A Wife for a Westmoreland - Brenda Jackson [48]
“I needed to see you,” he said simply.
She rolled her eyes. “That’s what you said the last time.”
“And I’m saying it again.”
She drew in a deep breath and then turned and walked toward the sofa. He followed, thinking at least she hadn’t asked him to leave…yet. She sat down on the couch and he dropped down on the love seat.
“If you had to venture out in this blasted weather, why not go visit Ashira Lattimore? I’m sure she has a bed warming for you.”
The last thing he needed to do was to admit there was a strong possibility the woman did. As far as he knew, Ashira had gotten it into her head that she would eventually become Mrs. Derringer Westmoreland. He wouldn’t marry Ashira if she was the last woman on earth. She was too possessive and clingy. On the other hand, the woman sitting across from him wasn’t possessive and clingy enough. Yet she claimed to love him, when he knew all Ashira wanted was the Westmoreland name and all his worldly possessions.
“She isn’t the woman I want warming a bed for me,” he said quietly, glancing over at her intently. Not only did she look good as usual, she smelled good, too. He was so familiar with her scent that he could probably pick her out of any room even if he was blindfolded.
“Do most men care what woman warms their bed?”
He’d never cared until now.
“Don’t answer, Derringer, you might incriminate yourself,” she said bitterly.
That should have gotten him off the hook, but he felt a need to respond anyway. “Those who find the woman they want care. Then they are willing to give up all the others.”
She lifted a brow and he knew the moment she thought she had boxed him into the perfect corner, one she figured he wouldn’t be able to get out of because there was no way he would give up his other women for her. It amazed him that he could discern just how his woman thought.
His woman?
He smiled thinking that yes, she was definitely his woman.
“And you want me to believe you’re willing to give up all other women for me,” she said, chuckling with a look on her face that said the whole idea of him doing such a thing was simply ridiculous.
“Yes, I’d give up all other women for you,” he said, meeting her gaze with a look that told her he was dead serious. She almost dropped the cup she was holding in her hand.
She shook her head. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not,” he responded. “I’m as serious as a Bugatti Veyron on an open road.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Oh, yes, sweetheart, I am.”
She simply stared at him for a moment and then asked in a cautious and quiet tone, “Why?”
“Because you are the only woman I want,” he said.
“But love has nothing to do with it?”
He knew he had to be completely honest with her. He didn’t want to give her false hope or misguided illusions. “No. Love has nothing to do with it. But we’ll have something just as important.”
“What?”
“Respect for each other and a sense of caring. I do care for you, Lucia, or I wouldn’t be here.” There. He’d painted her the picture he intended for her to see. She loved him and had admitted to doing so and he had no reason not to believe her. But he knew a woman’s love went deep and things could get rather messy if she expected or anticipated those feelings in return. She wouldn’t get them.
“Are you willing to accept being the only woman in my life in a long-term exclusive affair, Lucia?”
She stared at him, not saying anything and then as if to be certain she’d heard him correctly and clearly understood the perimeters of what he’d proposed, she asked, “And during that time you won’t be involved with any woman but me?”
“Yes, I give you my word on it. Something I’ve never given any woman I’ve been involved with in the past. You are the first woman.” It was on the tip of his lips to add, Just like I was your first man.
Lucia sat there, staring at Derringer and searching his face for any signs that he was being anything but aboveboard. Was he giving her a line? She drew in a deep breath. He had given her his word, and most people knew that the Westmorelands’ word meant everything to them. But could