Buch lesen: «Callan's Proposition»

One

Hot shower. Cold Beer. Woman.

Callan Sinclair sighed just thinking about the top three items on his “to do” list. After four hours of wading through rain and mud at the construction site in Woodbury, thirty minutes changing a flat on his truck, then nearly four hours on the road, Callan knew that the shower should come first. His jeans and boots were covered with dried mud, and a fine layer of concrete dust made his hair look gray instead of black. And with a throat that felt like a feather duster, the beer would be right behind.

He could see himself now, sitting on a stool at his brother Reese’s tavern, a tall, frothy ale in an ice-covered mug in his hand, a ball game on the overhead television and Bonnie Raitt blasting from the jukebox. He could almost hear her deep, throaty moan about love gone wrong.

He could probably leave the woman part of his “list” until the morning, Callan thought as he trudged up the stairs to his second-story office, but Abigail, his secretary, had seemed determined to reach him. She’d paged him three times this morning while he was still at the job site, but he’d forgotten to charge his cell phone the night before and the battery had gone dead.

Whatever the crisis was, Callan was certain that his secretary could take care of it. Behind her tight blond bun, oversize glasses and tailored suits was the most organized, efficient, competent secretary in the world. During the year she’d worked for him, she’d always been on time, was never moody or subject to emotional outbursts, was terrific with the clients and best of all, she never bothered him with annoying chatter about her personal life.

Cal didn’t even think she had a personal life. He supposed that most people would consider her dull, but what did he care? To him, Abigail Thomas was perfect in every way that mattered.

Cal glanced at his watch as he reached for the office door. It was four o’clock, so he had time to handle whatever problem Abigail might be having, stop by his apartment for a shower, then get over to the tavern for a beer. Maybe he’d give Shelly Michaels a call, see if she wanted to join him. He hadn’t had much time for female companionship lately, but he and Shelly saw each other from time to time. She was sexy and fun and didn’t think about wedding rings if a guy asked her out more than once. At thirty-three, Cal knew he should be thinking about settling down, but he wasn’t quite ready for the Big Squeeze yet. Maybe another year or two. Or three. Besides, he’d always thought that Gabe, being the oldest, should be the first to jump into those cold, deep waters. To go boldly where no man had gone before—or in this case, no Sinclair man.

So for now, the only steady woman in Callan’s life was his secretary. Dependable, reliable, steadfast Abigail.

She’d worked for him almost a year now, well, technically for Sinclair Construction, but Gabe handled renovations and remodels and was rarely in the office, and Lucian was site foreman and used his trailer as his office. Which left Callan in charge of development and running the main office, which he knew very little about because that was Abigail’s job. Since Sinclair Construction had opened its door five years ago, they had gone through countless secretaries, five in the past two years alone. And then Abigail had walked in, and he knew he’d found a gem. She was definitely a dream come true.

When he opened his office door, he blinked twice, then looked back at the sign on the door. Sinclair Construction. He had the right office.

But not the right woman.

A petite brunette with very large breasts, dressed in a very low-cut, very tight, pink top sat behind Abigail’s desk. She was talking on the phone, and when she saw him, she raised one very long, very red fingernail as a signal for him to wait a minute.

What the hell?

The woman wasn’t the only thing wrong here, Cal thought in disbelief. So was the office. Mail spilled over the top of the desk; manila folders were spread out on the waiting area armchairs; file cabinet drawers were wide open. A makeshift clothesline of white string stretched from the top of his inner office door to the top of his brother Gabe’s office door. Paper-clipped to it was a set of architectural blueprints covered with brown stains. There was also a faint smell of something burning.

“Didn’t I tell Tina that Joe Gastoni was bad news,” the brunette was saying into the phone. “But does she listen to her best friend? Of course not, so now she’s crying her eyes out, poor thing.”

The brunette glanced up again from her call, and Cal frowned darkly at her. He started to move toward the desk, but stumbled over a package lying in the middle of the floor. The earthy swearword he muttered had the brunette sitting up straight.

“Gotta go, Sue. I’ll call you later.” She hung up the phone and smiled. “May I help you?”

“Who are you?” he all but growled.

She raised one thinly shaped brow. “May I ask who you are first?”

“Callan Sinclair.”

She narrowed her eyes in thought, then opened them wide. “Oh, Sinclair. You must be Gabe and Lucian’s brother. They own this company, but I haven’t met them yet.”

“We all own this company,” Cal said tightly. “And your name is?”

“Francine. I’m from the employment agency.”

“Where’s Abigail? Is she sick?”

“Abigail?” The brunette furrowed her brow. “Oh, you mean the woman who used to work here.”

“No,” he said slowly and carefully. “I mean the woman who does work here. Blond hair, big glasses. About five-seven. Abigail Thomas.”

