Nobody's Princess

Two

Hot damn. Regan watched the ticker tape on CNBC roll past. Her Disney stock was up a quarter point. She hit the Off button on the remote control and sat back to bask.

Teaching was her life’s work, but Regan theorized that no woman could stay sane without some vices. She’d been wildly gambling in the stock market for six months now. Well...perhaps wildly was a slight exaggeration. Considering that her entire stock portfolio consisted of five shares of stock, Bill Gates didn’t need to worry about competition from her quite yet.

“But our time is coming, Scarlett. I’m getting into this business tycoon stuff. And at the rate we’re going, I figure we’ll be millionaires by the twenty-third century—maybe even a couple weeks sooner.” The black-and-white angora cat who’d just leapt onto her lap seemed unimpressed with this psychic forecast. She nuzzled insistently against Regan’s chin, shedding tufts of fur in every direction. “What? You want a cat treat? Don’t tell me your food dish is empty again. It just can’t be.”

At the mention of food, Scarlett O’Haira bolted off her lap and aimed in the direction of the kitchen. Regan followed, considering that the cat, like her namesake, was pretty but dumb. She invariably fell for the wrong men without ever considering the consequences.

Regan couldn’t scold. She’d once suffered the same problem.

Dusk was just falling, making the teal-and-cream kitchen shadowy and gloomy. Still, she refrained from turning on the light and carefully tiptoed across the room as soundlessly as Scarlett. The newest litter of kittens was snoozing in a pillow-lined box in the corner. None of them had a good-looking daddy—and for damn sure, they wouldn’t stay sleeping long.

“You’re getting fixed as soon as you wean these,” Regan whispered to Scarlett, who’d heard the warning before and was more interested in gourmet food and cat treats. Silent as a ghost, Regan crouched down and lifted the ten-pound sack of cat food to the counter.

One kitten stirred. The two adult females froze in unison. Both knew there would be no peace once the hellions woke up. And then the telephone jangled, obliterating all hope. The noise made four pairs of kitten eyes pop open—every one of them full of the devil and instantly looking for trouble. Regan grabbed the wall receiver before the second ring, but already knew it was too late. “Hello—”

“Regan? This is Alex Brennan.”

She dropped the cat food bag with a thump on the counter.

“Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here—”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, not at all...I’d just finished correcting papers and was relaxing for the evening.” So to speak. One orange fuzzball had already pounced on her bare foot with razor claws. Regan hiked up onto the counter and drew up her legs. Scarlett was simply going to have to take care of her wayward children on her own for a bit.

Three days had passed since she’d met Alex in the library. He’d been on her mind, but she’d positively never expected to hear his rich, dark baritone again.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have called. Don’t hesitate to say if it’s a problem. There’s no reason you should want to hear from me—”

“I enjoyed our conversation the other day. And I’m glad to hear from you. You just took me a little by surprise—Scartett, cut that out!”

“Scarlett?”

Regan scooped the cat off the counter, feeling more flustered by the minute. “I have a mama cat, who’s trying to hide behind me rather than tend to her offspring. I don’t suppose you need a kitten? Or a pair? Or, say, four of them in a package deal?”

“Uh, no.”

“Now, don’t rush into that no. We’re talking literary legends with fur—a range of choices from Casanova to Don Juan to Henry VIII to Cleopatra. Not that you couldn’t rename them, but their personalities seemed fairly obvious—two lovers, a glutton and a vamp. I’d throw in a year’s supply of cat food out of the goodness of my heart—”

He chuckled. “That’s quite an irresistible sales pitch—and I’m impressed with your choice of names.”

“Not enough to sucker you in, though, huh?”

“Afraid not. I live with an older brother.”

“He’s allergic to cats?”

“No, he’s just more trouble than ten pets now.”

She laughed. “I have older brothers, too. Believe me, I understand. They’re tougher to make behave than a pet any day.”

“You’re not kidding.”

For a few seconds there, Regan thought her chattering was working to make him relax. But then an awkward silence fell between them, and she just wasn’t sure how to fill it.

She rubbed a hand on the back of her neck, thinking of their meeting in the library—and that she never should have kissed him.

It wasn’t as if she normally went around kissing strange men. And at any other time, her red-alert buttons would have been flashing special warnings around Alex.

One look at him had aroused an instant carnal lust attack. Maybe Regan was a tad cynical about legendary heroes, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t mightily appreciate the look of one. Images of picture-book knights on white chargers flew into her mind and clung there like glue. Never mind his contemporary Dockers and sandals, Alex had that Sean Connery look—the striking dark hair, the searing blue eyes, the proud posture and lean build. The trimmed, silvery-black beard just added to the packaging. Alex just happened to have all the equipment that revved her personal hormone engines.

