not to let the image sheâd just described linger in his mind as he walked out of the room.
He had absolutely no success.
At the very least, he mused philosophically, come winter, this would definitely help him save on the heating bill.
CHAPTER SEVEN
S ETTING a cup of coffee down, Connor settled at his desk in the room heâd taken over as his den. The sun was at his back, peering intently into the room like an odd man out kibitzing at a bridge table. Lacy had worked her magic in here. It didnât look like the same room heâd first seen. For that matter, it didnât look like the same house.
In a little more than three short weeks, like a tireless whirlwind, Lacy had methodically worked her way from room to room, renovating, repairing, restoring. A new house, he thought, and a new Lacy.
Leaning back in the newly refinished chair, he closed his eyes and let the sun warm him.
The Lacy he remembered had been retiring, shy. Innocent. That had been part of the reason heâd felt so damned guilty the morning after heâd woken up to find her in his bed. To find that he had made love with her and that he had been her first.
The first man in a womanâs life should be special, especially if that woman was Lacy. That left him out of the running. He was old enough to be her father, albeit, he amended with a fleeting touch of amusement, a young father, but still a father. There were twenty years separating them.
Heâd had no business being the one whoâd taken away her virginity. No business at all. Even if it had been the sweetest, most memorable occasion in his life.
She had been eager to please, he recalled. Eager to be with him and experience all the mysteries that existed between a man and a woman. But on the whole he had to admit the word that best described her was sweet.
While still sweet, the new Lacy had a punch to her. A pizzazz the old Lacy had been missing. There was determination in her eyes and independence in her bearing. He just had to be in the same room with her to feel it.
Connor had to admit that the new improved Lacy intrigued him as much as the old Lacy had attracted him. Maybe even more, because he liked women who held their own, women who didnât attach themselves to a man like some sort of clinging vine.
This Lacy was confident. She could stand on her own if she needed to. Did stand on her own, he corrected, remembering with a bittersweet pang the way sheâd turned down his proposal. The old Lacy, he was certain, would have eagerly jumped on it, accepting faster than she could draw the next breath.
In a way, he rather missed the old Lacy.
Connor frowned. He wasnât making any sense.With a sigh, he dragged a hand through his unruly hair.
New or old, Lacy wasnât his to ponder over. She couldnât be. If she still appeared to care about him, it was because she lacked a father figure in her life. Eventually, she would get over that and realize that what she wanted was a husband, not a father. What would he do, after giving her his heart, if she walked away, a polite apology on her lips? Lacy could begin again, but he would be left with the ashes of a failed relationship and no inclination to reinvent himself.
It was better this way.
Better to pretend that the scent of her perfume, clinging to every damn surface in the house, didnât infiltrate his senses and drive him crazy. Better to pretend that he didnât think of her at the oddest times of the day. Yesterday, it had happened while heâd been at the horse auction.
Horses had always been his passion, and he wanted to make this new ranch workâas only a man who was suddenly desperate to emerge in his own light wanted something to work. He might now be part of the Maitland dynasty, but he was his own man. And he needed to make his own success, not just sail along on the coattails of relatives he hadnât even known he had.
But still, in the middle of a heated bidding war,
He had absolutely no success.
At the very least, he mused philosophically, come winter, this would definitely help him save on the heating bill.
CHAPTER SEVEN
S ETTING a cup of coffee down, Connor settled at his desk in the room heâd taken over as his den. The sun was at his back, peering intently into the room like an odd man out kibitzing at a bridge table. Lacy had worked her magic in here. It didnât look like the same room heâd first seen. For that matter, it didnât look like the same house.
In a little more than three short weeks, like a tireless whirlwind, Lacy had methodically worked her way from room to room, renovating, repairing, restoring. A new house, he thought, and a new Lacy.
Leaning back in the newly refinished chair, he closed his eyes and let the sun warm him.
The Lacy he remembered had been retiring, shy. Innocent. That had been part of the reason heâd felt so damned guilty the morning after heâd woken up to find her in his bed. To find that he had made love with her and that he had been her first.
The first man in a womanâs life should be special, especially if that woman was Lacy. That left him out of the running. He was old enough to be her father, albeit, he amended with a fleeting touch of amusement, a young father, but still a father. There were twenty years separating them.
Heâd had no business being the one whoâd taken away her virginity. No business at all. Even if it had been the sweetest, most memorable occasion in his life.
She had been eager to please, he recalled. Eager to be with him and experience all the mysteries that existed between a man and a woman. But on the whole he had to admit the word that best described her was sweet.
While still sweet, the new Lacy had a punch to her. A pizzazz the old Lacy had been missing. There was determination in her eyes and independence in her bearing. He just had to be in the same room with her to feel it.
Connor had to admit that the new improved Lacy intrigued him as much as the old Lacy had attracted him. Maybe even more, because he liked women who held their own, women who didnât attach themselves to a man like some sort of clinging vine.
This Lacy was confident. She could stand on her own if she needed to. Did stand on her own, he corrected, remembering with a bittersweet pang the way sheâd turned down his proposal. The old Lacy, he was certain, would have eagerly jumped on it, accepting faster than she could draw the next breath.
In a way, he rather missed the old Lacy.
Connor frowned. He wasnât making any sense.With a sigh, he dragged a hand through his unruly hair.
New or old, Lacy wasnât his to ponder over. She couldnât be. If she still appeared to care about him, it was because she lacked a father figure in her life. Eventually, she would get over that and realize that what she wanted was a husband, not a father. What would he do, after giving her his heart, if she walked away, a polite apology on her lips? Lacy could begin again, but he would be left with the ashes of a failed relationship and no inclination to reinvent himself.
It was better this way.
Better to pretend that the scent of her perfume, clinging to every damn surface in the house, didnât infiltrate his senses and drive him crazy. Better to pretend that he didnât think of her at the oddest times of the day. Yesterday, it had happened while heâd been at the horse auction.
Horses had always been his passion, and he wanted to make this new ranch workâas only a man who was suddenly desperate to emerge in his own light wanted something to work. He might now be part of the Maitland dynasty, but he was his own man. And he needed to make his own success, not just sail along on the coattails of relatives he hadnât even known he had.
But still, in the middle of a heated bidding war,
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