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“I thought he left after the fire.”
“He did.”
“So when did he show up?”
“Six months ago. You’ve been gone a long time, Denver. Mitchell’s hitch was over last year. He’s going back to school in a few weeks.”
Frowning, he studied the name tags then straightened. “So where is he?”
She shrugged. “Around. Probably in town tonight. It is Friday.”
“Still raising hell?” Denver asked.
Bristling, she snapped, “That was a long time ago, Denver. Mitchell’s changed.”
“Has he?” Denver asked sarcastically.
Tessa couldn’t begin to explain about the mixed emotions she felt for her brother. He’d stood by her after the fire, when Denver had left her aching and raw—lost and alone. It was true that Mitchell had joined the Army soon after the blaze, but he was back, and for the most part, he’d straightened out. The hellion he’d been after high school had all but disappeared. “Mitchell’s been through six years in the Army. He’s grown up. If you haven’t noticed, a lot of things have changed around here!”
“That they have,” he said quietly, his gaze lingering in hers. “That they have.”
Tessa’s heart started thudding so loudly that she was sure he could hear it.
“Look, why don’t you go upstairs, put those”—he motioned to the bags—“away. You said something about a hot bath earlier.”
Tessa was chilled to the bone. A soak in a tub of warm water sounded like heaven. But she wasn’t convinced that staying in the same house with Denver McLean would be smart or safe. “And what about you?” she asked.
“As I said, I’ll move into the room down the hall.”
“I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”
“This is my house,” he reminded her. “And it’s only for a week. Two at the most.”
Knowing she was making a mistake, Tessa relented. Wet, dirty and just plain tired of arguing with him, she decided one night wouldn’t hurt. In the morning, after the shock of seeing him again had worn off, she’d decide if she should move out.
“Just for tonight,” she said, hoisting her bags.
“I can take those,” he offered.
“No thanks.” She hauled her bags up the stairs, and unpacked her nightgown and robe. Feeling like a stranger in her own home, she hurried to the bathroom, locked the door and stripped off her wet clothes.
Steam rose from the tub as she glanced in the mirror and groaned. Her hair was lank and wet, her face smudged with mud, her skin flushed from the argument. “This is crazy,” she told herself as she stepped into the hot water. “Absolutely crazy!”
* * *
Denver poured himself a stiff shot. His second. Nervous as a cat, he paced the study, listening as the ceiling creaked. He knew the minute she dashed down the hall to the bathroom, heard the soft metal click of the lock, felt the house shudder a little as she turned on the water and the old pipes creaked.
Closing his eyes, he imagined Tessa stepping into the bath and wondered if her body had aged, or if it was still as supple and firm as the last time he’d been with her. Groaning, her image as vivid as if their lovemaking had been only yesterday, he gritted his teeth. “Forget it, McLean,” he warned himself, tossing back his drink.
Swearing loudly, he dropped into the chair behind the desk and started working on the invoices. But he couldn’t concentrate. Aware of the water running, he listened until the old pipes clanged and the hum of the pump stopped suddenly. Gripping his pen so tightly that his knuckles showed white, he leaned back and listened as she unlocked the bathroom door and padded softly to her room—his parents’ old room.
Why the devil was she living in the house? He wanted to believe that she’d moved in after John died, to manage the old house and keep it running. But he knew better. She had admitted as much.
Had she been John’s mistress? H
e doubted it. Yet uncertainty gnawed at him. She hadn’t denied having an affair with the old man, but Denver wouldn’t let himself believe her capable of making love to a man more than twice her age. He couldn’t. Though, all things considered, it was none of his damned business. He’d given up any claims on her when he’d accepted the cold truth that she’d betrayed him.
He reached for the neck of the Scotch bottle again, intent on pouring himself another, then twisted on the cap. After shoving the bottle back in the drawer where he’d found it, he stood at the window and stared out at the night.
