The Acquired Bride
Auteur·e
Teresa Southwick
Lectures
15,8K
Chapitres
12
Chapter One
He’d been slimed!
Quentin McCormack looked down and watched cotton candy, Hawaiian punch and chocolate mix together and slide down his leg. The triple whammy.
Then he met the worried, gray-eyed gaze of the pint-sized linebacker who’d collided with him. Contrition was written all over his face and Quentin hadn’t the heart to reprimand the little guy, even though the trousers were new and expensive. He also hadn’t a clue how old the boy was, but he was definitely too little to be wandering around alone.
“You okay, buddy?” he asked.
The boy, who barely came up to Quentin’s knee, nodded tentatively.
“Where’s your mom and dad?”
His only response was a shrug. Quentin surveyed the lunchtime crowd. It was August and hot. Hannah Caldwell had just cut the ribbon to open her new day-care center. Most everyone in town was there for the ceremony because Storkville took its responsibility to children very seriously. Which made him wonder who would let their child wander unattended.
He glanced at shop windows up and down Main Street. “Do your parents work nearby?” he asked.
“Mommy works at bad nets and boots,” he said proudly.
Quentin frowned. Sounded like a sporting-goods store named by someone unclear on the concept. He must be missing something.
Just then he heard a female, panic-tinged voice calling, “Lukas!” He looked down at the child. “What’s your name?”
“Wookie,” he answered.
“Like the Star Wars character?” he asked. He wouldn’t be surprised. For all he knew the boy was speaking an alien language. Ditto, he thought when the child looked at him as if he had two heads.
The crowd parted and two feet from him, Quentin saw a frantic-looking woman holding the hands of two little girls with tear-streaked faces. His breath caught as he stared at her. Shoulder-length, chestnut brown curls framed a heart-shaped face with the biggest, most expressive gray eyes he’d ever seen. She wasn’t tall, maybe five foot two, but her slender body, with curves in all the right places, was his fantasy come to life.
Lightning.
A direct hit. He couldn’t have felt more zapped if he’d been standing in an electrical storm holding a kite string with a key attached.
Because of the crowd on blocked-off Main Street, she didn’t notice him or his new little friend. They were standing in front of the sprawling three-story Victorian house with wraparound porch and enclosed backyard containing play equipment that was now BabyCare. To get the woman’s attention, he held up his hand, then curled his fingers into his palm when he noticed it was shaking. She finally looked directly at him and he pointed down.
“Is he by any chance yours?”
Bingo, he thought when her shoulders drooped with relief. She was beside him in three strides and squatted down on a level with the child.
“Lukie, you scared me half to death,” she said in a voice that was three parts concern and one part anger. Then she pulled him into her arms for a viselike hug. “Don’t ever run off like that again, young man.”
“His name isn’t Wookie?” Quentin asked.
She stood and smiled, taking his breath away for the second time in two minutes. “His name is Lukas and articulating L’s is a challenge for a three-year-old.”
“Hewwo, Mommy,” the child said, his red-stained mouth turning up in a grin.
“Hi, Lukie.” She looked back at Quentin and shrugged. “See what I mean? His sisters have the same problem.”
“They’re all three?” he asked, surveying the children, who were about the same size. Stunned, he watched her nod. “You must be from Storkville,” he said, shaking his head.
“You mean because the stork who visits Storkville bestows many bouncing bundles on those whose love is boundless?” she asked, her gray eyes twinkling.
“That’s the legend,” he concurred.
“I think the stork had a navigational malfunction that day because he visited me in Omaha. And—” she glanced at the three children with infinite love “—I don’t know if he bestowed bouncing bundles as much as the triple whammy.”
“My exact thought,” he said, remembering his close encounter of the gooey kind. “But not about children. Cotton candy, red punch and chocolate is an awful lot of junk food for a little guy like this,” Quentin commented. “Not to mention the fact that he’s running around unsupervised, Mrs.—”
Her eyes suddenly reminded him of a sky on a stormy day and he braced himself for a zap of bad lightning.
“Dana Hewitt,” she said introducing herself. “I’m aware that a three-year-old needs supervision, Mr.—”
“McCormack. Quentin McCormack.”
If possible, she looked even more annoyed. “Of the McCormacks, Storkville’s founding family?”
“The very same.” So she knew who he was and that he didn’t have to wonder where his next dollar was coming from.
“Great,” she muttered. Then her chin lifted slightly, reinforcing her defensive body language. “Do you have children, Mr. McCormack?”
