Нора Робертс - Megan’s Mate

“I'm sorry.” The apology was sincere, if a trifle stiff. “I'm making a lot of adjustments right now, so I haven't felt very congenial. And the way you look at me puts me on edge.”

“Fair enough. But I have to tell you I figure it's a man's right to look. Anything more takes an invitation—of one kind or the other.”

“Then we can clear the air and start over, since I can tell you I won't be putting out the welcome mat. Now, Nathaniel—” it was a concession she made with a smile “—do you suppose you could dig up your tax returns?”

“I can probably put my hands on them.” He scooted back his chair. The squeak of the wheels ended on a high-pitched yelp that had Megan jolting and scattering papers. “Damn it—forgot you were back there.” He picked up a wriggling, whimpering black puppy. “He sleeps a lot, so I end up stepping on him or running the damn chair over his tail,” he said to Megan as the pup licked frantically at his face. “Whenever I try to leave him home, he cries until I give in and bring him with me.”

“He's darling.” Her fingers were already itching to stroke. “He looks a lot like the one Coco has.”

“Same litter.” Because he could read the sentiment in Megan's eyes perfectly, Nathaniel handed the pup across the desk.

“Oh, aren't you sweet? Aren't you pretty?”

When she cooed to the dog, all defenses dropped, Nathaniel noted. She forgot to be businesslike and cool, and instead was all feminine warmththose pretty hands stroking the pup's fur, her smile soft, her eyes aught with pleasure.

He had to remind himself the invitation was for a dog, not for him. “What's his name?”

“Dog.”

She looked up from the puppy's adoring eyes. “Dog? That's it?”

“He likes it. Hey, Dog.” At the sound of his master's voice, Dog immediately cocked his head at Nathaniel and barked. “See?”

“Yes.” She laughed and nuzzled. “It seems a bit unimaginative.” “On the contrary. How many dogs do you know named Dog?”

“I stand corrected. Down you go, and don't get any ideas about these receipts.”

Nathaniel tossed a ball, and Dog gave joyful chase. “That'll keep him busy,” he said as he came around the desk to help her gather up the scattered papers.

“You don't seem the puppy type to me.”

“Always wanted one.” He crouched down beside her and began to toss papers back into the cigar box. “Fact is, I used to play around with one of Dog's ancestors over at the Bradfords', when I was a kid. But it's hard to keep a dog aboard a ship. Got a bird, though.”

“A bird?”

“A parrot I picked up in the Caribbean about five years ago. That's another reason I bring Dog along with me. Bird might eat him.”

“Bird?” She glanced up, but the laugh froze in her throat. Why was he always closer than she anticipated? And why did those long, searching looks of his slide along her nerve ends like stroking fingers?

His gaze dropped to her mouth. The hesitant smile was still there, he noted. There was something very appealing about that touch of shyness, all wrapped up in stiff-necked confidence. Her eyes weren't cool now, but wary. Not an invitation, he reminded himself, but close. And damn tempting.

Testing his ground, he reached out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. She was on her feet like a woman shot out of a cannon.

“You sure spook easily, Megan.” After closing the lid on the cigar box, he rose. “But I can't say it isn't rewarding to know I make you nervous.”

“You don't.” But she didn't look at him as she said it. She'd never been a good liar. “I'm going to take all this back with me, if you don't mind. Once I have things organized, I'll be in touch with you, or Holt.”

“Fine.” The phone rang. He ignored it. “You know where to find us.”

“Once I have the books in order, we'll need to set up a proper filing system.”

Grinning, he eased a hip onto the corner of the desk. Lord, she was something. “You're the boss, sugar.”

She snapped her briefcase closed. “No, you're the boss. And don't call me 'sugar.'“ She marched outside, slipped into her car and eased away from the building and back into traffic. Competently she drove through the village, toward The Towers. Once she'd reached the bottom of the long, curving road that led home, she pulled the car over and stopped.

She needed a moment, she thought, before she faced anyone. With her eyes closed, she rested her head against the back of the seat. Her insides were still jittering, dancing with butterflies that willpower alone couldn't seem to swat away.

The weakness infuriated her. Nathaniel Fury infuriated her. After all this time, she mused, all this effort, it had taken no more than a few measuring looks to remind her, all too strongly, that she was still a woman.

