Westmoreland's Way - Brenda Jackson [11]
While living in Los Angeles for five years she’d been surrounded by jaw-droppingly, stomach-stirringly handsome men, many from some of the world’s most elite modeling agencies. But none could hold a light to the man presently standing in her yard. His features were distinct—sharp facial bones, firm jaw and full lips. His hair beneath his Stetson was close cut and trimmed neatly around his head.
A moment passed. Possibly two. When suddenly he turned his head and looked over in her direction.
She had been caught.
And she was immediately enveloped in his intense gaze. She was unable to do anything but return his stare while wondering why she was doing so. Why were her senses, her entire being, homed in on everything about him? This wasn’t good, she thought.
At least that was what her mind was telling her, but her common sense hadn’t gotten there yet. It was being held captive within the scope of the darkest pair of eyes she’d ever seen.
Somewhere in the not-too-faraway distance she heard the sound of a car backfiring and the sound ripped right into the moment. It was only then that she was able to slide her gaze away from his to look over across the wide expanse of yard.
After taking a deep breath she returned her gaze to his, wrestled with those same senses she had lost control of earlier, placed a smile on her face and said, “Good morning, Dillon.”
She wasn’t just off the boat, and knew that during the brief moment when their gazes had held, something had happened. Just as it had last night. She wasn’t sure of what, but she knew that it had. She also knew she would pretend that it hadn’t. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” she added.
“Yes, it is,” he said, turning to walk over toward her. Holy cow! she thought, swallowing deeply. The man’s strides were sure, confident and deliberately masculine. He had one hell of a sexy walk, and what was so disturbing about it was that it seemed as natural as the sun rising in the morning.
He came to a stop in front of her and met her gaze fleetingly before glancing up at the sun. His gaze then returned to her. “It might rain later, though.”
She nodded. “Yes, it might.” She knew they were trying to get back in sync and to lessen the intensity of what had passed between them.
“I hope I’m not too early,” he said in a deep, husky voice, breaking into her thoughts.
“No, you’re fine. I was just having my morning coffee. Would you like to join me?”
With an ultrasexy shrug of his massive shoulders, he smiled as he removed his hat. “Umm, I don’t know. I feel I’m taking a lot of your time already.”
“No problem. Besides, you want to know about Raphel, right?”
“Yes. Is there something you can tell me other than he was your great-grandfather’s partner and that he ran off with your great-grandmother, Portia Novak?”
Pam chuckled as she led him through the house and headed toward the kitchen. “Portia wasn’t my great-grandmother,” she corrected. “A few years after she’d run off, he met my great-grandmother and they married.”
When he sat down at the table, she said, “I’m sure you’ve heard some stories about Raphel and Portia.” She proceeded to pour him a cup of coffee.
“No, in actuality, I hadn’t. I’d always assumed my great-grandmother Gemma was my great-grandfather’s only wife. It was only after my Atlanta Westmoreland relatives showed up and explained how we were related that I found out about Portia Novak and the others.”
Pam lifted a brow. “There were others?”
He nodded. “Yes, Gemma was his fifth wife.”
Dillon was more than curious about what had happened to a preacher’s wife, a woman by the name of Lila Elms. Although she was already legally married to the preacher, had she and Raphel pretended to be married for a spell before he dumped her for Portia, the wife of Jay Novak?
And then what happened to Clarice, wife number three? And Isabelle,