A Winter's Rose (2 page)

“She agreed with me.” Chloe tossed her head back. “She thinks you're mean, too.”

Jackson counted to ten. Once, then again. He wouldn't say the words that begged to jump off his tongue, words like, “But I'm good enough to raise you.” And others like, “If I'm so awful, then why did she dump you with me?”

But he didn't—and couldn't—say them because they would hurt Chloe too much. It wasn't her fault her mother was selfish and irresponsible. Nor was it her fault that his and Victoria's marriage had ended almost before it had started.

Besides, in her heart of hearts, Chloe already knew the truth. And knowing that hurt him more than any of the things his daughter could say to him.

“Mom said,” his daughter continued, “that you were being silly, and that as far as she was concerned, I'm entirely too old for a baby-sitter.”

“Did she?” He lifted his eyebrows. “And who did she say should watch you while I'm working?”

Chloe's chin tipped up another notch. “I can take care of myself.”

Her tone was as haughty as a princess's. She'd inherited that from her mother. Along with her exotic looks—the waterfall of thick, blond hair, the full, pouty mouth and large, almond-shaped blue eyes.

That she was so beautiful and poised, so mature looking at thirteen, scared him silly.

That her behavior so closely resembled that of her mother frightened him more.

“Chloe,” he said wearily, “you get kicked out of boarding school for the third time and yet you expect me to believe you're mature enough to take care of yourself while I'm at work? And what about when
I'm out of town? Did your mother think of that?” Jackson shook his head. “No way, kiddo.”

Chloe stomped her foot. “You're so unfair! I hated that place. They made me—”

“What?” Jackson interrupted. “Eat your vegetables? Study? Follow rules designed to protect you?”

“But, Daddy,” she wheedled. “If you'd just give me a chance…”

In the background Jackson heard the phone ringing, heard Jill Peters, his office manager, greet someone. “I don't have time for this, Chloe. The subject is closed. Until you go back to school, you will have a baby-sitter.”

“I hate you!” she shot back, tears flooding her eyes. “I wish I never came here. I'd even rather be at that dumb boarding school than here with you!”

Her words tore at him. It wasn't the first time she'd said them, yet they hurt no less than the first. He'd never imagined that his child would say that to him. But then there were so many things about being a parent he'd never imagined.

“Well,” he said stiffly, “maybe you should think of that the next time you feel the urge to call your headmistress a—”

“Jackson—” Jill opened the door and poked her head inside. “Bentley Cunningham is here.”

Jackson met his office manager's gaze, and she rolled her eyes. Great, he thought. Just what he needed. Another spoiled princess on his hands.

Realizing his own thoughts, guilt plucked at him. If Chloe was a spoiled princess, it was as much his fault as Victoria's. He'd been a lousy father, and the hell of it was, he didn't know how to become a better one.

Jackson flexed his fingers, torn between his desire to make it right between him and Chloe, and the urgency of Baysafe's situation. Damn it. He didn't have time for this. Every moment had to be spent scrambling to come up with donations to replace the ones that had been pulled.

Donations. Bentley Cunningham. If he hadn't needed Cunningham Oil's yearly contribution so badly he would have turned Beatrice Cunningham down flat.

But he
had
needed it. Badly. Lobbying in Washington to change environmental legislation took money. Saving the precious coast and her wildlife took money. Lots of it.

Money Baysafe didn't have. Time was running out for the bay and her wetlands. He would do whatever he had to to save them, even swallow his pride and take on a spoiled debutante who wanted to dabble at a job.

Jackson looked at his daughter only to find her staring at him, an expression in her eyes he hadn't seen in a long time. Part vulnerability, part yearning, part hero worship. His heart lurched. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed that expression.

He reached out to her. “Chloe, I—”

“Jackson, line one. It's Washington.”

Making a sound of frustration, Jackson dropped his hand and turned away from his daughter. He kept the conversation brief, but when he turned back to Chloe, gone was the soft expression of moments before, in its place was the petulance he saw so often these days.

