calls us guests. She says ‘boarder’ sounds too commercial.”

“Ahh.” He nodded. His throat was brown and strong. His shirt was opened at the collar, and Rana could see a healthy crop of curling dark hair in the V. Looking at it made her stomach feel weightless, so she averted her eyes. “I’ll have to rely on you to acquaint me with the house rules. What time is curfew?”

He was teasing again, and, as before, it annoyed her. She had known plenty of men who played these kinds of flirting games, some of them with more talent than Trent Gamblin. They were games in which a woman was inevitably the prey and a man the hunter. Rana had always resented the masculine assumption that she was interested in such tiresome silliness. She did so now.

Besides, why was this man playing the game with the homely Miss Ramsey?

Then the answer came to her. Except for his aunt, Rana was the only woman around. If there was one aspect of Mr. Gamblin’s personality that was readily apparent, it was that he was a born womanizer. Habits were hard to break.

“The former occupant of your apartment was a widow about Ruby’s age,” Rana explained briskly. “When her health declined, she went to live in Austin, nearer her family.”

She took a dainty sip from her water glass, a gesture that she hoped would suspend conversation until their hostess brought in dinner. The dining room seemed awfully close and stuffy this evening. She ruled out the possibility that Trent Gamblin’s presence had anything to do with it. Perhaps Ruby needed to adjust the thermostat on the air conditioner.

Disobeying his aunt’s instructions to mind his manners, Trent propped his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand while he unabashedly studied Miss Ramsey.

Interesting. She couldn’t be very old. Either side of thirty by a year or two. She mystified him. Why would a seemingly healthy, intelligent young woman ensconce herself permanently in Aunt Ruby’s boardinghouse, quaint and charming though it was? What would motivate a woman to isolate herself deliberately?

Family tragedy, perhaps? A love affair gone awry? Had she been jilted at the altar or something equally shattering?

Miss Ramsey made him think of nothing so much as a spinster schoolmarm of a hundred years ago. Thin face, lank hair-although the candlelight made it shine a color like nothing he’d ever seen before-and that awful gray dress that kept her figure a total secret even from his discerning eyes. She wore no makeup, but her complexion was clear. Unlike that of most redheads, her skin had an olive tint. Actually, though, her hair was too dark just to be called “red.” That deep mahogany luster went far beyond merely red.

Her hands, which kept fidgeting with her silverware, were amazingly small and long-fingered, but looked rough. Her nails had been cut bluntly at the ends of her fingers. She was wearing no polish on them. Nor was she wearing perfume. His nose could detect and name at least fifty different fragrances. Miss Ramsey wasn’t wearing one of them. What he hated most were her round eyeglasses. Their blue- tinted lenses hid her eyes completely.

His steady, bold stare was making her nervous. He could tell by the way she kept shifting in her chair. In a mischievous way, he was glad his attention was unsettling her. The poor thing probably needed a thrill or two to enliven her dull, drab existence. If he could oblige, why not? He had nothing better to do.

“Why are you living here, Miss Ramsey?”

“None of your business.”

“Ouch! Are you always so prickly?”

“Only when someone is rude enough to stare and ask nosy questions.”

“I’m the new kid on the block. You’re supposed to be nice to me.”