Stormy Vows - Iris Johansen [20]
“I understand you wanted to see me,” he said sarcastically. “I tried to phone you, and it rang off the hook, so I came over.”
“You phoned me?” she asked sleepily, trailing behind him into the living room. “You must have called the wrong number,” she said tiredly, gravitating toward the lavender couch, and curling up in the corner. “I would have heard it.”
“I did not call a wrong number,” he said between clenched teeth. He moved with pantherish grace to the gray extension phone on the glass end table, and checked the phone quickly. “You have the volume turned off,” he said disgustedly, adjusting the dial. “It's hardly courteous to ask me to get in touch with you, and then turn the telephone off, Miss Sloan,” he said curtly, his blue eyes blazing.
She felt the stirrings of indignation at the unfair accusation, but she was still too sluggish to take umbrage. “I didn't turn down the volume,” she said lifelessly. “It must have been the previous occupant of the cottage.”
Donovan's eyes narrowed as they raked over her. “What the hell is the matter with you?” he demanded roughly. “Are you on something?”
“On something?” she asked vaguely. Then realizing what he meant, she woke up with a vengeance. She sat up straight on the couch, swift color pinking her cheeks.
“I do not take drugs, Mr. Donovan!” she said angrily. “I'm merely very sleepy.”
He shrugged. “It's an understandable assumption. Your generation seems partial to crutches.”
“And yours wasn't?” she inquired sarcastically. “I believe yours was known as the protest generation. You started the whole drug culture.”
“Touché,” he said ruefully. “Not me personally, I assure you.” His gaze ran over her lingeringly. “Are you always so slow to wake up?” he asked abruptly.
“Not everyone wakes up all in one piece,” she said resentfully. “Though I'm sure you're one of those who switch on like an electric light.”
“Yes, I am,” he said absently, his eyes thoughtful. “One of us will have to change,” he said obscurely.
She stared at him in confusion, but before she could voice a question he continued curtly. “Monty said there was some problem with your living arrangements. What is so important that it couldn't wait until tomorrow?” he demanded, looking around the richly furnished room casually. “Everything seems to be in order.”
“Everything is not in order!” she said hotly, rising to her feet and facing him belligerently. “Randy isn't here with me.”
The keen blue eyes became suddenly watchful. “The child?” he asked carefully. “I made adequate provisions for him. Doris Charles has excellent references, and her apartment has been furnished with everything a child could possibly want.”
“Everything but his mother,” Brenna grated, her hands clenching into fists. “I want him with me!”
Donovan strolled over to the small portable bar in the corner, and poured himself a Scotch and water, before turning to face her.
“That won't be possible,” he said coolly. “I prefer that the child be cared for in the residence hall. You'll need all your concentration for the next week or so. I don't want you distracted by maternal worries.”
“That's ridiculous,” she said angrily. “I've always taken care of Randy myself, and I assure you that my schedule has been more demanding than you can imagine.”
“But not as taxing as the one I'll ask of you,” he said bluntly. “There are a number of scenes that have to be reshot, as well as the rest of the picture to finish, and I fully intend to bring the picture in on schedule, Brenna,” he said forcefully.
“I've agreed to accept Miss Charles' assistance,” Brenna said in exasperation. “What difference could it possibly make if she and Randy move in here?”
He took a long swallow of his drink before he answered. “It makes a difference to me. In case you haven't noticed, I run things here.”
“So I've been told,” she said bitterly, her brown eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears as she gazed pleadingly at him. “Why should you object to me having my son here?” she asked huskily. “Won't you change your mind?”
His eyes were