A feeling of futility washed over him, and he fought it back. Putting his arm around Chloe's shoulders, he steered her out of his office, ignoring when she popped her gum. “We'll get this worked out, sweetie. We're still adjusting to living together. I have some things to do, but when I'm done, we'll get an ice cream. Okay?”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Ice cream? Get real, Daddy.” She ducked out from under his arm, crossed the room and plopped noisily down onto the waiting room sofa.

At the commotion, Bentley turned from the series of photographs she'd been studying to face Jackson Reese. Her first glance at him took her breath. He was tall, at least six-three, with broad shoulders and a big outdoorsy build. He filled the small reception area, towering over his secretary and a young girl she assumed was his daughter. Even at five foot ten, Bentley felt dwarfed by him.

But it was more than his physical size that filled the room; it was his physicality, his very presence. Jackson Reese was all man, all Texan. Judging by the lines radiating from his sky-blue eyes and the healthy wind-burned look of his chiseled face, Jackson Reese had spent a lifetime enduring the fickle Texas elements, be it the unrelenting sun or the cold, wet wind. His sandy-colored hair and bushy eyebrows were streaked from the sun and with hints of premature gray.

Bentley moved her gaze over him, taking in the faded jeans and cowboy boots, the flannel shirt and sheepskin-lined denim vest. Jackson Reese was the antithesis of David and her father, corporate sharks who wore Brooks Brothers suits and deceptively civilized smiles. Yet something in his expression suggested a man capable of the same ruthless cunning, of a determination to win that precluded everything—especially tenderness.

Even though her insides fluttered like a field of butterflies, Bentley stepped forward and held out her hand. “Mr. Reese.”

He took her hand and smiled. The curving of his lips was broad and handsome, the kind of smile that won votes and stole hearts. It didn't reach his eyes. “Ms. Cunningham.”

“Please, call me Bentley.”

He nodded curtly and dropped her hand. She couldn't help but notice he didn't offer her the same courtesy, and a ripple of irritation moved over her. She was unaccustomed to such brusque treatment, especially from men.

“You've met Jill, my office manager?” He motioned to the woman who had first greeted her. “Yes.” Bentley looked at Jill; the woman nodded briefly, then returned to her paper work.

“My daughter, Chloe.”

Bentley turned to find the youngster's too-adult gaze assessingly upon her. Bentley had the feeling that if asked, Chloe could quote how much her suit cost, identify her watch as Piaget gold and diamond, her shoes as Gucci.

Even though she would have been able to do likewise at the same age, Bentley was unnerved. She shook off the feeling and smiled at the exotic-looking girl.

In response, Chloe snapped her gum. “I was kicked out of boarding school. He's stuck with me until after Christmas.”

Bentley stared at the beautiful child in shock, then shifted her gaze to Jackson, even more shocked when he did no more than send his daughter a narrow-eyed glance.

Then he turned to Bentley. “We need to talk,” he said, motioning to the office he had just emerged from. “Have a seat, I'll be right in.”

Resisting the urge to wring her hands, Bentley moved around him and into the office. The room was sparsely and crudely furnished, a far cry from Cunningham Oil's executive offices. Here, as in the reception area, photographs of the wild and varied Texas coast lined the walls.

Caught by a photo of a whooping crane bursting into flight, Bentley moved closer to examine it. Ethereally white, the bird glowed against the background of lush green as it cut with seeming effortlessness through the air.

How wonderful to be able to soar, Bentley thought, tipping her head, still studying the photo. How wonderful to be able to—

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

Bentley whirled around, startled. Jackson Reese stood not three feet behind her, his eyes also on the photo. “Yes,” she managed, turning back to the photograph. “I was thinking it almost magical.”

“Magical,” he repeated, moving closer until he stood directly behind her. “That's a pretty good description. But like any sleight of hand trick, now you see it, now you don't.”

He smelled of the outdoors, of the Gulf and the sun. The scent, natural and somehow wild, was foreign to her. The men she knew smelled of colognes and after-shaves and fancy soaps. Not of wind and water and hard work.