“I’m not married,” he said.
“That’s not what I asked. Your marital status doesn’t preclude fathering children.”
“For me it does. I would never be that irresponsible.” He met her gaze and realized that she barely came up to his chin. He was six feet tall, which made her—really small.
“Have you ever heard the saying ‘Never judge a man—or woman, until you’ve walked in their shoes’?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Here’s another one. When you have triplets, we’ll talk.” She reclaimed the hands of her two still-sniffling girls. “Not that it’s any of your business, but each of the children was allowed to choose one treat. While I was paying for them, Lukie grabbed his and the girls’ too and took off while my back was turned.”
“I see.” What he didn’t see was where her husband fit into all this. Why wasn’t he with her to help corral three small children? “I didn’t mean to judge. You’re right. I haven’t a clue how to deal with one child, let alone three the same age. Sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” she said. When she looked at her son, her anger faded and a different sort of look suffused her features, an expression that was both mad and tender. “You are in a lot of trouble, young man. Never, ever run off like that,” she said again.
“Wanted a b’loon,” the child said, his bottom lip slightly thrust out. “No time out, Mommy.” He shook his head and backed up into Quentin’s leg.
“I know you wanted a balloon. But we can’t always have everything we want when we want it. Especially on our budget.”
One of the little girls looked tearfully up at Dana. “Mommy, make Wookie give me my cotton candy.”
“Me, too,” the other girl chimed in.
“Taking your sisters’ treats…” Dana heaved an exasperated sigh and shook her head at her son. “Your attention span isn’t long enough for the time out you deserve. Give Molly back her cotton candy and Kelly her chocolate.” She looked closer and for the first time seemed to notice his empty hands. “You couldn’t have eaten all of that so fast. The spirit is more than willing, but the tummy is way too small.”
Quentin saw the exact moment when she started to put together what happened. Her gaze went to her son’s sticky empty hands, then to the circle of goo surrounding his own Italian leather loafers, then finally up to his designer pant legs that were now so stiff they could stand up by themselves.
Her eyes and mouth opened wide and rounded into Os. “Good heavens,” she said. “Please tell me, my son didn’t do that to you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Accidents happen.”
“Oh, Lukie, tell Mr. McCormack sorry.”
The boy looked up at him. “Sorry, Mr. Mac.”
“It’s okay, pal,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair.
“It’s Mr. McCormack,” she corrected her son.
“That’s a pretty big mouthful,” he said. “Mac’s fine.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this Mr. Mc—”
“Please call me Quentin.”
“All right, Quentin,” she said. “I insist you let me have your trousers cleaned for you.”
“That’s a tough one. Unless you want me to drop ’em right here in front of God and everyone on Main Street.”
She blushed and the look went straight to his heart, infiltrating his defenses without firing a shot. Of course it didn’t hurt that she had a sweet smile, with full, sensuous lips, and curls around her face that looked as if a man had run his hands through her hair while kissing her senseless. The combination was his second triple whammy in the last five minutes.
She shook her head. “No, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t drop your pants right here. I want to do the right thing, but something tells me a public display of that nature would be stickier than the puddle at your feet.”
“I agree,” he said grinning. He had a feeling his smile was way too wide, but maybe it would hide his reaction to her.
“But I insist you send me the cleaning bill.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“But how can I repay you for this?” she asked.
“You can answer a question for me.”
“All right,” she agreed.
“What kind of establishment is Bad Nets and Boots?”
“Excuse me?” She looked at him blankly.
“Lukas told me that’s where you work.”
She laughed, a merry sound that knocked on the door closing off his heart. Avoiding emotional entanglements was his stock in trade. He’d learned that women were more interested in his checkbook balance than in the man who signed the checks.
“I manage a store here in town. It’s called Bassinets and Booties,” she explained.
“Ah. That explains why I’ve never seen you before.”
“You mean you’ve never shopped our aisles of smiles containing diapers, cribs and layettes?”
“Can’t say I have.” He couldn’t help joining in her laughter. Then, he asked, “And where does Mr. Hewitt work?”
He wanted to kick himself when a dark look erased the merriment from her face. In its place she wore a pinched expression that pulled her full lips into a straight line. “There is no Mr. Hewitt. He passed away.”
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically.
Except he found himself very much not sorry that she was unattached. But he couldn’t help wondering if part of the Storkville legend had touched her long-distance. Was her love for the husband she’d lost boundless? He hoped not.