At thirty-three, though, Regan was old enough to thoroughly enjoy a lust attack—and then jettison those feelings faster than bad meat. She’d once sold herself all the fairy tales about happily-ever-afters, and none of the frogs she’d kissed had ever turned into a prince. She’d successfully broken her bad habit of falling for the wrong men the easiest way—by galloping at Olympic speeds away from any guy who aroused her irresponsible hormones.

She’d have run from Alex the same way. Except that she’d seen right off that he was down in the dumps, and once she realized a broken love affair was the cause, she’d felt safe. Alex wasn’t on the prowl. He seemed so hung up on his Gwen that Regan doubted he even noticed her in a personal way.

Kissing him had been a natural impulse. The story about his ex-fiancée had inevitably aroused her compassion. It was the dreadful Camelot tale all over again—a vulnerably idealistic man dumped by a damn fool numbskull of a woman who didn’t appreciate a good man when she had one. Regan did. Her previous experience with frogs made her outstandingly aware of how rare good men were, and Alex’s confidence had seemed so low, about life, about himself. Regan could well remember all the crippling self-doubts after she’d been shafted, and he’d just seemed to need a kiss. A gesture of compassion and support. Something.

Damned if she was going to regret the impulse. Possibly the texture of that warm, mobile mouth had haunted her mind, but that was like handling chicken pox. Regan was an old pro at enduring—and ignoring—her wayward fantasies. He was just a good man who’d temporarily needed someone to listen. And maybe he still did. So far she didn’t have a clue why he’d called.

Neither, apparently, did Alex. He was the one to break the sudden, awkward silence by gruffly clearing his throat. “I think I should be coming up with some brilliant reason why I called. The truth is, I don’t have one. I just kept remembering our conversation in the library, and I guess...well, I just wanted to thank you. I never meant to vent my problems on a stranger, and you were really kind, made me feel a lot better.”

“No problem on the venting. I think everyone needs that sometimes.” Regan hesitated. If that was all he’d wanted to say, she could easily end the call. But she recalled too well those aching weeks after Ty had split for another woman. She’d felt humiliated and undesirable and painfully alone. And suddenly she twisted the phone cord around her wrist. “Besides, I really enjoyed our conversation. And it just occurred to me that we never really finished our argument about heroes.”

“No, I guess we didn’t—”

It wasn’t the first time she’d given in to an impulse. Or even the hundredth. “Well, I’m not sure, but I think I’ve got a couple of steaks in the back of the freezer. You have dinner free tomorrow night? It’s okay to think before answering. I should warn you there’s a risk—I haven’t given anyone ptomaine in weeks now, but nothing comes out of this kitchen with a guarantee.”

He chuckled, but her offer had clearly startled him. “I honestly didn’t call expecting an invitation—”

“I know you didn’t. And I’d feel bad if you misunderstood—believe me, you made clear that your heart was still tied up with Gwen. And I’m positively not looking for anyone, Alex. I wasn’t thinking ‘date.’ Just someone to talk with over a casual dinner.”

“That sounds good, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble—”

She smiled. “Throwing a couple of steaks on a grill is no trouble. Say seven?” She gave him her address. “Maybe you’d better bring boxing gloves. I have a feeling we’ll be tempted to finish the fight we started the other day.”

He laughed, a sound that echoed in her mind long after Regan hung up the phone. He’d been so grave. Making him laugh and lighten up gave her a warm fuzzy from the inside out. She sat there a moment longer, her gaze wandering to the untouched mail, the dishwasher that needed emptying, then down to Scarlett, who was staring up at her with limpid eyes, surrounded by the whole brood of kittens.

“Did I actually just ask a man to dinner?” she asked Scarlett, and then shook her head and leapt down from the counter.

It would be okay. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t like opening a door to some idiotic fool romance as she’d done too many times. It was just offering company to a man who seemed to need a friend. And Regan wasn’t short on friends, but her natural wariness kicked in around most men. Not Alex, though. Even if he weren’t still in love with his Gwen, he’d described his ex-fiancée as definitely demure and ladylike.

If his taste in women ran in that direction, she’d be safer with Alex than in a convent—because, heaven knew, she was neither.

Well, they’d either have fun, she thought, or the friendship would never develop beyond that casual dinner. Either way, she was risking nothing.

She was sure.

“You’re actually going to dinner with a woman? Who is she? How’d you meet her? Where are you going?”

