Indiscreet Read online

  After an inordinately long pause, he murmured, his eyes pinned to her, "May I offer my congratulations." Doyle swallowed hard, his mouth and throat suddenly parched as he reached for the glass of whiskey he'd brought in with him from his office. "But surely, there's no need for you to leave so precipitously, since the school year won't begin until September."

  Befuddled by his question, since he had hardly made her feel welcome while she was living with him, Rissa answered truthfully, "Well, I have the impression that you would prefer I don't stay here any longer than I absolutely have to, so I am doing my best to absent myself at the first opportunity."

  He didn't bother to deny the validity of what she said, and thus, an awkward moment descended on the table while everyone busied themselves with the delicious roast that Lucille had made, until Doyle finally spoke, rising from the table at the same time, his meal only half eaten, his tone stiff and formal as he said while walking towards his office, "You may remain here for as long as you need or want to, Clarissa."

  Rissa didn't bother to try to conceal her amazement at his little statement, which she would never have thought he'd make in a thousand years.

  "Well," Isaac said, raising his glass to his sister-in-law. "I think that's just about as effusive as he's ever going to get about the subject. You're welcome to stay here with us if you like, Rissa. I know Winnie would enjoy having you around, and perhaps you could find a position closer to here that would allow you to use your teaching talents, but remain with us. But at any rate, congratulations!"

  Rissa wasn't at all sure that Doyle had meant to convey the idea that she could stay forever, although she supposed his brother knew him better than she did.

  The three of them happily clinked glasses, and Lucille appeared at that moment, not to clear away the dishes as they would have expected, but with a cake that she had made as a surprise for Miss Clarissa, in celebration of her good news.

  Cake was definitely Rissa's downfall, and she had entirely too much of the delicious confection—and not enough dinner, probably—before pushing herself away from the table with a rude groan that just made her companions laugh.

  But inside, she was mulling over both what Doyle had said, and what Isaac had said about what Doyle had said. Had he really meant for her to consider that an invitation to live with them? She doubted it, and she wasn't at all sure that, even if that was what he'd intended, that she'd take him up on it.

  In fact, she probably wouldn't. As much as she was attracted to him—which was not something that gave her cause to celebrate—she knew she couldn't be happy with a man who was so changeable—solicitous and kind one minute and the worst kind of gruff, impatient, egotistical and bullying—the next.

  But it was something she'd really like to have clarified, so she knew exactly what her choices were.

  They had adjourned, as usual, to the living room to chat about their days and have after dinner coffee, Winnie and Rissa sitting down to attack a large puzzle they were putting together, and Isaac sitting on the couch, pouring through the paper and smoking a pipe that reminded her of those her father had favored, the scent wonderfully familiar and comforting, somehow, in the cozy room.

  The scene was the picture of domestic tranquility, but only because one member—the most mercurial and imperious of them—had withdrawn.

  "Did you ever get a riding lesson, Rissa?" Isaac asked suddenly from behind his paper.

  "I did."

  Winnie seemed amazed. "You asked Doyle to teach you how to ride?"

  "Not exactly. He asked where you two were while we were at lunch, and I told him. He was about to take you to task in absentia for not taking me with you when I told him I couldn't ride, and he kind of volunteered to do it. Actually, I don't believe he was going to give me much choice—he considers the ability to ride to be an essential skill for living out here, and he's probably right."

  "How'd it go?" Winnie's tone of voice made it clear that she was surprised Rissa had gotten away with her life, and that she wouldn't be at all surprised if her sister told her that it was the most horrible thing that had ever happened to her.

  "Surprisingly well. He is every bit the excellent teacher that Isaac said he was, at least until the end, when something happened, I have no idea what, to make him…I don't know. He went from being very nice and encouraging, even downright complimentary, to being withdrawn and angry, and I have no reason why. I didn't say or do anything that I can come up with that would make him suddenly mad at me."

  She didn't miss the exchange of looks between her sister and Isaac, but neither of them seemed to be willing to impart any new information to her. They went to bed not too much later, and she found herself, bored and alone in the living room.

  Bored was never a good thing where Rissa was concerned. Bored had gotten her spanked by the very man she was seriously contemplating bothering now. She wanted an answer about whether or not Isaac's interpretation of what he'd said before he'd closeted himself in his office in the middle of dinner was right or not, because her life was affected by the result.

  So, if she was going to poke the bear, she decided it might be the smart thing to do if she brought something to distract him with. She had a feeling that honey might not do it in his case, so instead she went to the kitchen and cut of a large slab of cake, grabbed a fork and made her way—heart pounding madly the entire time—down the hall to the big oak door she'd stood in front of once before.

  And hadn't that ended well? she thought with a smirk.

  She knocked on the door in a manner that was just right—not female and tentative—but not male and demanding, either, but somewhere right in the middle of the two.

  But she wasn't prepared for his response.

  His, "Go away!" was growled as authentically as if he really was the bear she'd been comparing him to in her mind.

  Her eyebrows rose at that.