“Oh, her. Right. Well, she quit,” Francine chirped. “I’m her replacement.”

Quit? Impossible. Abigail wouldn’t quit. Cal glanced around his office, then back at Francine. “What the hell happened here?”

Eyes wide behind a thick layer of mascara and purple eye shadow, she looked around the room. “Well, it’s only my first day, for Heaven’s sake. I still have to learn your filing system. It’s very confusing.”

The alphabet was confusing? Cal felt his skull pressing in on his brain as he waved a hand at the hanging blueprints. “And this?”

“Oh, gosh, Wayne feels awful about that.”

“Wayne?”

“Cute little old gray-haired man, mustache.”

“The civil engineer?”

She nodded. “I was helping him roll out the plans for one of your projects, and he sort of spilled his coffee.”

Cal gritted his teeth. With the way Francine was about to fall out of her top, he was surprised Wayne hadn’t had a coronary.

When he noticed that the computer screen on the desk in front of the brunette was flashing “Fatal Error, File Deleted,” Cal was certain he was going to have a coronary.

How could this have happened in one day? Cal had spoken with Abigail only yesterday. Everything had been fine. Terrific, in fact. How could she just leave him like this? Without any notice or even a word of goodbye? She wouldn’t do this to him.

“Do either of my brothers know about Miss Thomas leaving?” Cal asked his new, and soon-to-be-former, secretary.

Francine shook her head. “They haven’t been in the office today. Miss Thomas told me that Gabe mostly works out of his house and Lucian rarely comes in here. Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Sinclair?”

Cal glanced at the coffeepot on the counter behind the woman. So that was what he smelled burning. With a scowl, he looked back at Francine. “Did Miss Thomas say anything to you about why she left, or where she went?”

The question seemed a difficult one for Francine. She chewed on her bright-pink bottom lip. “No, not that I can remember.”

Not that she could remember? Cal clenched his jaw so tightly he thought his teeth might crack. “Are you sure?” he asked with a patience he’d offer a six-year-old.

When the woman narrowed her eyes in concentration, they seemed to disappear behind heavy black strokes of eyeliner. “No, she didn’t say a word. Oh—” she brightened, and her eyes returned “—but she did ask me to tell you she left a letter on your desk.”

Francine was still rattling on about something or other when Cal made a dash for his office, found the envelope sitting in the middle of his desk and ripped it open.

Dear Mr. Sinclair,

I regret to inform you that it has become necessary for me to leave my position as secretary for Sinclair Construction. I apologize that I was unable to give you proper notice. I realize that it is unforgivable, and I can only hope that Francine will be a competent replacement.

Thank you for employing me for the past year. I enjoyed working for you.

Sincerely,

Abigail Thomas

Cal stared at the letter. It was typed and signed, neat as a pin.

That was it? I enjoyed working for you, but hasta la vista, baby? No reason, no explanation?

He crumpled the letter. Dammit, he’d find her and make her tell him what the hell this was all about. He’d pay her double, triple, her wage, if that’s what she wanted. She could have more time off—not too much, of course—sick days, pension, car mileage. Anything.

He’d drive over to her house right now, he decided. Forget the shower, forget the beer. Forget everything. This was an emergency. He started for the door and stopped.

Where the hell did she live?

She’d worked for him a year, and he had no idea where her house was. Or apartment. She could live at a hotel for all he knew. Or with her family.

Did she have family? He wasn’t certain. Dammit, dammit, how could he know so little about her?

He would start with his files. There had to be an address somewhere. He’d find her, and when he did—

The phone rang, and he snatched it off the hook in his office before that so-called secretary in the outer office could get it. “What is it?” he shouted into the phone.

“That’s a fine way to answer your phone,” his brother Reese said on the other end of the line.

“I’ve got a crisis here, what do you want?”

“Does it have anything to do with your secretary?”

Cal’s hand tightened on the phone. “What do you know about my secretary?”

“Not much,” Reese said. “Except that she’s sitting in a booth in my tavern about twenty feet away from me, and she seems quite determined to get herself drunk. I just thought—”

Cal slammed down the phone and headed for the door, ignoring the look of surprise on Francine’s face as he rushed past her. Abigail getting drunk? Cal thought incredulously. She didn’t drink. Or did she? He had no idea. She could be a raging alcoholic, for all he knew.

He’d find out soon enough, he resolved. He intended to learn everything there was to know about Miss Abigail Thomas. And then he’d bring her right back here, where she belonged.

No matter what the cost.

Abigail had never been inside Squire’s Tavern and Inn before. For the past year she’d driven by the establishment every day on her way to and from work, but until today she’d never considered going in. Like its name suggested, the tavern’s theme was Old English: the ceiling was open beamed; the walls were covered with dark wood paneling; the huge fireplace had been built of rugged stone. Except for the television over the bar and the Bob Seger song playing from the corner jukebox, Abigail could easily picture the restaurant-bar as a setting for a pub in one of Shakespeare’s plays.