As soon as he’d thought it, he was appalled. What had gotten into him? He’d been slimed on the outside and now he knew it was merely a visible manifestation of what he was like on the inside. Worse, he didn’t know what to say to get past the awkward moment.
He could only come up with, “You’re very lucky to have the children.”
“Don’t I know it. And no one is going to take them from me,” she added emphatically.
“Why would anyone take them?” he asked, puzzled.
“A better question would be why would anyone but me want them,” she shot back. “They’re demanding, rambunctious, active. They do everything in triplicate.” She nodded forcefully. “But Molly, Kelly and Lukas are my whole life.”
“I envy you. My whole life is business and it’s not nearly as exciting as your children.”
“Should I be flattered or insulted? What kind of business are you in?” she asked.
Her face appeared innocence itself, but he read between the lines of her question to another one: How much money do you make?
“I deal in investments. Finances. A little of this and that,” he said vaguely. “That’s not the same as the commitment you’ve made. Your children are lucky to be on the receiving end of such unconditional love.”
“They might trade a small percentage for an extra pair of hands,” she said ruefully. “Sometimes these three seem like twenty. But thank goodness I found a job in Storkville. I relocated here about six months ago and found that it’s a wonderful place to raise children. If Lukie had gotten away from me anywhere else—” She suppressed a shudder at the unthinkable.
“Why did you leave Omaha?”
There was a troubled, faraway expression on her face. But all she said was, “I had no family left. I’m an only child and my parents are both gone. And—the memories there were too much. I decided to start over here with the children.”
“It’s Storkville’s gain,” he said.
“Thank you.” She glanced guiltily at his pants. “Not necessarily yours, though. Are you certain you won’t let me pick up the cost of dry cleaning?”
Clear, beautiful gray eyes looked into his own. Odd, he thought. He wanted to drown in her eyes. He blinked a couple of times, mentally shaking himself. He was a by-the-numbers businessman, not a poet. What was he thinking—drown in a woman’s eyes? Get a grip, McCormack.
He might have been able to rein in his acute response if the rest of her hadn’t inspired him, too. Her petite form fit nicely into a pair of black slacks topped by a black-trimmed beige sweater. Her breasts, not too big or too small, filled out the sweater perfectly, as if it was made for her. In fact, he couldn’t help thinking that she would fit him nicely, as if she was made for him too. Whoa, Mac.
“Mommy, I hafta go.” One of the little girls—Kelly or Molly?—tugged on her hand.
No, don’t go, he thought. He felt like he could stand there and talk to her forever.
Dana looked down at her daughter. “Okay, sweetie.”
Dana turned back to Quentin and said, “I think I’d better get the children home. Let me know if you change your mind about the cleaning charges,” she offered.
“I won’t. But thanks.”
Dana released one of the girls and instructed Molly and Kelly to hold hands tight. Then she took her son’s sticky fingers in a firm grip. “I appreciate your understanding about Lukie. Somehow, I’ll figure out a way to thank you. Goodbye, Quentin.”
He searched for something to say that would keep her there a little longer, but came up empty.
He watched her walk away, and the crowd swallowed Dana Hewitt and her brood before his lightning-fried brain functioned normally again. He realized he hadn’t asked for her phone number. He could always drop by the store, or…
No.
This was for the best. He would bet everything he owned that she was still getting over the loss of her husband. But because of all he owned, it was necessary to question the motives of every woman he met. And Dana was especially risky. He was pretty sure she didn’t have a lot of money to spare.
He looked down at his pants. In spite of the spectacle he must make, he grinned. Cute kids—especially Lukas. But the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree. Cute mom.
Now he would do himself a favor and forget her.
“I guess that does it.” Cleland Knox, owner of Storkville’s insurance agency and president of the chamber of commerce, consulted his notes.
It was October first and the merchants of Storkville were meeting in the town hall to discuss the tentative schedule of holiday events, from Halloween to Christmas and New Year’s. When finalized, it would be printed and posted all over town.
Dana, sitting in for her boss, fidgeted in her chair. She wondered if her hair and clothes looked all right. Normally, she didn’t question her appearance. Ordinarily, she did the best she could with what she had. But tonight wasn’t normal or ordinary. Quentin McCormack was sitting behind her.
Goose bumps that had nothing to do with the chill in the hall skittered up and down her arms. She had carried around a mental picture of the brown-haired, blue-eyed hunk ever since she’d first laid eyes on him in August. His cover-model good looks had been responsible for her not noticing right away what Lukie had done to him. And that was because her gaze had only strayed as far from his face as to his impossibly broad shoulders and his flat abdomen. Only later had she noticed his muscular thighs encased in the expensive material—and covered with gunk.
