Callan's Proposition

“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.”

Two

He was her fiancé?

Callan stared at her, narrowed his eyes, then stared at her some more. She’d said the words perfectly clearly, but he must have heard her wrong.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re my fiancé.” She stared down into her near-empty drink, and her glasses started to slip down her nose. She pushed them back up with her index finger and looked at him, her brow furrowed. “Don’t you see that’s why I had to quit? It’s so humiliating.”

He didn’t see at all. In fact, he was completely blind on this one. It had to be the drink, he decided. She was confused. Extremely confused.

But then, so was he.

“It’s humiliating to be engaged to me?” he asked.

“Of course it is.”

Callan frowned at the exasperation in her voice. What was so wrong with him that she’d be embarrassed to be engaged to him? A lot of women found him attractive, and more than one had tried to lead him on that walk down the aisle. Just because he and Abigail were so completely different and had never been attracted to each other was certainly no reason to be humiliated.

Oh, for crying out loud, he thought, rolling his eyes. What the hell was he thinking? They weren’t engaged. Or anything even remotely close. He shook his head and laughed at himself, amazed that Abigail had actually managed to tweak his male pride.

He leaned back in the booth, tried not to notice that Abigail had not only removed her jacket, but had loosened three buttons. The unmistakable swell of full breasts rose from the opened blouse. Good Lord, he’d never thought about Abigail having breasts, let alone such nice ones. He reached for his beer and forced his eyes to stay steady on her flushed face.

He had to remind himself what they’d been talking about. Oh, yes. She was humiliated to be engaged to him. “Abigail, I hate to tell you this, but we’re not engaged.”

She laughed, then flipped her hand at him with a you’re-such-a-silly-boy gesture. “Of course we’re not. But Aunt Emerald and Aunt Ruby don’t know that.”

He was afraid to ask. “Aunt Emerald and Aunt Ruby?”

“They’re coming to visit tomorrow, before they go on their two-week cruise in the Caribbean.” The smile on her face dissolved. She leaned back in the booth and closed her eyes. “Don’t you think it’s hot in here?”

When Abigail reached up and opened another button on her blouse, exposing more of her breasts and the top edge of her pale-green lace bra, Callan felt his throat turn to powder.

She was right. It was hot in here.

He had to get her out of here. Fast. For her sake as much as his own. Aunt Emerald and Aunt Ruby and engagements would have to wait for now.

Sliding out of the booth, he reached for the suit jacket she’d removed, then slipped a hand behind her back and pulled her toward him. Her skin was remarkably warm through her blouse, and the faint feminine scent of her perfume drifted into his senses. He’d never noticed she wore perfume before, he thought, as he tugged her jacket back on her and pulled the front tightly closed.

Her eyes opened wide. They were green, he realized. Soft green. He’d never noticed that before, either. She stared indignantly at him. “Mr. Sinclair, what are you doing?”

He sighed heavily. “I’m taking you home.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She shrugged out of his hold and straightened her jacket, then peered up at him with a strange squint. “You don’t look anything like John Travolta.”

He had no idea how to respond to that one. “Okay.”

“I just want you to know how much I enjoyed working for you, Mr. Sinclair—”

“Callan.”

“Callan,” she said his name softly, as if she’d never heard it before. She looked at him for a long moment, then whispered, “I’m sorry.”

He could have sworn he saw tears in her eyes before she turned and wobbled away. Abigail cry? No, Callan thought. Abigail didn’t cry. She was always so…so together.

Well, except for at the moment, anyway. He watched her teeter toward the rest rooms, then raised his brows when she walked into the men’s room.

Uh-oh.

He was on his way to rescue her when she came back out of the rest room, her face bright red. Tom Winters, Bloomfield County Mayor, came out a few steps behind her. His face was red, too.

“Callan.” Tom nodded stiffly and kept walking.

“Tom.” Callan held back the threatening grin.

“Mr. Sinclair.” Abigail put a hand on his arm and leaned against him, then said in a small voice, “Callan, could you please drive me home?”

Abigail’s home was only three short blocks away: a little white cottage covered with thick vines of pink roses. Callan hadn’t quite pictured Abigail in such a feminine-looking house, but then, he hadn’t ever pictured her in any style house.

He pulled his truck into the narrow asphalt driveway, thankful that she’d at least been clear-headed enough to give directions. He cut the engine and climbed out, then came around and opened the door for her. She reached for her purse at the same time she stepped out, and ended up sliding off the seat into his arms. Her body pressed against his while he steadied her.

“Excuse me,” she said, then hiccuped.

Damn, but Abigail was soft, Callan thought. And curvy. Damn.

She pressed a palm against his chest and pushed away from him, then straightened her glasses. Long strands of blond hair had escaped from the bun at the back of her head and tumbled around her flushed face. “Thank you for the ride home, Mr. Sinclair. Goodbye.”