It was still early in the day, and she was thankful there were only a few other people in the tavern: a man and woman at a small table sharing a bottle of wine and three men at the bar drinking beer and eating pretzels. No one seemed to notice her, but that wasn’t unusual. No one ever noticed Abigail Thomas.

And that was exactly the way she wanted it.

Taking a deep breath, Abigail sat straighter, then took a sip from the thin, red plastic straw in the drink the waitress had brought her.

And choked.

Good Lord! She felt as if she’d swallowed liquid fire. Grabbing the white paper napkin that her glass had been sitting on, she pressed it daintily to her lips and breathed through her mouth. She’d managed to reach the ripe old age of twenty-six without knowing that hard alcohol tasted so awful, and she wouldn’t mind another twenty-six years without tasting it again. She’d ordered the harmless-sounding drink from a small plastic menu, and she realized now she probably should have asked the waitress what was in the mixture.

Whatever it was, it burned all the way down her throat clear to her stomach and was currently working its way to her toes. She should have ordered a glass of wine, not because she especially liked wine, but at least it didn’t make her choke.

Oh, what did it matter? she thought, and held her breath this time as she took another long sip. She wasn’t drinking for pleasure.

She was drinking for effect.

After several more minutes and several more sips, Abigail decided that the effect was pleasurable, after all, in an ethereal kind of way. She felt lighter, and the soft buzz in her head made her smile at the silliest things—like the enormous ears on one of the men sitting at the bar or the monkey playing the piano on the television set mounted on the wall. That was hilarious.

Wincing, she took another sip and shivered as it slid down her throat. Maybe before the night was through she’d find some humor in quitting her job, too.

Abigail had worried all day about the woman the agency had sent to replace her. Francine had not been dressed appropriately, nor had she had adequate training. But she was all the agency had, and Abigail had been compelled to hire her. With Aunt Ruby and Aunt Emerald coming into town tomorrow afternoon, there was no way Abigail could stay at Sinclair Construction.

How could she face Mr. Sinclair once he found out that she’d lied? It would be too humiliating, too demoralizing.

So she’d quit. She felt awful leaving him without the proper notice, but she’d had no choice. If Francine didn’t work out, he would find someone else. He’d have to.

She felt the burn of tears in her eyes and blinked them away. She couldn’t allow herself to think about Mr. Callan Sinclair. She was in a public place, for Heaven’s sake, and she certainly didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself. She simply wanted to sit here, alone, and forget about her boss and her job and her aunts coming into town.

“Oh, what a tangled web we weave…” she thought to herself.

With a sigh she took another long sip of her drink and was surprised when it didn’t taste nearly as bad as it had the first few sips. She thought it actually tasted kind of good, in fact. A little sweet, yet sour at the same time. And it made her insides feel warm.

She liked the feeling, she decided, and loosened the top button of the white blouse she had on under her brown suit jacket. For the next few hours she was determined not to think about the mess she’d made of her life.

She’d have plenty of time for that tomorrow. Or worse—she loosened another button—for the rest of her life.

The song on the jukebox changed to a number from the musical Grease, the one where Olivia Newton-John’s character tells John Travolta he’d “better shape up.” She smiled at the song, mentally singing along with the piece she knew only too well.

In her mind Abby crushed a cigarette under her four-inch heel, pointed a finger at Travolta and wiggled her hips as she told him she needed a man to keep her satisfied. Strange that the man in her mind didn’t look like Travolta, but like Mr. Sinclair.

“Mind if I join you?”

Abigail jumped, then slowly, breath held, glanced over her shoulder.

Oh, dear.

Abigail’s heart started to pound as she stared up at Callan Sinclair. His dark-chocolate-brown eyes bored into her, his mouth was pressed into a tight line. He looked so serious, she thought. So somber. For some strange reason, she suddenly found that very funny.

But rather than be rude and laugh, she composed herself, straightened her glasses and simply nodded.

He slid into the seat across from her and filled the booth. Filled her senses. He looked and smelled like a man who’d marched through mud and muck, and she wondered why the earthy scent of him fascinated her so. Or why she found the gray powder covering his hair and chambray shirt so attractive. Rugged was the word that came to mind. And virile.

Normally Abigail found Callan Sinclair’s presence intimidating. At six-three, his height alone was enough to make a person—man or woman—take notice. And he certainly was powerfully built, with solid muscles and a broad chest. He was also incredibly handsome, she thought, with his thick, black hair and devastating smile.

But he wasn’t smiling now, she realized, and she was the reason.

