Bones and Roses by Eileen; Goudge Read Free Book Online Page A

jarful of bees. I react unthinkingly when the door to the bathroom swings opens and a male figure emerges amid a cloud of steam, naked except for the towel around his waist.
    I hurl the vase at him.

CHAPTER THREE
    The sound of glass shattering is accompanied by a sharp cry. I’m not certain which one of us cried out; I’m as stunned as he is. Then I realize to my horror that the man at whom I hurled the vase, who fortunately ducked in time to keep from getting nailed, is none other than Bradley Trousdale.
    He’s staring at me like I’m a crazy person. And believe me, from being around my brother, I’m well acquainted with the looks crazy people get. I glance down at the shards of glass and gladioli strewn across the floor at his feet, and blood rushes to my cheeks. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I thought you were—” I break off. No need to add insult to injury. “You … you must be Bradley.”
    â€œYou were expecting someone else?” he replies in a deadpan voice.
    â€œNo. Um. It’s just …” I motion toward the frayed backpack at the foot of the bed as if it’s somehow to blame for my rash act. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
    â€œI caught an earlier flight.” He states the obvious. “You must be Tish.”
    â€œThat would be me.” I grimace.
    â€œMy mom told me you’d be stopping by. She didn’t say you were armed and dangerous.”
    At his expression of wry amusement I feel myself go weak with relief. At least he’s not picking up the phone to let his mother know she has a lunatic working for her. “Really, I’m so sorry,” I apologize again. “I know it’s no excuse, but it’s been one of those days.” To put it mildly.
    â€œTell me about it,” he mutters, looking down at the wreckage.
    I watch as he bends to collect the shards. I’m thinking I should fetch a broom and mop before the puddle on the hardwood floor leaves a stain, but I can only stand rooted to the spot, staring at him. In his early thirties, he’s good-looking with a face that, if you were to examine each feature individually—the hawk nose, the wide mouth with its crooked eyetooth, the prominent brow—you might not think handsome but which somehow works as a whole. His cobalt eyes, the color of a twilight desert sky, stand out against a swarthy complexion deepened by long exposure to the Middle Eastern sun. His curly dark-brown hair gives him a vaguely Dionysian look. He’s average height, but that’s the only thing about him that’s average. The nomadic life he leads is evident in his lean, muscled frame, marred only by the wicked scar on his left shoulder.
    He dumps the shards in the wastebasket and straightens. I must have looked unsteady on my feet because the next thing I know he has me by the arm and he’s leading me down the hallway. Depositing me on the leather sofa in the great room opposite the fireplace, he murmurs, “Be right back.”
    He reappears shortly, dressed in worn denim jeans and a blue chambray shirt equally faded from many washings. He’s carrying a bottle of red wine and pair of wine goblets. “Thanks, but I don’t drink,” I inform him, not without regret, as he places them on the coffee table. I could use a glass of wine right now, or five. “I used to, but …” Too much information . “Anyway, I should really go clean up that mess …” I start to get up, and he gently pushes me back down into the little nest I’ve made for myself amid the sofa’s kilim throw pillows. I’m in no shape to protest.
    â€œAll taken care of. Sit tight,” he orders in a firm voice. He leaves the room again and returns minutes later with a steaming mug of tea. “Chamomile,” he says, handing it to me. “It’s supposed to have a calming effect.” He pours himself a glass of