He watched her turn on unsteady legs and walk crookedly toward her front door. Goodbye? No way he was leaving. He had no intention of letting her out of his sight. Especially in her condition.

He followed her up the brick walkway, noticing that her lawn was mowed and neatly edged, her bushes trimmed and her flower beds free of weeds. She paused when she reached the step leading onto her front porch and stared at it as if it were a steep cliff.

“Abigail.” He took her arm and helped her up the step. “We need to talk.”

She dug through her purse. “Here they are.” She pulled her keys from her purse and smiled brightly.

He took the keys from her and opened the door. “How ’bout I make us some coffee?”

She laughed at that. “You make coffee? I’m supposed to make the coffee, remember? That’s my job.” She frowned suddenly. “At least it was my job. Until I quit. Francine will have to make you coffee now.”

Callan shuddered at the thought and ushered Abigail inside the door. The living room was cozy: the over-stuffed blue-gingham sofa was accented with floral pillows; the walls were covered with various watercolor landscapes. A thick, deep-blue rug edged with pink flowers lay neatly on the shiny hardwood floor. A crystal vase filled with fragrant pink roses sat on top of an oval mahogany coffee table.

She was as tidy and organized at home as she was at work, Callan thought, but he hadn’t expected all the hearts-and-flowers decor. He’d have thought her home would be more…simple. Plain.

Dull was actually the word that came to mind.

Except it wasn’t dull at all, he thought. It was warm and comfortable. Homey. He realized he had a lot to learn about Abigail. A whole lot.

But he would think about the many unknown facets of Abigail Thomas later. At the moment he intended to start with the mystery of her sudden departure from his office and where their strange engagement and her aunts fit into the puzzle.

Now where had she disappeared to?

He heard the pop of a cork and followed the sound into her kitchen. Barefoot, Abigail stood at the counter, pouring white wine into a glass.

He groaned silently.

“Abigail,” he said, moving behind her. “I thought we were going to have coffee.”

“No-o-o-o,” she said, stretching the word out as she kept pouring. Some of the wine actually made it into the glass. “You’re going to have coffee. I’m having wine.”

“You don’t drink much, do you?” he asked.

She giggled at that. “Heavens, no. I don’t care for the taste, and besides, it affects me terribly.”

That was an understatement, he thought, then swooped the glass of wine off the counter when she started to reach for it. He took a sip. Yuck. He’d take a cold beer over white wine any day. “Thanks.”

She frowned at him. “I thought you wanted coffee.”

“I changed my mind.” He took a second sip, tried not to grimace. She was reaching for another glass when he took her arm and led her to the kitchen table. “Abigail, you owe it to me to tell me why you quit.”

Pulling out a chair, he gently eased her into it. Her skirt pulled high up on her legs when she sat, exposing smooth, slender thighs. The Abigail he knew would have quickly pulled her skirt back down. This Abigail left it to ride high on her legs. Callan glanced away and took another sip of wine, thankful that at least she still had her jacket on.

He kept his eyes riveted on her face.

She leaned her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. “It’s so humiliating.”

“We established that.” He sat in the chair beside her. A fluffy, ruffled blue-striped pad covered the seat. “You and me being engaged. Why don’t we start with that?”

“I don’t feel well,” she said from behind her hands.

“Could you please get me a drink of water?”

He doubted a drink of water would help her problem, but if he was ever going to get any information out of her, Callan thought, he’d better humor her. He took a glass out of the cupboard, filled it with tap water, then set it in front of her as he sat back down.

And realized that she’d nearly emptied the glass of wine he’d so foolishly left sitting on the table.

“Abigail!”

With her hands folded primly in her lap, she straightened her shoulders and looked at him. Her glasses were tilted on her straight little nose, and the expression on her face was one of complete innocence. In a very strange way she looked kind of cute, Callan thought.

Rather than straighten her glasses, he reached over and took them off, then set them on the table. Her eyes were big and wide as she blinked at him, then hiccuped. He couldn’t help but smile. “Abigail, tell me why you quit.”

Her gaze dropped to her lap. “I had to. With Aunt Ruby and Aunt Emerald coming in tomorrow, they would have found out.”

“Found out what?”

“That we’re not engaged.”

“But we’re not engaged.”

“Exactly.” She threw a hand up in the air and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you understand.”

But he didn’t. Not at all. “Abigail, why do your aunts think that you and I are engaged?”

“Well, I told them we were, of course. Why else would they think such a thing?”

Well, of course. Silly me. He counted to five, then drew in a slow breath. “And why did you tell them we were engaged?”

“What else was I supposed to do? They would have canceled their cruise, maybe even insisted on moving in with me here. I had to do something.”

“They would have canceled their cruise and moved in with you if we weren’t engaged?” He shook his head in confusion. “Why?”

