A Winter's Rose (3 page)

“Many groups need volunteers, Ms. Cunningham. But Baysafe is—”

“I'm not volunteering,” she corrected quickly. “I need to earn a living. I intend to.”

“I'm sure you do.”

At the disbelief, condescension even, in his tone, heat flew to her cheeks. Arrogant, she silently fumed. He was an arrogant, self-important jerk. “Exactly how did my mother pay for this job?”

Jackson paused. “She makes a yearly contribution. This year's was unusually sizable.”

“I see.” Bentley could just imagine what
sizable
meant. Humiliation warred with fury—having a worthless daughter could get expensive. No wonder Jackson Reese looked at her with such contempt. Bentley worked to keep her thoughts—and feelings—to herself. “I'm sure that was quite a grand sum of money.”

“It was.”

“And I'm sure you really needed it.”

He frowned and tossed down the pen. “We did.”

She collected her things and stood. “When would you like me to start?”

Jackson followed her to her feet. “Ms. Cunningham…Bentley, there is no job.”

“I'm afraid you're mistaken.” She faced him regally. “Carried away or not, my mother bought and paid for this job and, as I see it, a deal's a deal.”

Jackson slid his gaze slowly up to hers, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Tell me, Ms. Cunningham, what do you think of Texas?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I bet you think of Texas in terms of bright, shiny cities and the thick, black liquid that gushes up out of her to outfit you in designer clothes and fancy cars. I bet you think of the coast only in terms of fresh seafood and of browning in the sun while sipping some exotic drink. Not in terms of cranes and egrets and herons, certainly not in terms of live oaks and marsh grasses and algae. I bet you don't know the first thing about what we do or what we're up against. So, why don't you go back to Mama and Daddy and let us do what we need to.”

He was right. She did think of Texas in those terms. She had no idea what Baysafe did. But that didn't change the fact that she was not going to run home, that she was not going to let him scare her off.

Fuming, Bentley met his gaze. “If I go, Mama's donation goes with me. I don't think that would be too good for your cause. Do you?” At the anger that flared in his eyes, she smiled. “I'm afraid you're stuck with me, Jackson.” She moved to the door, turning to him when she reached it. “I'll see you tomorrow morning.”

Chapter Two

H
ours later Jackson stood in front of the Victoria House Hotel, gazing at its elaborate nineteenth-century facade. In the gathering darkness the curling ironwork cast ornate shadows against the masonry. He shook his head, a smile pulling at his mouth. He should have known Bentley Cunningham would take up residence at the most expensive and elegant hotel in Galveston.

And on The Strand, no less. His smiled deepened. That suited her, too. Once called the Wall Street of the Southwest, the recently restored historical district was about as classy as Galveston got.

Jackson hiked his collar up against the bite of the damp night air. Not much else about this quiet little island would suit her, of that he was certain. Galveston, a barrier island bounded on one side by the Gulf of Mexico and on the other by Galveston Bay, promised plenty for a family to do and see on a three-day vacation, but compared to Houston the shopping was abysmal, the restaurant choices few and the nightlife nonexistent. A jet-setter like Bentley Cunningham would consider Galveston a cultural wasteland. She would be bored silly. Experience had taught him well.

So why had she come?

Jackson drew his eyebrows together. Not for one moment did he buy her song and dance about wanting to work with an environmental group. It didn't fit. Nor did he buy her needing to earn a living. Women like Bentley, from families like hers, didn't earn livings. They lunched and shopped, they married, they volunteered. Again, experience had taught him well.

Crossing to the hotel, Jackson nodded to the doorman as he sprang forward to open the door for him. Inside, Jackson took the marble entry steps two at a time, then headed for the elevators.

He should despise her. He wanted to. She stood for the power of money and all it could buy and bulldoze. He resented being pushed into something he didn't want to do, resented like hell having to kowtow to Cunningham Oil's money.

But he couldn't deny a reluctant appreciation. Not for her looks, although he wouldn't be a man if he hadn't noticed them. Jackson punched the number for her floor. No, it was the way she had stood up to him and all he'd dished out that had earned his grudging admiration.

He'd dished out plenty—contempt, barely veiled criticism for her and her type. He'd hoped to embarrass—even bully—her into running back to Houston. And out of his hair.

But she hadn't run. She'd stiffened her spine and dug her heels in.

But so had he. This wasn't over yet.

Jackson paused a moment outside the third floor's prestigious corner suite, then knocked on the door. She swung it open almost immediately, and his gut tightened at the sight of her. Even without one speck of makeup, she was a sensational beauty. Her face had no doubt inspired men to wild fantasies, flowery poetry and ruinous acts.