“Yes, I’m going to dinner with a woman. And as you might expect, she was a hooker I picked up on a street corner, led me into this red velvet den of iniquity and forcibly seduced me. Naturally, when she called and offered to lead me astray again, I immediately succumbed to temptation—”

“Very funny.” Merle scowled at him from the doorway. Typically, his older brother was dressed in black jeans and bare feet and was squint-eyed from spending so many hours at the computer. “How come you didn’t mention this dinner before?”

“Well, if I’d known it was going to get your liver in this much of an uproar, I probably would have. My going out to a casual dinner didn’t really seem to be a world-shattering event worth mentioning.” Alex emerged from the closet, buttoning a blue oxford cloth shirt. No amount of teasing seemed to lighten his brother’s thundercloud frown.

“What does she look like?”

“She looks like a woman. Bumps where we don’t have bumps, no hair on her chin, that sort of thing...didn’t Dad give you the same lecture about the birds and the bees he gave me? Considering the extensive number of women you’ve paraded through here, somehow I thought you knew all this—”

Merle trailed him down the hall, as close as a bloodhound, taking the mahogany staircase two steps at a time to keep up. “You keep making jokes. But my experience with women is entirely different from yours. I suppose you think I’m coming across a little heavy-handed—”

“Try ‘as intrusive as a tick.’ I’ve never seen you pull this protective big brother routine before. To a point, it’s giving me a chuckle, but give yourself a whomp upside the head, would you? It’ll save me having to do it.”

“I can’t just say nothing—”

“Sure you can. Practice makes perfect. Give it a try.”

The subtle hint flew right over his brother’s head. “You’ve hardly been out of the house since Gwen left you, except for work. You think I don’t know how badly that damn woman hurt you? And the last thing you need is another woman to put you through the wringer right now.” Merle hounded him into the high-ceilinged white kitchen, where Alex picked up his wallet and car keys.

“As amazing as it may seem, I already know that. And she already knows I had a recent broken engagement. She isn’t looking for anyone, either.”

“They all say that,” Merle informed him. “I’m telling you, you can’t trust women. They’re all dangerous. You can never anticipate what they’re going to do. There isn’t a single one who thinks like a man.”

“Personally, I always thought that was the best part.” Alex glanced at his watch and opened the back door. “Relax, bro. I know you care, even if you are being a royal pain. But there’s nothing happening that you need to worry about. In fact, all I’ve done with the woman so far is fight with her.”

Merle’s dark eyes narrowed in alarm. “Fight with her? You never fight with a woman.”

Alex closed the door. Enough was enough. And there was no explaining to Merle that the “fight” factor was precisely why he felt both reassured and intrigued about this dinner with Regan. His brother was right. He’d never raised his voice with a lady, much less fought with one. But Regan was simply different. Her impossibly contrary views on heroes and life guaranteed they’d find something energizing to talk about. She was absolutely like no woman he’d ever been drawn to—and for damn sure, nothing like Gwen.

He pelted down the porch steps of the wide veranda. His ’47 Jaguar, gleaming black, was waiting for him in the curve of the circular drive. He had a practical enough Acura in the garage, but the antique Jag was his vice. The sports cars his brother loved had never been his style. The Jag’s design was low, sleek, powerful in a quiet way, a traditional symbol of quality that lasted—it pushed all his buttons, always had.

As he climbed in, a pale wind stirred the moss in the hundred-year-old oaks lining the long drive. From the century-old gardens to the sweeping lawns to the white-pillared Brennan plantation house, the whole property was a white elephant these days—and a monster for two men to rattle around in alone.

Alex loved the history, loved the whole style of a romantic era gone by. When his parents died in a car accident, he and Merle had been seventeen and nineteen respectively—damn young—but both too stubborn to give up their home and roots or see the place sold to strangers. Neither brother expected to turn into crotchety old bachelors, much less live there forever. They’d always agreed that the first one to get married had dibs and the other would move out.

Merle, though, was pushing thirty-seven this year... and getting more eccentric all the time. He was a night owl, inventing computer games by night and handling the Brennan family fortune by day—a good thing, since Alex hadn’t bothered to balance a checkbook in recent memory. God knew what women saw in him—Alex suspected he must have some appeal that eluded a brother’s comprehension—but Merle had sifted through the female population in three counties. They were always bright, always lookers. And a lot of them fell under Merle’s spell, but somehow the relationships didn’t last.

Merle didn’t believe in love—and for sure he didn’t believe in the wonder of a soul mate and a lifelong committed love the way Alex did.

Or the way he used to.