Leaning in close to him, she whispered, “They think I need a man.”

Ah. He almost—just almost—thought he was beginning to understand. “They do?”

She nodded. “We lived together for two years in New York after I finished college, but it got so bad I finally moved here to Bloomfield County.”

He saw her eyeing the wineglass in front of him, and he scooted it out of her reach. “What got so bad?”

“The men. Every week they’d bring home their latest catch for me. Sometimes if my aunts didn’t coordinate, there would be two men at the same time.” She held up two fingers to emphasize, and her eyes crossed as she stared at them. “Imagine every time you turned around there were women all over the place. How would you feel?”

He thought about that for a moment and decided she really didn’t want an answer to that question. “Why can’t you just tell your aunts the truth?”

She snorted in laughter, then covered her mouth. “You don’t know my aunts. They’ve been mother hens since my own mother—their sister—died six years ago. They won’t rest until I’m married and have a family of my own. The only reason they’ve left me alone so long was because of you.”

“Me?”

“Our engagement.”

“Oh, yes.” He’d nearly forgotten about that. “And how did you happen to pick me to be the lucky guy?”

“Well, I had to have someone,” she said as if he’d missed the obvious. “I don’t know anyone else here.”

How flattering to know he’d been chosen because there wasn’t anyone else. “You could have made someone up,” he suggested.

“That would be a big lie. I’m not good with big lies. There’s too much to remember, and I always trip myself up. I’m much better with little lies.”

He didn’t exactly think that Abigail telling her aunts they were engaged was a “little” lie, but that wasn’t important right now. Getting her back to work for him was.

“You could have told me this, Abigail.” Callan took her hands in his. He was amazed at how soft and warm they were. “We would have figured something out.”

She stared down at their joined hands. “You think I’m pathetic.”

Oh, no, Callan groaned inwardly. The feminine mind sober was a perilous thing, but on a Long Island iced tea, it was downright dangerous. The only thing more dangerous could be his response. “Of course I don’t think you’re pathetic.”

“Yes, you do.” She yanked her hands from his and stood, though unsteadily. “You think I’m a pathetic prude.”

Shoulders squared, she moved past him. She was halfway through her living room when he caught her arm and turned her around to face him. “Abigail, please—”

She shrugged off his hand. “For your information, Mr. Sinclair, if I really wanted a man, I could find one. I’m not as big a prude as you think I am.”

“Abigail, I don’t—”

She tugged off her jacket and threw it on the floor. “I have a nice enough body.” She reached for the buttons on her already-half-opened blouse.

“Abigail—”

“See?” She opened her blouse and stared down at herself. Her mint-green bra was lace and satin. “They aren’t so bad.”

So bad? His blood shot to his head, then straight down below his waist. Good Lord, she was beautiful. He was only human, for God’s sake. He stared wide-eyed for a full two seconds, then closed his open mouth and pulled the front of her blouse together. His hands were shaking as he closed the top button.

She slumped against him. “Who am I trying to kid?” she said softly, closing her eyes. “I am a prude. I’ve always been a prude. I’ll always be a prude. Abigail Thomas, Queen of the Prudes.”

With a sigh, Callan cupped her chin in his hands and lifted her face to his. “Abigail, I don’t think you’re a prude.”

Her eyes, glazed-green, opened slowly. “You don’t?”

She looked at him, her cheeks flushed, her lips wide and lush. How could he have never noticed those lips before? he thought. They were incredible. He felt a strange kick in his pulse as he stared down at her. Her skin was pale against his, so smooth and soft. When her eyes closed and her lips parted ever so slightly, he found himself drawn downward, closer…closer…

Good Lord!

He pulled back. This was Abigail, for Heaven’s sake. He couldn’t kiss Abigail.

It had to be the stress of her quitting and his exhaustion from working all day, Callan decided. He wasn’t firing on all his cylinders at the moment. Abigail was his secretary, or at least, she had been his secretary. Which reminded him why he was here in the first place.

He wanted her back.

“Abigail.”

“Hmm?” she murmured, her eyes still closed.

“We need to talk.”

“You want to talk?” Her eyes fluttered open again.

When she swayed against him, he walked her to the sofa and pulled her down onto the soft cushions. He was too dirty to sit, but when he spotted a cotton afghan on the arm of the couch, he spread it out, then sat down on top of it.

“I need you, Abigail,” he said gently.

She looked at him, then blinked. “You do?”

“You’re the best secretary I ever had. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Oh. I see.” She laid her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sinclair, but I can’t come back. I just can’t.”

Callan watched Abigail’s head drift to the side. He would let her rest for a few minutes, he decided, then they’d finish this conversation. Before this night was over, she’d say yes. He was certain of that.