“Is there any other business?” The C.O.C. president interrupted her delicious yet mortifying daydream.
Dana raised her hand. “Mr. Knox?”
He looked into the crowd. “The chair recognizes Mrs. Hewitt of Bassinets and Booties.”
She suppressed a grin at his formality. He and his wife Grace were regulars in the store, frequently buying toys, clothes and furniture for their four grandchildren.
“Mr. President, I just wanted to make sure that the Bassinets and Booties holiday party, fashion show and raffle are on the schedule. I didn’t see it on the rough draft.”
Dana had just come up with the idea a couple days ago. Her boss had loved her suggestion for the store’s Christmas promotion this year. Every merchant planned something and the events were staggered so that people could get to them all. It was also a last big push that boosted sales through Christmas and the end of the year.
Cleland scanned the paper in his hand and nodded. “I have it penciled in here. Don’t worry. It will be on the final schedule. Second Saturday in December,” he confirmed.
“That’s right,” she agreed. “Thank you.”
“The weekend after that is Santa’s visit to the kids at BabyCare. That okay with you, Hannah?”
“Wonderful,” the woman sitting to Dana’s left answered. “And don’t forget the costume party for the kids at the day-care center the week before Halloween.”
The blond highlights in Hannah’s brown hair glowed beneath the town hall’s fluorescent lights. But that was nothing compared to the sparkle in her brown eyes. And that had everything to do with Jackson Caldwell, the love of her life, who was sitting beside her. Her face was so bright, she could have lit the town of Storkville for the entire holiday season, Halloween and Thanksgiving included.
Dana sighed. She envied them. They’d been childhood sweethearts who had recently been reunited and rekindled their love. Together they were caring for, and falling in love with, the twins abandoned at the day-care center a few days after she’d first met Quentin.
What would it be like, she wondered, to find a love that neither time nor adversity could kill? Her one and only experience with romance hadn’t shown her. And she wasn’t likely to get another chance—even if she wanted one. Her job hindered her from meeting unattached men. And then there was the issue of her three children. They would be enough to scare even the most intrepid man into a monastery. But she adored them and they came first.
“Mr. President?”
Dana would have known Quentin’s deep voice anywhere. She blushed, remembering how its timbre lowered a notch as he joked about dropping his pants right there on Main Street so that she could have them cleaned. Her heart beat faster at the image. He was pretty spectacular with his pants on and she suspected he was something of a religious experience with them off. Merely an objective observation. Her heart might be romantically challenged, but her eyesight was twenty-twenty, uncorrected.
“The floor recognizes Quentin McCormack.”
“I just want to remind everyone of the Halloween costume party at the McCormack estate on Saturday, October twenty-eighth. Invitations will go out in the next couple of days. But my parents and I would like you to put the date on the calendar. We’re hoping for a big turnout.”
“Got it down, Quentin. Anyone else?” Cleland scanned the room. Satisfied that no one else had anything to add, he banged his gavel. “Meeting adjourned. My mouth has been watering for some of Doris and Vern Feeney’s cherry pie. They were kind enough to bring some over from the diner.”
“I’ve brought some of my special lemonade,” Aunt Gertie piped up. In her late sixties, she was a petite, silver-haired woman with twinkling brown eyes and a magic brew “guaranteed” to help along prospective mothers trying to get pregnant.
A line formed beside the refreshment table. Dana didn’t even need to look to know who had stepped behind her. Quentin McCormack. The scent of his cologne was permanently embedded in her memory. He was close enough so that she could feel the heat of his body. And what a very tall body he had, she thought, her heart fluttering. Okay, so being romantically challenged didn’t preclude some involuntary spasms.
Dana poured herself coffee, then glanced at him. “Hello.”
Her knees went weak at his oh-so-attractive smile. She debated the pros and cons of turning completely around. On the one hand, not looking at him would be incredibly rude. On the other, if she faced him, she would have to deal with the full effects of Storkville’s sexiest man.
She took a deep breath and turned around.
“Hi,” he answered. “I see you’re avoiding Aunt Gertie’s lemonade,” he said, ladling some into his cup. “It’s made with Storkville springwater,” he added.
“So I’ve heard, along with the rumor about it causing pregnancy. But I see you’re not afraid.”
