I turned away.
“You don’t have to stop what you were doing on my account,” Beatrice Gandry Roberts Something Something all but purred. She’d been through too many husbands and I had no idea what her name was now. It had been a few years since I’d seen her and tossed her out of my house. Then, she’d been naked. This time, she was wearing one of my flannel shirts.
Not only was I pissed that she’d broken into my house, but that was one of my favorite shirts. I was going to have to burn it now.
I wanted to walk right on out of my house and pretend she wasn’t there, but I didn’t dare leave her alone. Not here. Fuck, she was on the bed I shared with her fucking daughter.
“Beatrice, what the fuck are you doing?”
I looked out the hallway window, hands on hips. The view was all white snow and open fields; the stables and other ranch buildings were all on the other side of the property.
“You could at least look at me,” she replied, sounding put out.
“You could at least ring the fucking doorbell,” I countered. I wasn’t being a gentleman and my mother had taught me to treat a woman better than this, but Beatrice was no lady. She was where she blatantly didn’t belong. The weight of my wedding ring proved that.
“You always leave your door unlocked.”
I did, but that would stop. I’d rather have a fucking burglar in the house than her.
“Why don’t you keep taking off that shirt and let’s have some fun.”
I spun about, stalked into my bedroom. She was a pretty woman, I’d give her that. But she was almost thirty years older than me and been through more husbands than I could remember.
“Get off my bed and get dressed.” Grabbing her clothes from the chair beneath the large window, I tossed them onto the foot of the bed.
“I have an itch and you can definitely scratch it. By the size of that bulge in your pants, I’d say you can do a fine job.”
“You don’t want my dick. You want my cash. My land. Just like last time. Didn’t I make it clear enough then that I wanted nothing to do with you?”
She sat up, her dark hair sliding over her shoulder. My shirt was big on her—she had the similar petite and curvy physique as her daughter—and it slid down to reveal the top swell of one bare breast. I looked away.
The answer was obviously no.
The only breasts I wanted to see were Sarah’s. The only woman I wanted wearing my shirts was Sarah. I only wanted Sarah.
“I’d keep your bed warm. Other places around the house, too. You’ve got long winters here and a man’s got needs.”
“I’m married.” I lifted my left hand up so she could see the proof.
The seductive smile slipped. “When?”
“Recently.” I wasn’t telling her more than that.
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter who it is. She’s the woman who belongs in my bed. Not you. Now get the fuck out of it and out of my house.”
To let her get dressed, I went back in the hall, looked out the window again. I heard her rustling around, but didn’t dare turn around. I saw a car come up the long drive, recognized it as Sarah’s. My heartrate kicked up and I ran my hand through my hair. “Fuck.”
I didn’t look back, but went down the steps and to the front door, tossed it open.
Sarah came in, all bundled up, smile on her face. Yeah, this was what I’d dreamed of. Having Sarah Gandry be Sarah Barlow and be excited to see me as she came home from the library, kissing me on the cheek with her cold lips, undoing her coat.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, studying me as she hung her jacket on a hook by the door. Since we’d married so quickly, we hadn’t had time—or let her out of bed to do so—to pack up her things and move out of her house. I didn’t care since she was here. A sofa or her summer clothes could wait.
“Um, there’s something I have to tell you.”
“Sarah, dear. What are you doing here?”