  "Mr.—" Force of habit. She tried again. "Doyle? It's Rissa. I brought you some of the cake that Lucille made for me—to celebrate my good news—and I'd really like to talk to you about something, please."

  She heard the sounds of a glass hitting wood so hard she wondered if it hadn't broken, then great, heavy, booted footsteps approached the door before it was flung open wide to reveal him, who had apparently made himself very comfortable within the confines of his office. What had been—at dinner—his impeccably tied cravat was absent, and the first two or three buttons of his starched white shirt were open to reveal evidence of a decent amount of chest hair, as well as the glint of something she thought might be gold. His waistcoat hung open, his thick black hair—usually ruthlessly tamed—had probably had a big paw run through it more than a time or two, and his eyes were just slightly unfocused as they stared down at her.

  "Well?"

  Although her first impulse was not only to take a step back but to turn and run, Rissa forced herself not to. She couldn't quite bring herself to even a modest level of eloquence, though, and ended up just holding up the dessert plate of cake to him like some kind of sacrificial offering, hoping he'd devour it instead of her.

  He took it, giving her a calculating look, as if he thought she might want some and he wasn't going to be willing to share, then left her standing at the door to stalk back to his desk.

  "May I come in?" she prompted pointedly.

  He already had a mouthful of cake when he turned back to her and mumbled unenthusiastically around it, "If you must."

  Rissa frowned and sighed, deciding with no small amount of reluctance on her own side that, yes, she must, taking as few steps into the room as she had to, to be able to close the door behind her. She wasn't much worried about anyone discovering her alone in a room with him—Lucille was long since in bed and so was everyone else. The house was quiet, and they were unlikely to be disturbed.

  "I'm sorry to bother you—"

  "Drink?" he interrupted, landing heavily in the chair behind his desk and holding up a bottle to her much like she had held up the cake to
him.

  "Uh, no, thank you." She really hadn't drunk much in her life, and she didn't much like the taste of what little she'd tried.

  He snorted, and she had to suppress the urge to giggle, reaching into his top desk drawer and producing another rocks glass that looked enormous to her. "You're not going to make me drink alone, are you, Rissa?" he asked, proceeding to ignore her answer and fill the glass to the halfway point, then refill his own nearly to the top.

  Why was it that just the sound of her name on his lips sounded absolutely obscene and made parts of her—that she knew shouldn't—sit up and take notice?

  She watched him put the bottle back, then look at her, then look at the glass he'd intended for her, then reach into his drawer again and pull out another bottle that she assumed probably had water in it, adding a generous amount to her drink, so that it was now nearly as big as his. Then he held the glass out to her, eyebrow raised, as if questioning why she was still standing at the door and daring her to come take it.

  With an exasperated sigh, Rissa did what she knew she shouldn't and accepted his challenge, walking into the lion's den and taking the drink he offered so blithely to someone whose capacity for liquor had never been tested in any way.

  She was just going to bring it to her lips when he tsked, standing, and holding his glass out to her, toasting, "To beautiful, red headed school teachers."

  Blushing madly, she chuckled. "I can't drink to that—you'd think me vain!"

  "All right then, to your success, in whatever challenges life throws at you."

  It wasn't quite a celebration of her good news, but she'd take it over his awkward compliment. "Here, here," she said, clinking her glass gently against his, "And thank you."

  "You're very welcome," he rumbled, sitting. "Pull up a chair—unless you'd rather sit on my lap."

  "Doyle, stop that," she scolded, although there was no real bite to it.

  He grinned unabashedly at her, seeing that she wasn't really upset at his brashness. As much as he might have preferred to wallow in the doldrums that had overtaken him, he was glad she had come. She was beautiful and unspoiled and just right feisty, and he enjoyed looking at her much more than she should, considering that it hurt him at least as much to do so.

  And he wanted her. He had tried not to—he had let his gruff exterior speak for him and had successfully kept her at bay, until she decided to snoop and had put herself in danger, and he had lost all control and common sense with it.

  But damn, he had enjoyed spanking her, so much so that he wished she'd do something wrong just so he could do it again—only this time, he'd do it right and hold her in his arms afterwards, soothing her, stroking her, brushing the tear dampened strands of hair away from her face as she hiccoughed sobs and he took those tender lips with his own.

  He rolled his chair a bit further under the desk, so that she wouldn't be able to see the bulge that had already formed in his pants and was increasing with every thought of her his randy mind produced, not that he thought she'd know to look at him there.

  If he wasn't considerably inebriated, his next words would never have left his mouth. "You remind me of my wife, you know. That's probably why I'm given to making inappropriate comments to you."

  Rissa's eyebrows went up. She hadn't known he was married. That certainly shed a new light on the situation. She wondered why no one had told her—and where was she now?

  "Sounds like your wife is the long-suffering sort," she teased, realizing he could go either way in his reaction to it.

  But he just laughed. "Oh, she was, believe me. She had to put up with me."

  Was. He was a widower. She should have thought of that.

