Magnolia Dawn Read Online Free PDF Page B

And how had the brother and sister turned out so differently?
    He moved his gaze across the deep first-floor gallery and row of floor-to-ceiling windows beyond. He was curious about this house, this family, its history. He wondered where—and if—he fit into the puzzle.
    And he wondered about Annabelle.
    He’d never met a woman quite like her before, and she fascinated him. He sensed in her a real strength of character. Of purpose, certainly. She had guts, verve. She could hold her own with anyone.
    He smiled, remembering her final words to him yesterday, laughing softly. “I sleep with Blue at my side and a gun under my pillow.” He had no doubt she wouldn’t hesitate to use either to protect herself.
Or Ashland.
    He shook his head. She infuriated him. Her cool superiority grated on his nerves, conjuring memories from his youth, ones he preferred stayed in the past.
    What made her tick? he wondered, downing the last of his coffee. He had no use for games or false modesty. Since he’d been old enough to notice, females had been interested. They usually sent him signals:
the fluttering of lashes, sidelong glances or suggestive chitchat. He’d had none of those from Annabelle. She didn’t want to be his friend. Or anything else.
    Which suited him just fine. He’d come to Ashland for one reason only, and it wasn’t a fling with a Southern belle with a superiority complex.
    Rush lifted his gaze to the second-floor gallery. As if his thoughts had materialized her, Annabelle stood at the edge of the railing looking out at the new day. She wore a lightweight robe, cinched at the waist. Her feet were bare, her hair sleep-tousled.
    As he watched, the breeze caught the fabric, molding it to her hips and thighs, outlining her slender body. His blood stirred, and Rush told himself to go inside and give her the privacy she thought she had.
    He didn’t move a muscle.
    She looked down. Their eyes met. The day seemed suddenly heavy and still, the air electric with possibilities. She looked soft in that white robe, with the sunlight playing over her and her blond hair tumbling over her shoulder. Softer than he’d thought she could be.
    And womanly; lush and inviting.
    Rush sucked in a sharp breath as arousal speared through him. He imagined going to her, peeling away that white cotton robe to reveal skin whiter, softer, than the fabric. But warm with excitement. And later, damp from his mouth and tongue.
    The power of the image, of his arousal, shocked him. This was no mild stirring of the blood, no simple instance of attraction or appreciation. That what he felt was a reaction to this particular woman shocked him more.
    Rush fought back the image, and his arousal. It wouldn’t do, not at all. A tryst between them would complicate things, would muddy his thinking, his sense of purpose. Besides, Annabelle Ames was not the type of woman who dallied. He wasn’t even sure whether blood or ice ran through her veins.
    Remembering the haughty way she had lifted her chin and looked at him, he decided on ice. Rush lifted his coffee mug in a silent and impersonal salute, then turned and went inside to take a cold shower.
    * * *
    Anna watched Rush disappear inside his house, her knees buckling beneath her. She grabbed the gallery railing for support and drew in a shuddering breath. Dear Lord, what had happened to her?
    Her cheeks burned as she thought of the way her body had responded to him. Her nipples had become erect; her sex, shamelessly wet. She’d had to fight to breathe; she was still fighting. And even though she’d ordered herself to retreat from the gallery and his scrutiny, she’d been unable to move.
    She, the woman who had been called unresponsive and cold even by the man she’d been engaged to marry, had felt like a mare in heat.
    Anna pictured Rush as he had been moments before, the sun spilling over his broad, muscular chest, his eyes heavy-lidded with sleep.