Callan's Proposition

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.