  "Exactly my point."

  Another chuckle. "But she gave as good as she got." Dangerously close to the edge of obscene, but the woman sitting primly before him was much too pure to get the double entendre.

  "Good for her." A slightly awkward silence settled over them, and then she asked, emboldened by the drink, "In what way do I remind you of her? Because I tend to answer you back?"

  He leaned back in his chair, holding his drink on his flat tummy and giving her a considering look. "Your demeanor, your hair—she was a redhead, too—only her eyes were green and yours are—" He leaned forward and gazed with disconcerting intensity into hers. "Yours are blue. But you're both very pretty."

  Blushing yet again in front of him, Rissa was just about to thank him for his compliment when he knocked back an unhealthily large swallow of the amber liquid before almost whispering as he stared into the glass, "Well, she was, anyway."

  Rissa's heart wrenched practically out of her chest at that little tidbit he'd let slip, as well as the look on his face when he'd said it, which he'd carefully stifled seconds later, but she'd seen the utter devastation there. He'd been married—happily, it seemed—and his wife had died. No matter he was grizzly bear grouchy sometimes.

  He was hurting.

  She didn't say anything—nothing particularly appropriate came to mind. Oh, she could have mouthed the usual platitudes, but they were utterly worthless, she knew.

  Instead, the alcohol loosening her inhibitions and her usually cautious mind, she leaned forward and put her hand over his, where it lay on his desk. "She must've been a very special woman indeed to be able to put up with you."

  He laughed, which was her intention, but was watery, although there were no tears in his eyes. "Absolutely. No better woman ever walked this Earth. I would have given my life for hers without a scintilla of hesitation. I would have moved mountains for her or bought her anything her big heart desired. She never wanted anything but to be with me. But in the end, my strength, my money, my connections, my acres and acres of land—it was all worthless. There was nothing I could do to help her. She died anyway." He downed the last of his drink and poured another, topping hers off automatically at the same time and not bothering with the water this time. "In childbirth, trying to give me the son I wanted so desperately."

  She was curious about that, but would never have asked him, even though, as Isaac had said, it was his story to tell. For a long time, he simply sat there, her hand still on his, staring at the drink sitting in front of him on the desk.

  Rissa ached for him. It seems he had truly loved—even adored—his wife, which was something—especially while he was spanking her or being particularly nasty—that she wouldn't have thought him capable of. Something drew her to him, even when that little voice in the back of her head warned her against what she was doing, she ignored it and rose to stand next to him, bending down to hug him tightly, not even able to really get her arms around his shoulders, but doing her best to offer him what comfort she could, nonetheless.

  And he let her do it. This mountain of a man sat stock still and stiff within her embrace, but he let her hug him, until, after a long while, he reached up, one hand finding her arm, the other wrapping itself around her shoulders, and finally hugged her back.

  Chapter 4

  When she would have broken the hug, trying to unbend a back that was beginning to ache, she found that lifting her head made her a bit lightheaded and dizzy, and she nearly lost her balance.

  But instead of falling onto the floor in an ignominious heap in front of him, she ended up right where she knew she didn't want to be—where she'd been before—on his lap, and his arms settled around her as naturally as if this was something he did about this time every evening.

  "Doyle, you must let me up," she whispered, irrationally worried—not that she was sitting on the lap of someone who wasn't even her fiancée—but rather that she had voiced her objection too loudly.

  "Why?" he whispered just as loudly back, which set her to giggling.

  "Because." It shouldn't be, but it was rapidly becoming a challenge to find a reason why something that felt very natural to her was wrong. Rissa tried to marshal her outrage, her concern about scandal, her scruples and strict upbringing, but they had deserted her. She even brought her mother to mind, but that
didn't work, either.

  Unlike the other times she'd been in this position—and she knew that those had been the start of the slippery slope she was now rapidly sliding down—and despite the caution she'd spewed automatically at him, she felt comfortable there, with those big arms around her, her head floating just a bit above her body, but not alarmingly so.

  She felt fine. Safe. Warm. Wanted.

  He wasn't in the least concerned about propriety. He wasn't hustling her up and off him. If anything, he'd tightened his hold just the slightest bit when he felt her relax against him, her head lolling back a little onto his bicep.

  "Clarissa."

  "Yes?" She tried to sit up, but he wouldn't let her, leaving her artfully sprawled over him, held there, captive, for his delectation.

  "Nothing—I just like saying your name. It's a very pretty one. It suits you."

  "No more Miss Dayton? " She lowered her chin to her chest as if it was going to help her lower her voice as she tried to imitate him and really didn't manage to at all.

  But he laughed, and she was happy with that. He didn't look as sad as he had when he was thinking about his wife, and she thought that was a good thing.

  Doyle's hand found the back of her neck, lifting her up easily and holding her head so that her face was an inch or two away from his.

  "No more Mr. Caldwell," he growled, not making any attempt to imitate her at all. She was a bit disappointed—she would have loved to hear him try to copy her high pitched, feminine voice.