A Loving Man Read online

  “The Journey To Your Heart, And Your Bed, Is A Difficult One.”

  “Do you always have to come straight to the point?” Rose asked. Leaning against the front-porch post, his cotton shirt unbuttoned above his crossed arms and wearing jeans like any other Waterville male, Stefan took her breath away.

  Rose forced herself back to the garden of reason, picking out the weeds of temptation. She’d known him for only two weeks; he came from a different world. He would be leaving, once boredom hit him—or summer ended.

  “Yes, I do always come to the point.”

  She stared meaningfully at Stefan. He looked more like lover material than a husband. Rose didn’t want to dip into dreams safely tucked away. “I think you’d better leave.”

  “Very well. But I want you to think about this—I have waited too long for a woman like you. The single women of Waterville have started hunting me, and I want you to call them off. I cannot oblige the not-so-subtle invitations to their beds, because I intend to be in yours.”

  Cait London

  A LOVING MAN

  Books by Cait London

  Silhouette Desire

  *The Loving Season #502

  *Angel vs. MacLean #593

  The Pendragon Virus #611

  *The Daddy Candidate #641

  †Midnight Rider #726

  The Cowboy #763

  Maybe No, Maybe Yes #782

  †The Seduction of Jake Tallman #811

  Fusion #871

  The Bride Says No #891

  Mr. Easy #919

  Miracles and Mistletoe #968

  ‡The Cowboy and the Cradle #1006

  ‡Tallchief’s Bride #1021

  ‡The Groom Candidate #1093

  ‡The Seduction of Fiona Tallchief #1135

  ‡Rafe Palladin: Man of Secrets #1160

  ‡The Perfect Fit #1183

  †Blaylock’s Bride #1207

  †Rio: Man of Destiny #1233

  †Typical Male #1255

  §Last Dance #1285

  ‡Tallchief: The Homecoming #1310

  §Slow Fever #1334

  §Gabriel’s Gift #1357

  A Loving Man #1382

  Silhouette Yours Truly

  Every Girl’s Guide To…

  Every Groom’s Guide To…

  Silhouette Books

  Spring Fancy 1994

  “Lightfoot and Loving”

  Maternity Leave 1998

  “The Nine-Month Knight”

  ‡Tallchief for Keeps

  CAIT LONDON

  lives in the Missouri Ozarks but loves to travel the Northwest’s gold rush/cattle drive trails every summer. She enjoys research trips, meeting people and going to Native American dances. Ms. London is an avid reader who loves to paint, play with computers and grow herbs (particularly scented geraniums right now). She’s a national bestselling and award-winning author, and she has also written historical romances under another pseudonym. Three is her lucky number; she has three daughters, and the events in her life have always been in threes. “I love writing for Silhouette,” Cait says. “One of the best perks about all this hard work is the thrilling reader response and the warm, snug sense that I have given readers an enjoyable, entertaining gift.”

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  One

  “You’re old-fashioned and don’t know what it is to be young.” His daughter’s words raked Stefan Donatien; their argument of the early morning still scalded him. “You can’t keep me as a child forever,” Estelle had said furiously.

  Brooding about her temper, a match to his own, Stefan had escaped the farmhouse he had just purchased. His mission into Waterville, a small Midwestern town, provided a time in which to recover and reshape his defenses. His mother, Yvette, often agreed with Estelle. A man alone against a volatile, twenty-year-old daughter, and his French mother, Stefan often had to find “caves” into which to retreat. They loved him, and he returned that love, but his women could be difficult at times, united against him.

  Though he was born in the United States, his daughter and French-born mother, Yvette, often accused him of being “old-world.” “Perhaps if you had a lover, you would not be so obsessed with keeping Estelle a child,” his mother had stated. “You may have buried your heart with your wife, Claire, but you did not bury your life. At your age, I was already a grandmère and I did not stop living when your father passed on. You are only forty-two, and yet you are old before your time. See there? A gray hair.”

