The Thawing of Mara (5 page)

With a mock pout, the woman named Celene chose the first interpretation. Mara wasn't in a position to argue with the decision. Celene was obviously better acquainted with this man's moods and meaning than she was.

"You know that isn't true, Sin," the redhead denied. "I enjoy spending anybody's money." She laughed. "I pride myself on being totally impartial. Come on, let's see the rest of the cottage."

Before replying, his gaze swung to Mara. There was something prompting in his look. Mara didn't know what it was that he wanted, so she left it up to him to explain.

"Shall I show you through the cottage or would you prefer to explore on your own?" she inquired.

"We'll find our way around. I don't think we'll get lost," he assured her in a dry voice.

"I should hope not!" Celene laughed at the comment that Mara had found more cutting than amusing.

"If you'll excuse me," she murmured coolly, "I'll finish putting the groceries away." She paused to glance at the redhead. "Unless you would prefer to do—"

"Please go ahead, Miss Prentiss." It was Sinclair Buchanan who answered. Mara couldn't help wondering if he made a habit of interrupting. His gaze slid down to the woman on his arm. "Celene is helpless—or should I say hopeless—in the kitchen."

The woman smiled at the taunting observation. "Sin knows me," she sighed, and turned her soft brown eyes on Mara. "But then I've never claimed that my talents were in that area."

"I'm sure you're very good at whatever you do." Mara's response was merely polite words, a murmured reply to be taken at face value.

It drew a low chuckle from Sinclair Buchanan that earned him a playful slap of reprimand from the redhead. Celene's "talents" were obviously a private and intimate joke between them, and Mara wanted no further part in it. Turning quietly, she walked into the kitchen.

The cottage was too small for her not to hear the murmuring of their voices as the couple wandered from the living room to the bedroom. She tried to drown out the sound with the whir of the electric can opener on the can of coffee.

Pouring a portion of the grounds into the coffee canister, she set the rest inside the cupboard. She had just lifted the bag of flour out of the grocery bag when the two entered the kitchen.

"This is your province, Sin. I'll leave you to inspect it," the red-haired Celene declared. "There's something I want to get from the car. I'll only be a moment."

As the woman departed, Mara was conscious of Sin Buchanan remaining in the kitchen. She opened the flap of the flour bag and reached for the canister. As she emptied the flour into it, she was aware of his movements, checking the appliances and the cupboards. His silvered gray hair was like a beacon.

"I bought everything you had on the list," Mara informed him as she pushed the canister into its position with the rest of the set, "I hope you won't have difficulty finding anything."

"I doubt it," he replied. "Everything appears well organized." It was an observation rather than a compliment.

The dumping of the bag had left a fine film of flour dust on the counter, and Mara dampened a dishcloth to wipe it away. While she finished up in the kitchen, her new tenant wandered back into the living room. His return coincided with the entrance of Celene. There was nothing to keep their voices from carrying into the kitchen.

"I found the wineglasses, so I brought in the champagne to toast the new cottage," Celene's voice announced in husky invitation. "The ice cooler chilled it to perfection. Here, open it, Sin."

An assortment of spices and herbs was at the bottom of the grocery bag. Mara tried to remain deaf to the conversation in the adjoining room as she began arranging the bottles on the spice rack.

"Don't you want to leave the celebrating until later?" The pop of the champagne cork made his question insignificant.

But Celene answered it anyway. "No, I want to start now." Her voice was a throaty purr. "This is the first weekend I've ever had you all to myself. No phone calls, no business, no interruptions." The last negative was emphatically stressed. Celene proposed the toast, "To our first weekend alone."

It was followed by the clinking of crystal and then silence. An inner voice seemed to order Mara to keep quiet and not betray her presence in the cottage, but she refused to obey it. The bottles thudded onto the spice shelf with the same regularity.