Jackson trailed his gaze slowly over her. She wore an emerald-colored robe, cinched at her waist and made of some slippery, silky fabric that had his fingers itching to touch and stroke. The robe concealed more than it revealed, but what he could see of her skin looked smooth, petal soft. Perfumed and pampered, Jackson thought, acknowledging his own cynicism. He'd known her kind of woman before.
Hell, he'd made the mistake of marrying one.

He brought his eyes to her face. Her hair was a deep rich brown with just enough red to make it unusual—even exotic. Knowing in his gut that it wasn't bottle-enhanced, he lowered his eyes yet again, taking his time even though she was annoyed, even though he could feel the irritation ripple off her in almost palpable waves.

Jackson smiled. There was nothing he liked more than stirring up an opponent before the big battle.

Except making love.

He dropped his gaze to her bare feet. Her coral-tipped toes peeked out from beneath the hem of her robe, and he lingered a moment, his blood stirring.

When he finally brought his eyes to hers, she arched an eyebrow, all cool, unflappable arrogance. “Inspection over?”

Jackson smiled slowly with appreciation. No doubt she'd leveled many an impertinent servant with that particular tone and look. “Yes, ma'am,” he drawled. “There's nothing quite like a long, leisurely gawk at a pretty woman.”

The eyebrow arched a bit more, and she folded her arms across her chest. “Now that you've had your gawk, is there something I can do for you?”

He slipped his hands into the front pockets of his denims and cocked his head. “Pretty fancy digs for a working girl.”

The ice in her eyes became fire. “I don't see where it's any business of yours, and I certainly don't remember issuing an invitation to call.”

“Well, that's good,” he drawled, “because I didn't receive one. The mind, they say, is the first thing to go.”

She expelled her breath in the tiniest huff. The sound had him grinning. He leaned against the doorjamb, studying her once more. He'd made her angry. It was there in the flashing eyes, the stain of heat on her cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell with her quickened breathing.

At that moment, he found Ms. Bentley Cunningham appealing. Dangerously so. He'd thought Victoria had forever cured him of his taste for pampered princesses.

Apparently not.

He called himself a fool, a glutton for punishment, but still he leaned teasingly toward her. “Are you going to ask me in, Bentley Cunningham?”

She bristled. “I don't believe so.”

“A drink, then? A cup of coffee? We could go out.”

Bentley gritted her teeth. The man was impossible. Smug. Arrogant and condescending. Ridiculously good-looking. “As you can see, I'm not dressed.”

“Too bad.”

“For you, yes.” She pushed impatiently at the curls that tumbled across her forehead. “What
can
I do for you, Mr. Reese?”

“Jackson,” he corrected. “And I'm here to talk business.”

He flashed her a bone-melting smile. She swore silently when it did just that. “You disappoint me. I thought, perhaps, you'd come to apologize.”

“For my boorish behavior?” Jackson tipped his head back and gave a hoot of laughter. “I'm sure that's the type of treatment you're accustomed to. Sorry, m'lady, but I never apologize. I came to talk about your job.”

Her job?
The blood rushed to her head, but she lifted her eyebrows haughtily. “Does this means you're acknowledging I have one?”

His smile didn't falter, but it seemed to tighten around the edges. “You gave me no choice. Remember? I'm stuck with you.”

“So?”

“So…let's talk business. What can you do, Bentley Barton Cunningham?”

Bentley inched her chin up even as panic curled through her.
Nothing.
“Name it,” she said instead. “Anything.”

“Anything,” he drawled, amusement—and challenge—twitching at the corners of his mouth. “I doubt that.”

Bentley narrowed her eyes, panic forgotten at his affront, anger replacing it. “Name it,” she said again.

“Ever baby-sat?”

As she met his eyes, he lifted his eyebrows rakishly. She shook her head as realization dawned. His wayward, kicked-out-of-school-again daughter. “That's not what I came to Galveston for.”

“It's a job. Of course—” he lifted his shoulders “—if it's not a good enough one, not important enough for someone like yourself, you could run back to Mama and Daddy.”

That was exactly what he wanted. It was what her mother wanted, also. Bentley gritted her teeth, furious. “You are a pig, Mr. Reese.”

Jackson laughed, the sound rich with amusement. “And you are a princess.”

Now she understood the origin of the expression spit bullets, Bentley thought. Because at that moment she felt like she could, indeed, spit them.

She jerked her chin up. This man would not daunt her, could not intimidate her into giving up. She would be the best damn baby-sitter ever. She would tame his unruly, ill-mannered daughter—or die trying.

“How long?” she asked.

A frown tugged at his mouth. “Chloe's been suspended until after the Christmas holidays. But I doubt you'll last a day, let alone six weeks. Last week Chloe went through three sitters in four and a half days. She can be…difficult.”

An aching sadness slipped into his expression, and Bentley lifted her hand to comfort him. Realizing what she was doing, she dropped it. “And if I do last?”

