Mary Baxter - Like Silk

No doubt she felt the hot tension, too. He didn’t know why that made him feel better, but it did. “I hung them in the laundry room to dry,” he forced himself to say around his elevated breathing. “But I’m not sure they’re wearable.”

“I’ll have to wear them anyway.”

He rubbed the five-o’clock shadow on his chin in frustration. She was right. As far as he knew, there wasn’t one article of women’s clothing on the premises.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Come on and I’ll make us some breakfast.” He had to do something to ease the tension, needed to keep busy. His insides felt ready to explode.

Once he had freshly dripped coffee on the small kitchen table, along with bowls of oatmeal and plates of toast, he finally sat down across from her. He kept his eyes averted for fear she would pick up on his raw and growing hunger for her, which could only make the situation even more uncomfortable.

He grimaced, then focused his attention on the oatmeal. It reminded him of a glob of cement. He almost got up and dumped it into the sink. If only he hadn’t given in to the urge to play the Good Samaritan.

“When can you take me home?”

The sound of her soft, Southern voice pulled him up short. Oh, boy. His grimace deepened. “I can’t. At least, not today.”

Her face lost what little color it had, making her eyes appear deeper and darker than before.

“The bridge is impassable,” he added flatly.

Her lower lip quivered, which was almost more than he could handle. “What if…” Again her voice faded into nothingness.

“I know what you’re thinking, but it’s supposed to clear. As soon as it’s safe, trust me, we’ll be out of here.”

Brittany bit down on that deliciously plump lip, stopping the trembling. Though she didn’t say so, he sensed she was terribly upset by the turn of events. Hell, so was he. But he couldn’t do anything about it, and neither could she.

“I have to get back to my job.”

Her dark brown eyes implored him, and he stifled a curse. “I’m sure you do, but that’s not going to happen. Not today.”

“There’s…nothing you can do?”

He shoved the bowl away, dropping all pretense of eating. “Nope, except wait.” He paused, angling his head. “Where do you work?”

“At a travel agency in Haven. I’m also taking classes at the college. Tonight, however, I have to be—” She stopped midsentence. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

He frowned. “If there’s someone you need to call, feel free.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said in a forlorn voice. “I can’t go to the diner looking like this anyway.”

“Diner?”

Her chin seemed to lift a notch as she met his gaze. “I work on weekends as a part-time waitress.”

A waitress.

He didn’t know why that bothered him. There was nothing wrong with that job. Maybe he was more of a snob than he realized.

Finally collecting himself, he said, “Like I said, make any calls you want.”

“Thanks,” she said tightly.

He wanted to bombard her with questions, asking why the hell someone who looked like her had to sling hash. More to the point, he wanted to know everything there was to know about this lovely creature who had dropped into his life.

But his throat felt suddenly paralyzed, especially when that lower lip started to quiver again. For a long moment he couldn’t take his eyes off it, imagining his tongue running across its soft inner lining.

“Don’t.”

He gave another start. “Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that,” she said in a slightly cracked voice.

Distress spilled from her eyes, which made him feel more like a heel than ever. Realizing he was on the verge of falling off a very high cliff, he stood and muttered roughly, “Sorry.”

When she didn’t respond, he added, “Look, stay and finish your breakfast. I’ve got work to do.”

Rupert Holt slammed the paper down on the desk in his study so hard that his cup rattled in his saucer. Coffee sloshed on the wood. “Damn!”

He ignored the mess his burst of temper had made, continuing to seethe. Let one of his maids clean it up. He paid them enough.

The last thing he wanted was for Collier Smith to get that appointment to the federal bench. No son or stepson—it didn’t matter—of Mason Williams would succeed in any political arena if he had his way. And as long as he had the money to back up his mouth, he usually got what he wanted.

But then, so did Mason. He had as much clout, prestige and money as Rupert himself had. Yet Rupert was determined to best him. Besting his contemporary had become one of his most sought after goals. He felt justified, too, since the law firm of Williams, Smith and Rutledge had represented him on a lawsuit that had gone sour, costing him a bundle of money.

While that was bad enough, Mason’s superior attitude rankled just as much. The fact that he hailed from an old Southern family, with roots going back before the Civil War, didn’t make Mason any better or his shit smell any sweeter.

Rupert would have given his left ball to have the same social clout Mason and his family had, but no matter how much money he made, no matter how many of the rough edges he whittled off his personality, his efforts never seemed to be enough.

In the social circles of Haven and the surrounding county, he was always going to be one down simply because he didn’t have a family tree of distinction.

A crock of crap. That was his thought on the subject. He had news for the snobs: he could hold his own when push came to shove. And with this federal appointment wide-open, the shoving had started.

Hell, he was a staunch Republican, in good standing with the party muckey-mucks, and he had his own man in the race for the judgeship, a man who was much more qualified than Smith.

Before he could mount an attack against the William and Smith armies, however, he had to fix a more pressing problem—Brittany Banks. Somehow he had to make up for the damage he’d done to her before she returned the favor and damaged him.

Sweat dampened his shirt as the ramifications of his poor judgment hit home. He couldn’t remember when he’d gotten that drunk or lost control so completely and so quickly.

But when she’d told him no and looked at him as if he was some reptile that had just crawled out from under a rock, he’d lost it. He remembered slapping her hard at least once. What happened after she cried out remained fuzzy, except for when he shoved her out of his vehicle.

If she blabbed and his wife found out… Sweat covered Rupert’s entire body as he suddenly lunged up from the table and walked to the window. The grounds of his mansion were a sight for any eyes, especially when the leaves were at their peak. Now the beauty of his estate held little fascination for him. His mind was too cluttered with neutralizing the damage.

He’d already ordered two dozen long-stemmed red roses to be sent to the travel agency that afternoon if Brittany showed up for work. Suddenly his entire system threatened to shut down.

What if she was dead?

Although it hadn’t been freezing last night, it had been cold and raining. And he’d just dumped her on the side of a highway like a piece of garbage. Someone could have come along and run over her, or worse.

His sweat turned into a chill, making him shake. He’d already called the local hospitals to see if she’d been admitted. So far, so good. If she didn’t show up at work in a few days, he would have to hire a private eye to find her. If she was dead…

He almost lost the contents of his stomach. He shouldn’t have gotten so stinking drunk. He knew he couldn’t handle it. Angel, his wife, would have his head on a platter, not to mention what would happen to his position in the company. She would strip him of all power. He thought he’d conquered his drinking problem, or at least had it under control, but apparently he hadn’t.