"Mmmm, you know what let's do tonight, darling," Celene answered her own question without giving Sin a chance to respond. "Build a roaring fire in the fireplace. Then we'll lie down in front of it and…" The rest of her suggestion was made in a whisper.

Mara's stomach knotted into a tight ball of nerves. The entire situation was making her irritated and on edge. A can of dried parsley flakes was the last item in the grocery bag. She shoved it quickly into place and folded up the paper bag, stowing it beneath the sink.

In the opening to the living room, Mara hesitated. The couple were in front of the fireplace, locked in a kiss. Celene's arms were wound around Sin's neck while she still managed to hold the champagne glass. One of his hands was on her rib cage, almost cupping her breast. His other arm was pressed against the small of her back, arching the redhead to his muscled body. That hand held his glass. Neither had apparently spilled any champagne in the process since there was liquid in each of the glasses.

Mara started to retreat into the kitchen until this passionate embrace was over, but she stopped herself. Why should she scurry off as if their kissing made her uncomfortable? If anyone was going to feel awkward from her intrusion, let it be them, she decided. She took another step into the living room.

"Excuse me, I'm leaving now," she announced with composure, her voice cool.

With remarkable aplomb and absence of haste, they untangled themselves from each other without tipping their champagne glasses. Celene smoothed the fiery strands of hair from her cheek in a self-conscious gesture, but there was a pleasantly satisfied gleam in her eyes, especially when they darted to Sin.

"I'm sorry, Miss Prentiss," she apologized while he sipped at his champagne. "I'm afraid we got a bit carried away."

Secretly Mara thought that excuse might be true for Celene, but a glance at the woman's partner made her doubt that it had been equally true of him. He looked fully in control of himself and his passions.

"There's no need to apologize." Her mouth curved, but it wasn't much of a smile.

Sinclair Buchanan moved, drawing Mara's gaze. His sports jacket was unbuttoned, the front held open by the hand thrust in the pocket of his slacks. That casual air was a pose; Mara realized that he was every bit as alert as she was.

"I haven't thanked you for ensuring that we have something to eat this weekend," he said.

"It isn't necessary, Mr. Buchanan," Mara countered. "You've already amply compensated me." Before she made her departure, courtesy demanded that she add, "I hope you find the cottage to your satisfaction. If you or your wife have any questions, please contact me."

Celene broke into a laugh and immediately covered her mouth, her brown gaze dancing to Sin. "Darling, she thinks we're married!"

"Yes." His amusement was more distant as he turned and lifted an inquiring eyebrow at the redhead. "I wonder where she got that idea…"

Mara's chin tipped to an angle a scant degree higher than before, the only outward sign of her recoiling shock. She had wrongly presumed the couple were married. She was reluctant to make another assumption in case it should be wrong, too.

"It's my fault, Miss Prentiss." Sin took the blame without exhibiting any remorse for his action. "I failed to introduce Celene when we arrived. Miss Prentiss, this is Celene Taylor, a friend of mine. Celene, Mara Prentiss," he corrected the oversight.

"How do you do, Miss Taylor." Mara acknowledged the introduction stiffly and received a smiling nod in return.

"Celene is spending the weekend with me," he stated. "I don't recall seeing any restriction in the lease against having friends visit."

"Of course, there was none," Mara admitted disliking his baiting tone. "But you do realize there's only one bedroom," she reminded him coldly, and immediately wished she hadn't said it.

That devilish glint was back in his eyes. "Yes, I do know, Miss Prentiss. It is Mis isn't it?" Again he jibed at her naiveté.

"Yes, it is." Mara tried desperately not to snap out the answer. The only way out of this mess seemed to be a
 
dignified retreat.

"I know you'll want to bring your luggage in and get unpacked, so I won't keep you any longer. Good day, Mr. Buchanan…Miss Taylor."

Mara turned toward the door only to be halted by a low male voice. "Miss Prentiss, aren't you forgetting something?"

She glanced over her shoulder, her look totally blank. "I beg your pardon? Forgetting what?"