He placed his large hands flat on the wood tabletop and leaned close. He had wonderful hands, she thought, staring at them. A man’s hands, large and rough, with short, blunt nails and a long, jagged scar on his right thumb. She had the craziest desire to cover those hands with her own, to feel their roughness under her smooth palms.

When she lifted her eyes to his, the intensity of his dark gaze seemed to suck the air right out of her lungs. She couldn’t remember ever having had his undivided attention like this or having him look at her, really look at her as he was looking at her right now. For the first time in the past year, she didn’t feel as if she were invisible.

She wasn’t certain she liked the feeling at all.

“Mr. Sinclair—”

“I refuse to accept your resignation.”

His deep, familiar voice had never sounded so gruff before, so firm. He cares about me, she thought in amazement, then quickly chided herself. As an employee, of course.

She folded her hands primly in her lap and held his level gaze. “I apologize for leaving so suddenly, but I’m certain that Francine will work out for you. She’s really quite—”

“I said—” he leaned closer, lowering his voice, but it still sounded like a shout “—I refuse to accept your resignation. Francine is history. I want you, Abigail.”

His words thrilled her, yet flustered her at the same time. I want you, Abigail. She felt herself sway toward him.

As a secretary, you ninny, Abigail yelled silently at herself. She blinked, then pulled back. Because she didn’t know what to say, she took another long pull on her drink. It didn’t burn at all now; it tasted wonderful. She realized it was nearly gone and didn’t want it to be.

“May I buy you a drink, Mr. Sinclair?” She’d never bought a man a drink in her life. Except for Lester Green at the insurance company she’d worked for in New York, but that was a root beer from the soda machine, so she didn’t think it counted. And Lester didn’t have sexy eyes like Mr. Sinclair did. He had eyes like Eeyore.

That thought made her giggle. Her ex-boss raised one brow and looked down at the glass in front of her. “What do you have?”

“Iced tea.”

“Iced tea?”

“Manhattan iced tea,” she repeated and took another sip.

He coughed, then raised both brows. “You mean a Long Island iced tea?”

“That’s it,” she said with delight. “Would you like one?”

“Have you ever had one before?” he asked carefully.

“Of course not, silly.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Mr. Sinclair, I’m so sorry.”

“Why don’t you call me Callan for right now?” he said with a sigh, then turned and made a gesture to a man standing behind the bar.

A man who looked strangely familiar, Abigail thought, and slid her reading glasses down her nose so she could get a better look. “Do you know that man?” she asked.

“My brother Reese,” he answered. “He owns this place.”

Reese Sinclair. Abigail nearly groaned. He’d been in the office several times over the past year. In her dis-composed state, she’d forgotten he owned Squire’s Tavern. So that was how Mr. Sinclair had found her so quickly.

Darn it, darn it, darn it.

“Mr. Sinclair, I truly am—”

“Callan,” he reminded her.

“Callan,” she said awkwardly. She’d never called him by his first name. “I’m sorry for leaving your employment so suddenly. I’m afraid I had no choice.”

The waitress brought a frosted mug of beer and a steaming cup of coffee, then quickly left. Callan pushed the coffee at her.

She didn’t want coffee. For the first time today, her stomach wasn’t in knots, and her chest wasn’t aching. She felt calm and relaxed and just a little giddy.

And hot. She felt hot. She unloosened another button and, ignoring the coffee, took another sip of her drink. She still felt hot, so she slipped her jacket off.

Callan’s beer sloshed over the side of his mug when she fanned the open vee of her blouse. He frowned at her and set his drink back down. “You owe me an explanation, Abigail. You can’t just leave me and not even tell me why. Did you find another job?”

“No.”

“Do you want more money?”

She lifted her chin at his insult. “Certainly not. If I’d wanted more money, I would have asked you.”

“So why did you quit?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s personal.”

Callan’s eyes darkened with concern. “Are you sick?”

She shook her head.

“Pregnant?”

“Heavens, no!” Her eyes went wide at the absurdity of that question.

He thought for a minute. “You’re engaged.”

She blinked slowly, then her gaze dropped, and she took another sip of her drink.

“That’s it?” He leaned closer, surprise on his face. “You’re engaged?”

Her heart started to pound. She wanted to deny it, tell him that her being engaged was absolute nonsense, but even with alcohol rushing through her veins, she still couldn’t lie.

“Something like that,” she mumbled, and felt her cheeks burn.

“Something like that?” He narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

“Excuse me?” she repeated.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Bloomfield isn’t all that big a town, maybe I know him.”

The foolishness of her situation suddenly struck Abigail. She covered her mouth and started to laugh. Callan stared at her incredulously.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You are,” she said between giggles.

“I’m funny?”

“No.” She sucked in a breath and composed herself. “You’re my fiancé.”