Stormy Vows - Iris Johansen [14]
“He's hungry,” Brenna said defensively, as she moved toward the playpen.
“Then I suggest you feed him,” Monty Walters said bluntly. “But first give me those phone numbers.”
Without knowing quite why she was giving in to this aggressive young man, Brenna found herself meekly supplying him with the necessary information. Then she picked up Randy and headed for the tiny kitchenette, where she prepared his usual oatmeal, bacon, and orange juice. Once fed, he regained his sunny disposition, and permitted her to put him back in his playpen with a toy. She swiftly washed and dried the dishes and tidied up the kitchen, then went back to the bedroom to resume her packing.
When she came out of the bedroom, Walters had already disassembled the portable playpen and high chair and set them neatly by the door, and Randy was sitting on the couch playing with a chain of fascinating colored keys. Monty Walters was standing before the window, his eyes narrowed appraisingly.
“Stained glass,” he said, admiring the rich violet and blue of the floral design. “Quite lovely and unexpected. Your work?”
Brenna nodded, thawing a bit at his admiration. She was very proud of that window. “It seemed appropriate,” she said, making a face. “You've probably noticed this neighborhood is not high on aesthetic views.”
“So you made your own,” he observed, looking around the room with new interest. Cream walls provided a classic frame for the window. The furniture was in neutral shades and far from new, and the glowing beauty of the hardwood floor was accented by several brightly colored throw rugs.
“You've done a lot with it,” he said thoughtfully, his eyes returning to the window, which was the focal point of the room. “An unusual hobby,” he commented.
“It's becoming increasingly popular,” she said quietly. “I learned it at school.” The children's home had been convinced that idle hands bred mischief and the children had been offered arts and crafts classes of all descriptions.
“I've always thought a person's home reflected a great deal of their personality,” Walters said quietly, turning his gaze to regard Brenna soberly. “I like your home, Miss Sloan. I have a hunch you're not just another pretty face.”
“If that's a compliment, I thank you, kind sir,” she said lightly. “I'm sure you're not just a pretty face, either.”
He smiled ruefully. “Did I sound chauvinistic?” he said, shaking his head. “I haven't made a very good impression on you, have I? I guess my pride was a bit hurt at being used as a glorified chauffeur, and I took it out on you.” His smile widened appealingly. “Shall we start over?”
Brenna answered his smile with a warm one of her own. “I think we'd better. It's a long way to the Oregon border.” She made a face. “No one would have voted me Miss Congeniality this morning either.”
“You're right there,” he said impudently, dark eyes twinkling. “Now shall we hit the road, before I manage to alienate you completely?”
Together they packed the Lincoln Continental to its spacious limits. When Brenna had objected to leaving her own car in Los Angeles, Monty had countered that the trip would be much more comfortable in the Lincoln, and Donovan had already arranged for her car to be picked up in a few days. There could be no argument about the drive being more comfortable, she admitted to herself, when they were on their way. The car was the height of luxury. She stroked the wine velvet upholstery of the seat with almost sensual pleasure.
“It's a lovely car,” she commented. “Does it belong to Mr. Donovan?”
Monty Walters shook his head with a grin, as he maneuvered the big silver car onto the freeway. “It's mine,” he admitted. “I have a