Grinning, he said, “For obvious reasons. But you shouldn’t be either. The last time I took biology, they were teaching that there’s only one time-honored way to produce a baby,” he said, his voice lowering with the suggestive comment. “And it doesn’t include storks or finding bundles under cabbage leaves.”
“I’m not taking any chances,” she said firmly.
“For three very good reasons.” He chuckled.
As she spooned sugar into her cup, she concentrated on controlling her shaking hands. He was a tycoon—Storkville’s answer to Donald Trump—according to teenage town gossip Penny Sue Lipton, who worked after school at the day-care center. Still, the man had been more than kind to her son, even after being on the business end of his cotton candy. Nine out of ten tycoons would have chewed Lukie up and spit him out, not asked him to call them Mr. Mac. However much she rationalized her reaction to him, she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that she found Quentin McCormack super-appealing.
With her coffee carefully cradled in both hands, she tried to inch away from the table, but she was trapped. People were behind her and one incredibly sexy tycoon blocked her from the front. She blew on the contents of her cup as she searched for an escape route, or failing that, something to say. “How are you?” she finally asked.
“Fine. And you?”
“Busy,” she answered automatically.
He studied her face. “You look tired.”
“Just distracted,” she said.
“If anyone else said that to me, I’d figure it was just small talk. In your case, you’ve got reasons times three why your focus is fragmented. How are the kids?”
“Great,” she said.
“Are they excited about the holidays coming?”
“That’s hard to say. They remember a little from last year. But it wasn’t a very happy time.” The expression on his handsome face was so kind and sympathetic she found herself telling him more. “Their father was in an automobile accident almost a year ago.”
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically.
“He was in a coma for a week before he died on Christmas Eve. It was a rough time for them. Their recollections are vague, thank goodness. I hope to replace those memories with happy ones this year.” But if her in-laws had their way, that wasn’t likely. She couldn’t suppress the shiver of apprehension that slithered through her.
“Is something wrong, Dana?” he asked.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” she answered.
Just then Cleland Knox, in line behind Dana, backed into her, knocking her forward. The sudden movement caused her to launch the contents of her cup. It arced onto the front of Quentin’s sport coat, the stark white shirt beneath, and the front of his pants.
Stunned, she stared open-mouthed at the liquid soaking into his shirt and dripping down his flat-as-a-washboard abdomen. “Oh, Quentin, I’m so sorry.”
Quickly, she grabbed the stack of napkins from the table beside her and began to blot him. At least the coffee had cooled and didn’t scald him. If only she could say the same for herself—she was hot and bothered. She tried to ignore her response to touching the abdomen she’d admired. But her stomach fluttered like a thousand butterflies in flight.
“I can’t believe this,” she said as she stood back to survey the results of her efforts. Without soap, water and some strong stain remover, there wasn’t much more she could do.
“It must be in the genes. Like mother, like son,” he teased. He studied her face and added, “That was a joke, Dana. And it was an accident.”
After watching her work, Cleland said, “My apologies. You all right, Dana? Sorry, Quentin. The missus keeps telling me to watch where I’m going.”
“No harm done,” Quentin said graciously.
“Again, I must offer to pay any dry-cleaning costs.” Dana twisted her hands together.
“Why, he wouldn’t dream of letting you do that. He’s got more money than God,” Cleland said with a laugh. Then someone from across the room called him over.
“He’s right, Dana. It’s not a big deal. Forget it.”
“If you say so. I just can’t believe the Hewitts have clobbered you twice. But I promise I won’t come near you again.”
“Ever?” he asked.
Was that disappointment on his face?
“Not while I’ve got food or drink in my hand,” she qualified, trying to quell the glow his expression had caused.
“Deal,” Quentin said. “But it wasn’t your fault.”
“Still, if this keeps up, you won’t have any decent clothes left. I know how hard it is to get stains out.”
“Not as hard as it’s been to get you out of my thoughts,” he mumbled.
“What was that?”
“I said, you should know with your tots. About stains, I mean,” he added.
“You can say that again.” She met his blue-eyed gaze, which held an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs. Suddenly he grinned and it was as if the heavens had opened and the earth stood still. Her heart skipped.
“From now on, I’ll wear a raincoat when I’m around you,” he teased.
“Go ahead. Joke about it. But truly, I feel just awful. This time, I will make it up to you.”
No excuses. Time and money were hurdles she could overcome with ingenuity. Before another twenty-four hours passed, she would do something to show him how very sorry she was. The only question: how do you make amends to a man who has more money than God?