Worse, much worse, she was sure he knew exactly what he was doing and how it affected her.

She'd been susceptible to a handsome face and smooth words before. Unlike those who loved her, she refused to blame her youth and inexperience for her reckless actions. Once upon a time, she'd listened to her heart, had believed absolutely in happy-ever-after. But no longer. Now she knew there were no princes, no pumpkins, no castles in the air. There was only reality, one a woman had to make for herself—and sometimes had to make for her child, as well.

She didn't want her pulses to race or her muscles to tense. She didn't want to feel that hot little curl in her stomach that was a yearning hunger crying to be filled. Not now. Not ever again.

All she wanted was to be a good mother to Kevin, to provide him with a happy, loving home. To earn her own way through her own skills. She wanted so badly to be strong and smart and self-sufficient.

Letting out a long sigh, she smiled to herself. And invulnerable.

Well, she might not quite achieve that, but she would be sensible. Never again would she permit a man the power to alter her life—and certainly not because he'd made her glands stand at attention.

Calmer, more confident, she started the car. She had work to do.

“Have a heart, Mandy.” Megan had sought her sister-in-law out the moment she returned to The Towers. “I just want to get a feel for my office and the routine.”

Cocking her head, Amanda leaned back from her own pile of paperwork. “Horrible when everyone's busy and you're not, isn't it?”

Megan let out a heartfelt sigh. A kindred spirit. “Awful.”

“Sloan wants you to relax,” Amanda began, then laughed when Megan rolled her eyes. “But what does he know? Come on.” Ready to oblige, she pushed back from the desk, skirted it. “You're practically next door.” She led the way down the corridor to another thick, ornately carved door. “I think you've got just about everything you'll need. But if we've missed something, let me know.”

Some women felt that frisson of excitement and anticipation on entering a department store. For some, that sensory click might occur at the smell of fresh paint, or the glint of candlelight, or the fizz of champagne just opened.

For Megan, it was the sight of a well-ordered office that caused that quick shiver of pleasure.

And here was everything she could have wanted.

The desk was glorious, gleaming Queen Anne, with a spotless rose-toned blotter and ebony desk set already in place. A multilined phone and a streamlined computer sat waiting.

She nearly purred.

There were wooden filing cabinets still smelling of lemon oil, their brass handles shining in the sunlight that poured through the many-paned windows. The Oriental rug picked up the hues of rose and slate blue in the upholstered chairs and love seat. There were shelves for her accounting books and ledgers, and a hunt table that held a coffee maker, fax and personal copier.

Old-world charm and modern technology blended into tasteful efficiency. “Mandy, it's perfect.”

“I'd hoped you'd like it.” Fussing, Amanda straightened the blotter, shifted the stapler. “I can't say I'm sorry to be handing over the books. It's more than a full-time job. I've filed everything, invoices, expenses, credit-card receipts, accounts payable, et cetera, by department.” She opened a file drawer to demonstrate.

Megan's organized heart swelled at the sight of neatly color-coded file folders. Alphabetized, categorized, cross-referenced.

Glorious.

“Wonderful. Not a cigar box in sight.”

Amanda hesitated, and then threw back her head and laughed. “You've seen Holt and Nate's accounting system, I take it.”

Amused, and comfortable with Amanda, Megan patted her briefcase. “I have their accounting system.” Unable to resist, she sat in the high-backed swivel chair. “Now this is more like it.” She took up a sharpened pencil, set it down again. “I don't know how to thank you for letting me join the team.”

“Don't be silly. You're family. Besides, you may not be so grateful after a couple of weeks in chaos. I can't tell you how many interruptions—” Amanda broke off when she heard her name bellowed. Her brow lifted. “See what I mean?” She swung to the door to answer her husband's shout. “In here, O'Riley.” She shook her head as Sloan and Trent trooped up to the door. Both of them were covered with dust. “I thought you were breaking down a wall or something.”

“We were. Had some more old furniture to haul out of the way. And look what we found.”

She examined what he held in his hands. “A moldy old book. That's wonderful, honey. Now why don't you and Trent go play construction?”

“Not just a book,” Trent announced. “Fergus's account book. For the year of 1913.”

“Oh.” Amanda's heart gave one hard thud as she grabbed for the book.