He wasn’t about to let her go. Whatever it took, Callan intended to have Miss Abigail Thomas back where she belonged.

Abigail woke slowly. She couldn’t imagine where the cotton in her mouth had come from. Or the subtle pounding in her temple. That was odd, as well. But certainly not as odd as the steady heartbeat she heard rising from her pillow.

Eyes closed, she listened for a moment. There it was, as loud as if she were listening through a stethoscope. Ba-bump…ba-bump…ba-bump… Deep and steady, it pounded in her ear.

She felt a little stiff and sore, and though it took a moment for her eyes to register the command from her foggy brain, they opened slowly. Blue cotton and white buttons stared back at her.

What in the world?

That’s when she heard the voices. Soft whispers. They seemed very distant, and distinctly familiar.

“He’s a handsome one, don’t you think?”

“Oh, dear me, yes. He looks a lot like Emmett, my leading man from Oklahoma. Heavens, that must have been twenty years ago.”

“His name was Ethan, it was thirty years ago, and they don’t look anything alike. This young man is much more handsome, though he does look a little ragged around the edges. Oh, look, I do believe our Sleeping Beauty is waking up. She has one eye open.”

This has to be a dream, Abigail thought. Dear God, please let it be a dream. Breath held, she opened both eyes.

And slammed them shut again.

She was on the sofa, lying across Mr. Sinclair’s chest. Her blouse was open.

No, no, no, no, no.

“Good morning, Abby, dear,” Aunt Emerald and Aunt Ruby bubbled at the same time.

Three

They stood beside each other, the quintessential Mutt and Jeff, and smiled down at her. Ruby was the taller of the two, with curly, tomato-red hair she always wore swept up, robust blue eyes and a thunderous voice that could set off a car alarm. Emerald was a pageboy platinum-blonde with big green eyes that always looked surprised and a generous smile that stretched wide across her pale, yet remarkably young-looking face. They were both dressed in a kaleidoscope of bright flowing gauze and dozens of matching plastic bracelets.

Eyes now wide open, Abigail stared at her aunts, then lifted her head and looked at the man whose arms were wrapped around her. Her heart slammed in her chest. She vaguely remembered sitting on the sofa with him last night, but she had no idea how she’d ended up here in his arms. In his arms, for Heaven’s sake! Thank God he was still sleeping, she thought, and carefully tried to slip under his embrace. He mumbled softly and tightened his hold.

She bit back the groan hovering in her throat and gave her aunts a weak smile. They smiled back brightly.

With her dignity long past the point of resurrection, Abigail wiggled gently and eased herself, inch by inch, out from under her boss’s—ex-boss’s, she reminded herself—arms. She’d nearly escaped when he gave a soft snort, then opened his eyes. He stared at her in surprise, then glanced at Ruby and Emerald.

“Good morning,” her aunts boomed in unison.

With a look of panic, he catapulted from the couch. Caught off balance, Abigail tumbled to the floor.

“Oh, dear.” Emerald pressed a hand to her chest.

“Heavens.” Ruby frowned.

Callan dragged a hand through his rumpled hair, then his gaze shifted from the two startled women back down to Abigail.

“Sorry,” he said awkwardly, offering Abigail a hand. Her blouse fell open as he pulled her to her feet. He paled, then turned red. He’s blushing, Abigail thought in amazement and quickly pulled her blouse closed. Mr. Sinclair was actually embarrassed.

And as she remembered why her blouse was open, she felt her own cheeks burn. Ohmigod, she thought with a silent groan. The memory of her near strip-tease sucked the breath from her lungs. Quickly she buttoned her blouse, desperately wishing that the sofa would open up and swallow her whole.

But she would deal with what happened last night later. First she had her aunts to contend with.

“Aunt Emerald, Aunt Ruby.” Abigail’s voice cracked. She straightened the front of her misbuttoned blouse, then cleared her throat. “What are you doing here?”

“We told you we were coming, dear,” Ruby said, though her gaze was still locked on Callan. “Have you forgotten?”

Abigail glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s only seven-thirty in the morning. I was supposed to pick you up at the airport this afternoon at one-thirty. Flight 312, Gate 22.”

“Oh, that.” Emerald waved a hand of dismissal. “We took an earlier flight. Ruby was supposed to tell you.”

“I was not.” Bracelets clacked loudly as Ruby jammed her hands on her well-endowed hips and frowned at her sister. “You were supposed to. I called for the taxi.”

“You’re arguing again, Ruby.” Forever smiling, Emerald faced her sister and waved a finger at her, which also set her own bracelets clacking.

Great, Abigail thought. Just what I need right now—dueling bracelets.

“It doesn’t matter,” Abigail interjected before the discussion could escalate. And knowing her aunts, it most certainly would. Awkwardly she leaned forward and hugged each of them. “It’s…it’s wonderful to see you.”