He met her eyes, and she suspected by the softness in his that he had been, for that moment, far away. “Pardon?”

“If I go the distance with Chloe, will you give me a shot, a real shot at working at Baysafe?”

Jackson drew his eyebrows together, and considered her through narrowed eyes. “Why Galveston? Why Baysafe?”

“I already told you, I want to work with an environmental group. I heard you're the best.”

“Yeah, you told me. I didn't buy it then, I still don't.”

“What?” She tilted her head back and met his eyes. “That you're the best?”

“That you give a flip about the environment.”

Bentley's cheeks heated, and she cursed their color. “That's your problem, isn't it? Do we have a deal?”

Several seconds ticked past, then Jackson nodded and handed her one of his cards. “Here's my address. Be there by eight and I'll fill you in.”

As he started down the hall, she called, “Why me? What makes you think I can handle your daughter, even if only for a day?”

Jackson stopped and turned to face her. He met her eyes and smiled. “You handled me, didn't you? Besides, I'm desperate. See you in the morning, Princess.”

Desperate, Bentley thought, watching as he stepped into the elevator and the doors swished shut. Now, there was a commendation. For long moments she stood in the doorway staring at the empty hall, his business card clutched in her hand.

She shook her head and stepped into her suite, closing the door behind her. He'd said she'd handled him. Had she? She felt like a punch-drunk boxer, too tired to go another round, but too dazed to understand the time had come to call it quits.

But, in a way, she had won. If she could go the distance with Chloe, Jackson would give her a real job at Baysafe. She would have
earned
that job. And that felt good. Really good. She smiled.

All she had to do was figure out how to cope with Chloe. How hard could it be? She had been Chloe's age once. And a baby-sitter couldn't be that different from a nanny, and she'd certainly had enough of those growing up.

But that didn't make her an expert, just as having once been a child didn't make every adult a good parent, she reminded herself.

A thread of self-doubt worming through her, Bentley crossed to her music box look-alike. Picking up the box, she wound it and watched the figure circle the base. David had told her that it was for the best she hadn't been able to conceive, because she would have been a terrible mother. She didn't know why he'd said that, didn't know what he'd based his opinion on. The comment had been just another of his cruelties, another of his calculated blows to her self-esteem. Bentley tightened her fingers on the music box's base. In truth, she'd been too devastated to even ask.

She still was.

She shook her head and fought back tears, focusing again on her look-alike belle. Bentley smiled, somehow comforted by the figure. David was wrong. She would prove it—to herself, to the world. Tomorrow she would win Chloe's trust and affection, and earn Jackson's respect.

* * *

Tomorrow came fast, and by seven forty-five the next morning, Bentley was scared witless—over baby-sitting a thirteen-year-old. She shook her head, feeling more than a bit ridiculous at admitting it, even if only to herself.

Shaking her head again, Bentley turned onto a lovely street lined with oleander bushes and restored Victorian cottages. The concierge had called this the Silk Stocking district. A smile pulled at her mouth. Jackson Reese lived in the Silk Stocking district? It just didn't fit.

But the house did. Bentley pulled to a stop in front of his home, a raised Victorian cottage with a minimum of gingerbread and a wide, shaded front gallery. She turned off her car and took a moment to study it. He'd left the yard to nature, in a sort of contained wildness. Two large live oaks dominated his property, and oleander bushes, climbing vines and winter blossoms abounded in disordered profusion. Although far from the pristine, manicured lawns and landscaping of the surrounding homes, his garden was beautiful. It reminded her of him.

Disconcerted by the thought, Bentley checked her appearance in the mirror, then took a deep breath. This was it. Stepping out of the car, she headed up the walk. Inset into his front door were two leaded glass panels, and the diamonds of glass caught and splintered the light. She pressed the buzzer.

Moments later Chloe answered the bell, her expression defiant. When Bentley smiled Chloe glared at her, then without speaking turned and stalked into the house. So much for fantasies about winning trust and friendship, Bentley thought, waiting at the open door a moment before following the youngster inside.

The house was charming, with high ceilings and lovingly restored woodwork and floors. Sun spilled through the abundance of windows, dappling the interior in warmth and light. Bentley stopped in the middle of the front parlor, hesitant to venture farther without an invitation.

Just as she started to call out, Jackson came around the corner, his expression thunderous. “Sorry about Chloe's rudeness,” he said, yanking on his tie, tightening it.

Bentley worked to appear confident and in control. “It's not your fault.”

“Isn't it? I'm not so sure.” The tie ended up short; he swore and started over. “Come on in.”

Bentley followed him into the large, light kitchen. Here, as elsewhere in the house, instead of renovating and updating, the interior had been meticulously restored. Chloe sat at the table, her expression sulky.

Bentley turned to Jackson. “Your home is lovely.”