"The key to the cottage," Sin replied. "I believe I need one."

Silently calling herself fifty kinds of a fool, Mara reached into the pocket of her slacks and took out the key. Sin Buchanan walked over to take it from her. She practically dropped it in her haste to give it to him.

Her eyes blazed at the amused curl of his mouth. That opaque gleam was in his smoke-blue eyes playing over her face. Mara had never felt so impotent in her life. There was nothing she could do to change it.

"Thank you." His strong fingers closed around the key.

Mara nodded dumbly and pivoted toward the door. Rigidly she kept her steps unhurried as she exited from the cottage. She was trembling by the time she reached the station wagon.

Chapter Three

BY THE TIME Mara reached the house, her seething resentment had been controlled to a low simmer. Sinclair Buchanan had made her look a fool. She didn't like that—nor him. She should have known her new tenant sounded too good to be true. Why had she listened to Harve and rented the cottage without first meeting the man?

Not that it would have made any difference, Mara concluded as she walked to the back door of the red brick house. "Sin darling" probably wouldn't have brought his mistress to that meeting. Not that she cared whether he had a mistress, she reminded herself. But the pair of them, mostly Sin, had made her look so damn prudish. And she wasn't. She didn't care how other people behaved.

Slamming the back door, she tossed the car keys on the kitchen counter. They slid against a grocery bag. Mara was reminded that none of this would have happened if she hadn't taken so long in town getting the supplies. His groceries would have been put away and she would have been here to give him the key when he stopped for it, then she wouldn't have been subjected to the embarrassing incident.

"Mara?" Her father entered the kitchen. Immediately she began unpacking the rest of their groceries. "That Buchanan fellow stopped here. I sent him down to the cottage. Did you see him?"

"Yes," she answered without elaboration.

"How did they like the cottage?" he inquired. "I caught a glimpse of his wife in the car. From what I could tell, she looked to be a strikingly beautiful woman, but not exactly the type for a cottage in the Pennsylvania woods."
 

"She loved it." Mara sarcastically stressed the verb, the woman's gushy "Sin darling" echoing in her mind. "But she isn't his wife."
 

Her voice was hard and flat as she made the announcement. She continued to stack the canned goods in the cupboard without a break in her rhythm, but there was a hint of angry agitation in her movements.

"Not his wife?" Adam Prentiss echoed in an initially blank voice. "You mean…" He began chuckling to himself as he realized what she meant. "I suppose it was a natural mistake." Mara said nothing, not admitting it was a mistake she had made, too. "There's nothing like bringing your own entertainment along with you to while away the hours."

"Must you be so disgustingly crude!" Mara slammed the cupboard door shut. An image of her new tenant and his mistress cuddling in front of the fireplace leaped into her mind. It grated at the raw edge of her nerves, inflaming them again.

Her outburst was greeted by a moment of silence. When her father spoke, all trace of amusement was gone from his voice. His tone was serious and gently reprimanding.

"Sex isn't crude, Mara. It's a very beautiful thing."

"I don't care to hear any lecture from you on the subject!" she snapped.

A long sigh came from behind her, followed by the turning of the wheelchair. When the swinging door had slowly ended its pendulum movement, Mara was alone in the kitchen. Her hands were gripping the edges of the counter, her knuckles white.

For the rest of that day and all of Saturday, she blocked the cottage and its inhabitants from her mind. On Sunday morning she rose early as was her custom. While the coffee perked, she walked out to the mailbox for the Sunday newspaper. Her father was awake when she returned. After helping him into his robe, she held the wheelchair steady as he levered himself out of the bed into his chair.

The whole routine seemed timed to coincide with the moment the coffee had finished perking. It emitted its last popping sound as Mara wheeled her father into the kitchen. In silence they shared a glass of orange juice and a cup of fresh coffee before Mara fixed their breakfast of ham and eggs and hot rolls.