Thoughts of Gwen inevitably brought heartache. Chasing those dark thoughts away, Alex grabbed the directions to Regan’s from the front seat. He knew Silvertree like the back of his hand, but her house was on an unfamiliar street.

The drive led him through the Whitaker College campus, with its old brick buildings and manicured lawns. Sycamores shaded the walkways and bosomy roses climbed trellises in the traditional gardens. A few bodies were stretched out in the grass, but in the sultry heat before dusk, most students were out of sight and likely cuddled under air conditioners.

The meandering, winding campus roads were familiar, but like a surprise, Regan’s street led to a section of older homes, tall Victorian types all scrunched together. When Alex parked in front of her mailbox, he climbed out and shook his head.

Hers was a Victorian structure, too, but where her neighbors had gone for standard house colors—whites, reds, grays—Regan had gone for a freshly painted teal with a mustardy-hued trim. The roof sagged in one spot. The miniature front lawn was mowed, but a wild tangle of overgrown honeysuckle and myrtle clustered around the porch. A little red Mazda, old, with a battered fender, was parked cockeyed in the drive.

The neighborhood looked like start-out houses for young couples—kids screaming as they raced through sprinklers, roller skates racketing down the sidewalks, stereos blaring from open windows. It was like another world from the shadowy, formal rooms haunted with antiques and objets d’art that Alex called home. He could feel a grin kicking up the corners of his mouth. He loved his place. But for damn sure, this was a shock of something different, an alien universe away from the heartache of Gwen and his whole normal life.

Her screen door clapped open before he’d bounded up the first step. “So you made it! I was afraid you might have trouble finding the address—”

“No problem.”

She glanced past his shoulder. “That’s quite a jalopy you’ve got parked there. Now why am I not surprised you suckered into a car with a big history? But I’ll bet the upkeep costs you the sun and the moon.”

“Yeah, it does.” Somehow he could have guessed Regan wouldn’t be impressed by a car—or much of anything materially. His poor Jag was probably smarting at that “jalopy” crack, but she’d already moved on.

“Well, come in, come in...although I have to say, if you forgot your appetite, you need to go home and get it. These steaks turned out bigger than I first thought. And I hate to put you to work the instant you get here, but I’m having a heck of a time with my grill—”

“I’ll be damned. Don’t tell me you need a hero?”

He’d almost forgotten that whiskey-wicked chuckle. “Don’t you start with me, buster. Come on in, and let me at least get you a glass of iced tea before we start fighting about heroes and sexist nonsense...”

Coming in was easier said than done. Kittens attacked him the instant he walked in the door. There seemed to be a dozen—she claimed there were only four—but all of them were uglier than sin and old enough for trouble. Colors splashed at him. The kitchen was a reasonably subdued teal and cream, but then Regan hadn’t likely put in the counters and floor. Her personal stamp was everywhere else, the living room done in reds and clutter—red couch, red chairs, books stacked and heaped everywhere, light and heat streaming through the undraped windows.

She started talking and didn’t stop. She didn’t even try to save him from the cats. “I had a roommate until a month ago. Julie had the appalling bad judgment to fall in love and get married, and when she and Jim moved into another Victorian place, they took the curtains from this one. I’m looking for another roommate right now. And I keep meaning to put up some more drapes, but somehow I don’t seem to be getting it done. I don’t seem to be getting the air conditioner fixed too fast, either, but it’s cool enough on the back porch. You like your iced tea with lemon or mint?”

“Mint, if you’ve got it.” Right now he needed the ice more than the tea. Never mind the house, never mind the cats. He was around academic people all the time, but absolutely no one like Regan.

She looked him over as if she was mentally stripping the clothes right off him...and liked what she saw. Ladies didn’t look at men that way. Not in his world. And no woman, positively, had ever sent him charged messages that she found him sexually attractive and didn’t mind him knowing it.

All these years, he’d empathized with women who complained about being treated like sex objects. To hell with that. This was fun. Gwen’s abandoning him for a young stud scissored strips in his masculine confidence like nothing else ever had. Regan’s sloe eyes checking him over boosted his ego like nothing else possibly could.

And her. Her version of casual attire was criminally short cutoffs and a flapping-loose bright print shirt. The shirt covered everything. She just wore no bra, and the silky fabric swished and cupped her full breasts every time she moved. She was always moving. Her hair had been chestnut brown the other day. Today it had a streak of blond, the style worn swept up, off her long white neck, and clipped in a pell-mell cascade. Maybe she’d brushed it. Or maybe it just always looked as if she’d just climbed out of a man’s bed—after a long, sultry, acrobatic night.