Stormy Vows - Iris Johansen [52]
Donovan was moodily silent on the short drive to his home, and it was only as they pulled into the curving driveway and halted before an extremely large, two-story house of mellow pink brick, that the silence was broken.
“It's perfectly lovely,” Brenna said softly, gazing at the house.
It was lovely. There was an indescribable beauty about the house with it's wide bay windows and climbing ivy. It had a subtle air of welcoming warmth and permanency about it, that was at odds with the rest of the modern style architecture of Twin Pines.
Donovan smiled mockingly. “You're surprised? I thought you would be. When I had the house built, I told the architect I wanted it to look like it had been here for a hundred years and would be here for another hundred. I live a fast life that has constantly changing values. I like the idea of having some semblance of permanence to come home to.
“There are no live-in servants,” he went on coolly. “I have a woman from town, a Mrs. Haskins, who comes daily and two girls who come in twice a week. Besides that there is the gardener and all-around handyman, Joe Peters. Oh, yes. I've recently hired a chauffeur for you, Bob Phillips.”
She looked at him, startled. “I don't need a driver,” she protested. “I wouldn't know what to do with one.”
“You're a lady of substance now,” he said mockingly. “You'll get used to it.”
She doubted that. But looking around the foyer a few minutes later, she knew she would have no problem getting used to this aspect of Donovan's wealth. There was nothing pretentious about the decor. She had half-expected antiques after Donovan's statement in the car, but this was not the case. The house was decorated in no particular period, and with only one general theme: comfort. Every piece of furniture that graced the house had the mellow patina of expert craftsmanship, lovingly executed.
“I think coffee is in order, after all that champagne,” Donovan said briskly. “I want to talk.” He gestured to the double door in richly glowing mahogany. “If you'd like to go into the library and make yourself comfortable, I'll bring it through.”
“Couldn't I go with you?” she asked impulsively.
He arched an eyebrow. “Why not?” he asked with a shrug, and she followed him down the hall to the large bright kitchen done entirely in sunshine yellow and white.
“Sit down,” he said casually, waving to the breakfast bar with its high stools upholstered in rich white leather. “I'll be with you in a minute.”
As Brenna perched on a high stool and watched him as he measured coffee into the chrome percolator, she thought what an incongruous sight they must present in their ultra-modern surroundings. She in her romantic finery and Donovan in dark formal evening clothes. He did not wear evening clothes with the same air of being born to them as Jake Dominic, she mused. Despite the faultless tailoring, the smooth material seemed to confine rather than cover the powerful shoulders, and led one to wonder at the untamed body beneath the civilized trappings. She felt a sudden surge of liquid weakness in her every limb at the sheer raw virility of the man as he prowled about the kitchen at his homely tasks.
He looked up suddenly and surprised her looking at him. His hands were arrested for a moment, as he effortlessly read the message that she was scarcely aware she was projecting.
“If you don't stop looking at me like that, I won't be responsible,” he said huskily. “And I've got to talk to you.”
She flushed, and looked down at her hands loosely folded on the yellow countertop. “I don't know what you mean.”
“You do, but I won't argue with you,” he said roughly. “I've made a decision that I thought would suit you down to the ground, but it won't work if you keep throwing out signals.