Unnerved at the way her blood stirred, Bentley turned and tipped her face up to his, meeting his eyes. “Sleight of hand? I'm not sure what you mean.”

He looked at the photo of the whooping crane. “That picture was taken not ten years ago. But that place is gone, replaced by a pricey waterfront housing development.” He met her eyes once more, the expression in his hot and hard. “Where do you think that whooping crane nests now?”

Bentley swallowed, a funny ache in her chest. “I don't know.”

“Exactly. Sleight of hand, Ms. Cunningham.” He motioned to the chair across from his big, battered desk. “Have a seat.”

She sank into the chair and crossed her legs, willing their trembling to stop. “I'd like to thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Reese. I'm excited about the chance to work with—”

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Let's dispense with the niceties, shall we? All this gratitude and appreciation isn't necessary. In fact, it's not even necessary that you show up.”

Shocked, Bentley straightened her already ramrod spine. “Pardon me?”

He made a sound of annoyance. “I don't have time for games right now, Ms. Cunningham.”

She resisted the urge to look away and met his eyes boldly. “I understood I was to check in as soon as I arrived. If now is an inconvenient time to acquaint me with my responsibilities, just name another.”

Jackson stared at her. Bentley stared back. Slowly, he moved his gaze, raking it over her, taking in her dress-for-success suit, her obviously new briefcase, her unmarred suede pumps.

Bentley knew exactly what he saw; she had taken great pains to achieve a professional, confident look for their first meeting. Yet, as Jackson Reese assessed her, she had the feeling that what he saw lacked. That when he looked at her, he saw the same emptiness she did.

A place in her chest, dangerously near her heart, tightened, and Bentley sucked in a quick, silent breath. She wouldn't let this man intimidate her. “Is something wrong?” she asked, her cool, modulated tone one lie she promised herself Jackson Reese would not see through.

“I expected someone younger.”

She lifted one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?” He raked that assessing gaze over her again, and Bentley decided she didn't like him. Not one bit.

“I should think that's obvious.” When she didn't reply, he cleared his throat. “May I be blunt, Ms. Cunningham?”

Bentley arched her eyebrows a fraction, sending him a look that suggested he already had been, and that he was no gentleman. “Please do.”

“There is no job here.”

Nonplussed, Bentley stared at him. “I'm sorry. I must have misheard—”

“You didn't.” He picked up a pen and rolled it between his fingers. Bentley couldn't help noticing how large and rough his hands seemed compared to the sleek, silver pen. “Your mother is one of Baysafe's contributors. She called. She said you needed a job…” Shrugging, he let his words trail off.

Bentley filled in the blanks, and embarrassment hit her in a debilitating wave of heat. Insecurity and self-recrimination followed. Her mother had not only found this job, Bentley realized, she had bought it for her.

Just as she had bought her everything else in her life. Including her ex-husband.

She should have known, or at least suspected. She should have checked this job out herself. She should have questioned her mother more thoroughly, should have—

Bentley curled her fingers into fists. The humiliation of being turned down for the jobs she'd applied for was nothing compared to the humiliation she felt now, sitting across from this arrogant man and knowing what he thought of her.

What was worse? she wondered dizzily. Having this man think she couldn't find a job for herself, or that her mother was so sure she couldn't?

Her own breath threatened to choke her, and at that moment Bentley thanked God for her years of etiquette classes, for the hundreds of excruciating teas and nerve-racking beauty pageants, for the countless times she had hidden her feelings behind a brilliant smile and perfectly modulated conversation.

Now she drew her training around her like a suit of armor. “Apparently, there's been some miscommunication here. I very much want to work with an environmental group. Mother had heard of you, she said you had a position for me.”

Bentley sent him her most winning smile; to her chagrin he seemed totally unaffected by it. “Although I had several other offers, I wanted to work with the best. I understand that's you?”

“We like to think so.”

Bentley laughed lightly and shook her head. “Mother's precious, really, but sometimes she gets…carried away. I've learned to live with it, she does mean well.” And when she saw her next, Bentley silently added, she would wring her beautiful neck.