  Stefan inhaled the early May air and tried to settle his raw nerves, raked by the formidable women he loved deeply. They might see him as an overbearing tyrant, but every instinct he possessed told him to protect them.

  He listened to the rumbling of the old pickup’s engine as he cruised into Waterville. The ancient farm pickup suited the rural Missouri town much better than the luxury car he’d used in Chicago. The small community, wedged amid the surrounding farms and rolling green mountains, was the perfect place in which to protect his daughter from Louie, alias The Freeloader.

  Stefan scowled at the truck’s rearview mirror and at his right temple; his single gray hair gleamed, mocking him. In many ways, he felt as battered as the pickup that came with the Smith’s farm. It was only a matter of time before Louie took Estelle as a lover. To avoid that, Stefan had decided to give his daughter the one thing she’d always wanted—the experience of living in a small, Midwestern American town.

  Stefan’s old pickup prowled by Waterville’s vegetable gardens lined with new green plants. Heavy with morning dew, pink and white peonies leaned against the picket fences and shade trees bordered the streets. A yellow school bus stopped to pick up children clustered on the sidewalk. Seated on their porch swings, women with curlers in their gray hair whispered about the new owner of the Smith farm as he passed. A widower with a slight accent, a beautiful twenty-year-old daughter and an enchanting, happy French mother was certain to be noticed.

  It was only the third day since Stefan had moved his family to the rural community. With the exception of clashing with him over Estelle’s adult status, they seemed happy. It wasn’t easy uprooting his family and moving them to the safety of the small town. But then Stefan was a powerful businessman who knew how to make decisions, especially when his daughter was endangered. As soon as Estelle’s college finals were over, Stefan had put his plan to protect his daughter into motion. A trusted friend and employee now managed the restaurant line that Stefan’s father had begun, Donatien’s French Cuisine Restaurants.

  His father, Guy, would have dealt harshly with Estelle, just as he had with his boy, Stefan, demanding perfection and obedience.

  Stefan smiled tightly, remembering his father and better understanding the fear that sometimes ruled a parent. Guy had wanted the best for Stefan, just as Stefan wanted the best for Estelle.

  He inhaled abruptly. Though he loved his father, he did not favor Guy’s strict parental control and too high standards. Stefan had promised himself not to be so exacting and controlling with his daughter. He wasn’t happy that his protective-father-mode sometimes erupted into just that—“I forbid you” sounded exactly like his father. His headache started to throb in rhythm to the rumble of the old vehicle’s engine.

  A horde of young boys on bicycles soared past him, and Stefan braked slowly. Beneath the ball caps turned backward on their heads, their expressions were wary and curious of the new stranger. Even the dog, running at their side, noted Stefan’s presence with excited barking.
r />   At least Estelle was safe for the moment, her insolent, lazy boyfriend in Chicago.

  Stefan’s hands tightened on the old steering wheel as he heard his snarl. With long dirty hair and baggy pants, Louie had already started asking for handouts from Stefan. Louie had made it clear that he would not lower himself to work in the renowned Donatien Restaurants. Estelle was like her mother at that age: innocent and trusting, and she did not notice Louie’s gaze stripping other girls, or his flirtation. Stefan recognized the look of lust, though he had been celibate since the death of his wife ten years ago.

  Stefan rolled his taut shoulders as he parked in front of Granger’s Wallpaper and Paint store. He had the summer until his daughter went back to college; Louie was certain to be unfaithful and Estelle would be protected.

