laughed about it, but to Sean it was no joke. Try as he might, he could never become aroused enough to make love to her.
In two very short years, Dawn would be the same age Libby was when she’d married. Emotions tumbled through Libby like acorns on the grass; snagging at pieces of her heart. No one knew the fear that Libby had experienced when she’d been shoved at Sean, as if she were no more important than the piece of paper the deal had been written on. No one ever would. She’d learned to keep her shameful secrets to herself.
With a shaky sigh, she rose from the vanity table and swung away from the bed, knowing she wasn’t ready to sleep. She stepped into her slippers and left her room, noting the night sounds in her house. Deep, heavy snoring erupted from the Bellamy brothers’ room, and she wondered with a bemused smile how either could sleep through such a racket.
She tiptoed to Dawn’s room, opened the door a crack, and looked inside. Her daughter was curled into a ball, one arm under her pillow and the other around the cat’s neck. Cyclops looked at Libby, the light from the hallway glinting off her yellow eye.
Although no one realized it, Libby did not care if the cat slept on the bed, nor would she care if Mr. Wolfe’s dog slept with him, which she assumed it did. She was not the ogre she appeared to be, but someone had to make grown-up rules and try to enforce them, even if, in the dark of night, the pets found their way to the beds and the rules were ignored.
A brisk breeze billowed out the curtains, and Libby entered the room to make sure Dawn had enough blankets. Cyclops watched her, then extricated herself from Dawn’s clutches and disappeared under the covers. She was merely a lump at the bottom of the bed near Dawn’s feet when Libby left the room.
She managed the stairs in the dark, knowing them by heart, sidestepping the squeaky spot on the fourth step from the top. A light flickered in the parlor. The fireplace, no doubt. She stepped inside, gasping in surprise when she discovered Jackson Wolfe in the easy chair holding a glass of brandy. The firelight drenched half his face; the other half was darkly shadowed. It was so odd to see a man sitting there as Sean had. But the resemblance stopped there. Sean had been spare, almost gaunt. Jackson Wolfe was muscular and vital. He certainly wasn’t the first man to sit in that chair since Sean had died, but he was by far the most compelling.
“I’m sorry. I thought everyone was in bed.” She clutched at the front of her dressing gown, keenly aware of how little she wore under it.
His gaze raked her; she should have been insulted, yet she wasn’t. She found the look deliciously flattering. She wasn’t unattractive, she knew that, but Jackson Wolfe was the first man whose interest she appreciated.
Lifting his glass toward her, he said, “I applaud a woman who doesn’t truss herself up like a turkey at bedtime.”
Heat flared in her face and she felt her nipples tighten. “Just how many glasses of brandy have you consumed, Mr. Wolfe?”
One side of his sensual mouth lifted. “What makes you think this isn’t my first?”
She shivered beneath her lightweight dressing gown and eyed the fire, aching to be closer to the warmth. But that meant being closer to him, and she sensed that wasn’t a good idea. “Because your demeanor is totally out of character with the gentleman you appeared to be earlier this evening.”
He took another swig, his gaze never leaving her. “Yeah, you’re right. I have one hell of a rotten demeanor when I drink.” He smirked, his eyes glittering as he studied her. “I’m likely to say a bushel of things I’ll regret, but you’re a damned fine looking woman, and I don’t usually find white women attractive.”
With hesitant steps, she moved closer. “Is that supposed to be a gentlemanly compliment?”
“Didn’t it sound like one?”
His gaze moved over her so slowly she almost felt it. “A sober
In two very short years, Dawn would be the same age Libby was when she’d married. Emotions tumbled through Libby like acorns on the grass; snagging at pieces of her heart. No one knew the fear that Libby had experienced when she’d been shoved at Sean, as if she were no more important than the piece of paper the deal had been written on. No one ever would. She’d learned to keep her shameful secrets to herself.
With a shaky sigh, she rose from the vanity table and swung away from the bed, knowing she wasn’t ready to sleep. She stepped into her slippers and left her room, noting the night sounds in her house. Deep, heavy snoring erupted from the Bellamy brothers’ room, and she wondered with a bemused smile how either could sleep through such a racket.
She tiptoed to Dawn’s room, opened the door a crack, and looked inside. Her daughter was curled into a ball, one arm under her pillow and the other around the cat’s neck. Cyclops looked at Libby, the light from the hallway glinting off her yellow eye.
Although no one realized it, Libby did not care if the cat slept on the bed, nor would she care if Mr. Wolfe’s dog slept with him, which she assumed it did. She was not the ogre she appeared to be, but someone had to make grown-up rules and try to enforce them, even if, in the dark of night, the pets found their way to the beds and the rules were ignored.
A brisk breeze billowed out the curtains, and Libby entered the room to make sure Dawn had enough blankets. Cyclops watched her, then extricated herself from Dawn’s clutches and disappeared under the covers. She was merely a lump at the bottom of the bed near Dawn’s feet when Libby left the room.
She managed the stairs in the dark, knowing them by heart, sidestepping the squeaky spot on the fourth step from the top. A light flickered in the parlor. The fireplace, no doubt. She stepped inside, gasping in surprise when she discovered Jackson Wolfe in the easy chair holding a glass of brandy. The firelight drenched half his face; the other half was darkly shadowed. It was so odd to see a man sitting there as Sean had. But the resemblance stopped there. Sean had been spare, almost gaunt. Jackson Wolfe was muscular and vital. He certainly wasn’t the first man to sit in that chair since Sean had died, but he was by far the most compelling.
“I’m sorry. I thought everyone was in bed.” She clutched at the front of her dressing gown, keenly aware of how little she wore under it.
His gaze raked her; she should have been insulted, yet she wasn’t. She found the look deliciously flattering. She wasn’t unattractive, she knew that, but Jackson Wolfe was the first man whose interest she appreciated.
Lifting his glass toward her, he said, “I applaud a woman who doesn’t truss herself up like a turkey at bedtime.”
Heat flared in her face and she felt her nipples tighten. “Just how many glasses of brandy have you consumed, Mr. Wolfe?”
One side of his sensual mouth lifted. “What makes you think this isn’t my first?”
She shivered beneath her lightweight dressing gown and eyed the fire, aching to be closer to the warmth. But that meant being closer to him, and she sensed that wasn’t a good idea. “Because your demeanor is totally out of character with the gentleman you appeared to be earlier this evening.”
He took another swig, his gaze never leaving her. “Yeah, you’re right. I have one hell of a rotten demeanor when I drink.” He smirked, his eyes glittering as he studied her. “I’m likely to say a bushel of things I’ll regret, but you’re a damned fine looking woman, and I don’t usually find white women attractive.”
With hesitant steps, she moved closer. “Is that supposed to be a gentlemanly compliment?”
“Didn’t it sound like one?”
His gaze moved over her so slowly she almost felt it. “A sober
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