| Hope of Heaven |
| Excerpt: |
Hope sighed, and wiggled her warming toes in bliss before cracking one eyelid
to study the man seated at the other end of the sofa, her feet in his lap as his
strong, sure fingers massaged away the ache and cold. He’d insisted on the foot
rub earlier, when she sank onto the sofa wearily after a long morning mucking out
the stable. They had their first snowfall last night. Just enough to make her daily
chore wet as well as cold this morning.
“You know, it’s my job to take care of you.”
He tossed her a rakish grin that did strange things to her pulse. “I seem to
remember someone claiming she wasn’t here as a job.”
She rolled her eyes. “Twist my words why don’t you. I’m here to take care of
you because Manara asked me to. This wasn’t part of the deal.”
He cocked her a heated look. “Why don’t you just think of this as therapy for
me, Dr. MacKenzie?”
She couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “How do you figure? You’re
massaging me.”
His smile was warm, and the heat in his gray eyes held a softness that caught
her throat. “I happen to like touching you.”
Those words, as much as his husky brogue, sent a shimmy of heat through her
as she recalled that night two weeks ago, and the feel of his hands on her bare
skin. A moan caught in her throat as she drowned in his gaze. She was drawn to
him as if he was the air that sustained her.
The sound of tires on the gravel lot outside saved her, and Hope removed her
feet from his seductive touch, slipping them back into the simple flats she wore
around the house as she rose from the sofa.
“We have company.”
He blinked absently, as if emerging from a stupor before a half-teasing scowl
covered his face, telling her he saw her escape for what it was, and was yanking
her chain about it. They both knew that, regardless of what she did in the dark of
night, she wasn’t prepared for this intensity between them. She wasn’t about to
hop into bed with a mercenary just because she got the itch.
Aware that Peter’s heated gaze followed her out of the room, Hope headed for
the front door. She didn’t breathe again until she was out of sight. She was too
afraid that Peter Talladay was more than just an itch. For reasons she couldn’t
quite figure out, he got under her skin.
Hope reached the front door just as the bell chimed. She opened it to a slim
woman in her late thirties or early forties, bundled up in a trendy leather trench
coat and fur-lined gloves. She had the classic, dark-haired beauty of Elizabeth
Taylor, and the glamorous style of Jackie Kennedy. Beside her glamorous,
expensive appearance, Hope felt positively dumpy. Yet, the chill that slid down
her spine as the woman smiled had little to do with the gust of winter wind.
“Uh…can I help you?”
The scarlet-painted smile curved up even more while the icy coldness grew
heavier.
“Oh, you must be Hope!” The charming lilt of her accent was at odds with the
growing discomfort crawling along Hope’s skin. The woman was so fake she
reeked of it. “Sheila told me all about you!”
Hope blinked, nonplussed. “That makes one of us. And you are…?”
“Ah, me, where are my manners?” The woman lamented, removing one glove
to stick out a hand tipped in well-manicured nails, lacquered to match her lips.
“Joy O’Bannon. I’ve come to visit with my poor, ailing nephew.”
“Set one foot in that door, and you’ll lose it at the knee,” Joy’s ‘poor, ailing
nephew’ growled from behind Hope. The loathing in his voice surprised her. She
turned slightly to find Peter leaning against the banister, his expression dark with
hatred.
to study the man seated at the other end of the sofa, her feet in his lap as his
strong, sure fingers massaged away the ache and cold. He’d insisted on the foot
rub earlier, when she sank onto the sofa wearily after a long morning mucking out
the stable. They had their first snowfall last night. Just enough to make her daily
chore wet as well as cold this morning.
“You know, it’s my job to take care of you.”
He tossed her a rakish grin that did strange things to her pulse. “I seem to
remember someone claiming she wasn’t here as a job.”
She rolled her eyes. “Twist my words why don’t you. I’m here to take care of
you because Manara asked me to. This wasn’t part of the deal.”
He cocked her a heated look. “Why don’t you just think of this as therapy for
me, Dr. MacKenzie?”
She couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “How do you figure? You’re
massaging me.”
His smile was warm, and the heat in his gray eyes held a softness that caught
her throat. “I happen to like touching you.”
Those words, as much as his husky brogue, sent a shimmy of heat through her
as she recalled that night two weeks ago, and the feel of his hands on her bare
skin. A moan caught in her throat as she drowned in his gaze. She was drawn to
him as if he was the air that sustained her.
The sound of tires on the gravel lot outside saved her, and Hope removed her
feet from his seductive touch, slipping them back into the simple flats she wore
around the house as she rose from the sofa.
“We have company.”
He blinked absently, as if emerging from a stupor before a half-teasing scowl
covered his face, telling her he saw her escape for what it was, and was yanking
her chain about it. They both knew that, regardless of what she did in the dark of
night, she wasn’t prepared for this intensity between them. She wasn’t about to
hop into bed with a mercenary just because she got the itch.
Aware that Peter’s heated gaze followed her out of the room, Hope headed for
the front door. She didn’t breathe again until she was out of sight. She was too
afraid that Peter Talladay was more than just an itch. For reasons she couldn’t
quite figure out, he got under her skin.
Hope reached the front door just as the bell chimed. She opened it to a slim
woman in her late thirties or early forties, bundled up in a trendy leather trench
coat and fur-lined gloves. She had the classic, dark-haired beauty of Elizabeth
Taylor, and the glamorous style of Jackie Kennedy. Beside her glamorous,
expensive appearance, Hope felt positively dumpy. Yet, the chill that slid down
her spine as the woman smiled had little to do with the gust of winter wind.
“Uh…can I help you?”
The scarlet-painted smile curved up even more while the icy coldness grew
heavier.
“Oh, you must be Hope!” The charming lilt of her accent was at odds with the
growing discomfort crawling along Hope’s skin. The woman was so fake she
reeked of it. “Sheila told me all about you!”
Hope blinked, nonplussed. “That makes one of us. And you are…?”
“Ah, me, where are my manners?” The woman lamented, removing one glove
to stick out a hand tipped in well-manicured nails, lacquered to match her lips.
“Joy O’Bannon. I’ve come to visit with my poor, ailing nephew.”
“Set one foot in that door, and you’ll lose it at the knee,” Joy’s ‘poor, ailing
nephew’ growled from behind Hope. The loathing in his voice surprised her. She
turned slightly to find Peter leaning against the banister, his expression dark with
hatred.
| All Contents of this Page Copyright 2001 by Esther Mitchell |