  He stepped from the pickup, and glanced down at his unfamiliar clothing—jeans, a T-shirt and worn jogging shoes. At this time of day in Chicago, he would be dressed in a suit, busy in his office. Later on, he would dismiss his jacket and vest and roll up his sleeves, put on an apron and enjoy cooking in a Donatien kitchen. He couldn’t wait for the fresh herb starts that he had ordered to arrive; soon only the best fresh farm eggs, milk and butter would go into his omelettes, a dash of chopped chives, a sprinkle of—

  Stefan inhaled the fresh morning air, studied the small neat town with its shops opening for customers. His mother and daughter weren’t the only ones looking forward to life in Waterville; he planned to enjoy puttering on the farm. He smiled, enjoying the sunshine. His women were happy, nestling into the farmhouse, decorating it, and in his pocket were the paint samples his mother had chosen on her two-mile bicycle ride to town. Busy with the plumbing, Stefan had enjoyed exploring the tools the Smiths had left behind. A man who had never had a vacation, he intended to relax in this interlude while Estelle came to her senses. Life was good…without Louie.

  He entered the busy paint store, prepared to wait his turn as other customers milled around the cash register. A tall woman, wearing a baseball cap with her auburn ponytail thrust through the hole at the back, glanced at him. She hefted a gallon of paint onto the counter, slapped two wooden paint stirrers on it, rang up the bill and chatted with the customer. When the burly farmer, dressed in bib overalls, rambled out of the store, the woman scowled at Stefan. Clearly in charge of the store, the woman behind the counter wore a T-shirt that said Waterville Tigers. She was possibly in her early thirties, with soaring eyebrows, clear blue eyes, a bit of a nose and a generous mouth. Freckles covered every centimeter of her fair skin. She tapped costs into the cash register for more paint and nodded at Stefan, indicating the gallons of paint on the counter. He shook his head, not understanding her needs. With a doomed look up at the ceiling, the woman grabbed one gallon and tucked it under her arm. She eased the other into her free arm and tromped out of the store, following the elderly woman.

  Stefan noted and appreciated the length of the younger woman’s legs, the cutoff shorts cupping a trim, swaying bottom. The wooden paint stirrer sticks in her back pocket enhanced the movement. He was surprised that he had tilted his head to better appreciate that little feminine jiggle of flesh at her backside. She walked back into the store, strode to him and shook her head as Stefan noted the slant of her eyes, those strong cheekbones gleaming in the overhead light. The drop of cobalt-blue paint on her cheeks matched the color of her eyes as they burned up at him. The shadows beneath her eyes said she had missed sleep and the area around her mouth was pale, demonstrating her strain.

  She reached to tug away the two bits of toilet paper on his jaw. He had been unwise to shave after the furious argument with his daughter; the small cuts marked his broken promise to remain calm. A man who spared little time on women of moods, except his daughter and his mother, Stefan firmed his lips. He was determined not to let this woman ruin his day. Then she said, “I know you can’t talk—you’re the cousin that Ned Whitehouse told me needed work. I told him to have you turn up and work, helping me. Well, that’s what you should be doing—helping. You could have carried out that paint for Mrs. Mariah. Come on. Follow me.”

  She moved through the displays of paint and carpeting toward the back room, behind the checkout counter. Unused to taking orders, Stefan stood still and crossed his arms.

  The woman continued talking—“I want you to clean up the storeroom and then fix that back door—it’s almost coming off the hinges. One good yank and hell-o—free paint for everyone. Not that anyone in Waterville steals, but a good business should have a good back door, don’t you agree?”

  Stefan thought of the alarm systems and locks he’d required on all Donatien restaurant back doors, ones made of sturdy metal, and nodded.

  When she noted that he had not followed her, she turned and those arching fine eyebrows drew into a stern frown. She walked back to him, her hands on her hips. Stefan tried not to notice the T-shirt that had tightened across her breasts. They were just the size of medium cooking apples, not too big or too small, but just perfect.

  Stefan frowned, unprepared for the turn of his thoughts. He did not usually compare women to his favorite pastimes—choosing fine foods, preparing and enjoying them.

