Gift of Fortune by Ilsa Mayr Read Free Book Online

playing
music.
    "How come you're not out on a date?" he asked. "It's
Saturday night."
    "I got out of the habit of dating, I guess. Dad was sick
for so long. When he was home, he needed care. When he
was in the hospital, I visited him every evening. And since
his death...." her voice trailed off. Then she realized that
his voice, his expression held a challenge. Squaring her
shoulders, she asked, "What about you? You were out repairing the fence instead of kicking up your heels in town."
    "True. Let's fix that," Quint said, and approached her.
    What does he have in mind, Aileen wondered, her heart
thudding.
    Taking her hands, he pulled her to her feet. "Let's
dance."
    "Dance? I'm not a good dancer."
    Putting his arms around her, he said, "Don't worry. I
am."
    "Why does that not surprise me?" she murmured. "You
do everything well that involves women, don't you?"
    "Are you accusing me of being a gigolo, or are you asking for a demonstration?"
    He smiled at her lazily. His green eyes sparkled. Aileen
felt her breath catch. "Neither, but-"
    "If you don't want a demonstration, hush up and dance.
You think too much."
    "I don't believe that's possible."
    "Yes, it is," he insisted. "Sometimes you have to listen
to your instincts. Feel instead of think."
    "That could be dangerous."

    "Your life could stand a little danger."
    His words, his voice, soft and husky, sent a shiver down
her spine. She ought to pull out of his arms and run upstairs
and lock her door. But she didn't. She would wait until the
music stopped. After all, she didn't want him to think that
he was dangerous to her. He wasn't.
    The music changed to a slow beat. Immediately his arms
tightened around her and he drew her close.
    Aileen smelled the fresh, clean, cold air of the range
clinging to him. She felt the hard muscles of his arms, felt
the intimate warmth of his breath against her temple, and
could no longer lie to herself. This man was dangerous to
her.

     

The week passed so quickly that Quint didn't realize it
was Friday night until Aileen dumped the thick folder of
weekly compositions on the kitchen counter. She brought
a huge stack home each weekend to be graded.
    Early Saturday morning he was scheduled to participate
in a rodeo. He was tempted to cancel, but since he had
already paid the entry fee, he felt obligated to go. He could
also use the money he was confident of winning in at least
two of the events. Quint didn't tell Aileen where he was
going or what he was doing in the note he left for her on
the kitchen table.
    He knew Aileen was asleep the moment he returned late
Saturday night, for the house had that muted feel to it that
it assumed once the echoes of human voices and movements had been absorbed by the walls. Quint knew that
silence well, having crept regularly out of windows of the
many foster homes of his teenage years to roam the night,
seeking something, anything, to calm the rage hammering
inside his skull.
    When Quint entered the kitchen on Sunday morning, he knew immediately that Aileen was upset with him. Although she answered his greeting in a quiet, polite voice,
the rigid stance of her body signaled unapproachability. He
poured himself a cup of coffee.

    She was all dressed up, wearing a belted, long-sleeved
dress the color of pine needles and high-heeled brown
pumps. She had tamed her bright hair into a complicated
knot that rested against her slender, elegant neck. It was
the sort of knot a man's hands itched to undo. Did women
fix their hair deliberately like that, knowing it drove men
crazy?
    "Going somewhere or coming back?" he asked, watching
her over the rim of his cup.
    "Coming back. I went to early service." She turned the
page of a spiral-bound notebook.
    "Grading?" he asked.
    "No. Planning the menu for the coming week."
    "You're a very organized woman."
    "Is that a criticism?" she asked, looking at him for the
first time since he had come into the kitchen.
    Quint noticed