  In his mind, he compared her height to his, how she would fit against him. The top of her head would just come to his chin. Those breasts would press against his chest and those long legs would—

  She crossed her arms and tapped her running shoe on the floor. “I know you can hear. Ned told me so. He also said that sometimes you can be stubborn as his mules. Well, today isn’t one of them, got that? I haven’t got time for this, so get your butt in gear and start helping me. Saturdays are usually busy, but nothing like spring and fall. I’ve been running shorthanded during the busiest season of the year and everyone wants to paint every room in the kingdom. Not that I’m objecting to the sales, which aren’t good except for spring and fall, but I could use some help,” she stated meaningfully.

  Then shaking her head, she said very carefully as if to make him understand better, “Okay. I’ll up the hourly wage and pay overtime. If you don’t help me, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  She placed her hands on her ball cap as if holding her head together. Her hands were feminine, yet strong, with short nails spotted with paint. Stefan tried not to smile; if he were in a business argument with power titans, he would have known that he had the upper hand at her concession. On the other hand, he was enjoying the masquerade—no one had ever mistaken him for a laborer. The scenario into which he had dropped amused him. Clearly this woman was under pressure and it appealed to him to rescue her. He decided not to speak, because his slight accent would surely mark him as the newcomer in Waterville. He wondered what it would be like, not to be Stefan Donatien, powerful restaurateur, rather to be an ordinary workman for a day. He had found his “cave” away from the brooding women he loved.

  She looked up at him. “My name is Rose and yours is Bruce, and we’ll get along fine, if you just do what I tell you to do. It’s Saturday and the whole town is set to buy paint, wallpaper and carpet and I need you. Not that I don’t appreciate the business. I’ll even buy lunch—hot dogs and potato salad with lemonade from Danny’s Café, and all the coffee you can drink…Just don’t use my cup. Lyle and Joe are out laying carpet, but you can meet them later. Everyone here works part-time, but me. Did you come to work or not?”

  Stefan nodded slowly, though her choice of food turned his stomach, and in seconds they were in the back room where she was pointing and ordering like a general. “Sturdy up those shelves, separate the paints—oil and latex based…interior and exterior—fix the back door, and if I call you, come up front. Ned said you had your own pickup and could deliver and you may have to. I’ll draw a map for you, but just don’t go anywhere. Don’t leave me. I’ve got enough problems with Dad.”

  He wondered about “Dad” as she turned and hurried into a small cluttered office. The bell over the store’s front door jingled and she hurried to help the customer who had just
entered.

  Rose plopped into her desk chair, slipped her foot out of her worn running shoe and rubbed it. She was too tired from processing the store invoices until midnight, then going home to heaps of laundry. She’d missed her early-morning run, tossing her pillow over her alarm. But at seven o’clock she was making her father the bacon and egg breakfast he liked and by eight, she had opened the store. Rose frowned slightly; Maury rarely came to work, even on the busiest days. Her father hadn’t stopped mourning his runaway wife and now a whiskey bottle came too readily to his hand. He’d taught Rose the business and lately he almost never asked about it. He was slipping away from her and life, spending long hours staring out from the house porch at the rose garden his wife had loved.

  Maxine Granger had not loved her family enough to stay and raise her daughter, or to deny the passing trucker. He offered her excitement and in time, the world, and Maxine hadn’t hesitated.

  When she was ten, Rose had come home from school to find her father crying, Maxine’s goodbye note in his hand. For a few years, there were hurried postcards from all over the world and then nothing. It had taken Rose years to understand that she wasn’t the reason why her mother left in that big diesel truck and why her father’s heart remained broken. As a child, she’d sat for hours at her mother’s vanity table, littered with polishes, creams and an expensive brush for her blond hair. Rose had tried to forget the pain, but she couldn’t. Instead she pasted that heartbreak into a locked chest marked The Past and threw herself into helping her father at the store and at home. In her young mind, when the ache came upon her, she raised her arms to the moon and asked for faeries to love and cherish her. It eased Rose-the-child to fantasize she was being held and kissed and loved by the whimsical creatures who would never leave her alone. Then, at times, the pain curled around her and sucked her back, but she fought her way out by keeping busy and thinking of the faeries that waited for her.