Callan's Proposition. Barbara McCauley

for the door, ignoring the look of surprise on Francine’s face as he rushed past her. Abigail getting drunk? Cal thought incredulously. She didn’t drink. Or did she? He had no idea. She could be a raging alcoholic, for all he knew.

      He’d find out soon enough, he resolved. He intended to learn everything there was to know about Miss Abigail Thomas. And then he’d bring her right back here, where she belonged.

      No matter what the cost.

      Abigail had never been inside Squire’s Tavern and Inn before. For the past year she’d driven by the establishment every day on her way to and from work, but until today she’d never considered going in. Like its name suggested, the tavern’s theme was Old English: the ceiling was open beamed; the walls were covered with dark wood paneling; the huge fireplace had been built of rugged stone. Except for the television over the bar and the Bob Seger song playing from the corner jukebox, Abigail could easily picture the restaurant-bar as a setting for a pub in one of Shakespeare’s plays.

      It was still early in the day, and she was thankful there were only a few other people in the tavern: a man and woman at a small table sharing a bottle of wine and three men at the bar drinking beer and eating pretzels. No one seemed to notice her, but that wasn’t unusual. No one ever noticed Abigail Thomas.

      And that was exactly the way she wanted it.

      Taking a deep breath, Abigail sat straighter, then took a sip from the thin, red plastic straw in the drink the waitress had brought her.

      And choked.

      Good Lord! She felt as if she’d swallowed liquid fire. Grabbing the white paper napkin that her glass had been sitting on, she pressed it daintily to her lips and breathed through her mouth. She’d managed to reach the ripe old age of twenty-six without knowing that hard alcohol tasted so awful, and she wouldn’t mind another twenty-six years without tasting it again. She’d ordered the harmless-sounding drink from a small plastic menu, and she realized now she probably should have asked the waitress what was in the mixture.

      Whatever it was, it burned all the way down her throat clear to her stomach and was currently working its way to her toes. She should have ordered a glass of wine, not because she especially liked wine, but at least it didn’t make her choke.

      Oh, what did it matter? she thought, and held her breath this time as she took another long sip. She wasn’t drinking for pleasure.

      She was drinking for effect.

      After several more minutes and several more sips, Abigail decided that the effect was pleasurable, after all, in an ethereal kind of way. She felt lighter, and the soft buzz in her head made her smile at the silliest things—like the enormous ears on one of the men sitting at the bar or the monkey playing the piano on the television set mounted on the wall. That was hilarious.

      Wincing, she took another sip and shivered as it slid down her throat. Maybe before the night was through she’d find some humor in quitting her job, too.

      Abigail had worried all day about the woman the agency had sent to replace her. Francine had not been dressed appropriately, nor had she had adequate training. But she was all the agency had, and Abigail had been compelled to hire her. With Aunt Ruby and Aunt Emerald coming into town tomorrow afternoon, there was no way Abigail could stay at Sinclair Construction.

      How could she face Mr. Sinclair once he found out that she’d lied? It would be too humiliating, too demoralizing.

      So she’d quit. She felt awful leaving him without the proper notice, but she’d had no choice. If Francine didn’t work out, he would find someone else. He’d have to.

      She felt the burn of tears in her eyes and blinked them away. She couldn’t allow herself to think about Mr. Callan Sinclair. She was in a public place, for Heaven’s sake, and she certainly didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself. She simply wanted to sit here, alone, and forget about her boss and her job and her aunts coming into town.

      “Oh, what a tangled web we weave…” she thought to herself.

      With a sigh she took another long sip of her drink and was surprised when it didn’t taste nearly as bad as it had the first few sips. She thought it actually tasted kind of good, in fact. A little sweet, yet sour at the same time. And it made her insides feel warm.

      She liked the feeling, she decided, and loosened the top button of the white blouse she had on under her brown suit jacket. For the next few hours she was determined not to think about the mess she’d made of her life.

      She’d have plenty of time for that tomorrow. Or worse—she loosened another button—for the rest of her life.

      The song on the jukebox changed to a number from the musical Grease, the one where Olivia Newton-John’s character tells John Travolta he’d “better shape up.” She smiled at the song, mentally singing along with the piece she knew only too well.

      In her mind Abby crushed a cigarette under her four-inch heel, pointed a finger at Travolta and wiggled her hips as she told him she needed a man to keep her satisfied. Strange that the man in her mind didn’t look like Travolta, but like Mr. Sinclair.

      “Mind if I join you?”

      Abigail jumped, then slowly, breath held, glanced over her shoulder.

      Oh, dear.

      Abigail’s heart started to pound as she stared up at Callan Sinclair. His dark-chocolate-brown eyes bored into her, his mouth was pressed into a tight line. He looked so serious, she thought. So somber. For some strange reason, she suddenly found that very funny.

      But rather than be rude and laugh, she composed herself, straightened her glasses and simply nodded.

      He slid into the seat across from her and filled the booth. Filled her senses. He looked and smelled like a man who’d marched through mud and muck, and she wondered why the earthy scent of him fascinated her so. Or why she found the gray powder covering his hair and chambray shirt so attractive. Rugged was the word that came to mind. And virile.

      Normally Abigail found Callan Sinclair’s presence intimidating. At six-three, his height alone was enough to make a person—man or woman—take notice. And he certainly was powerfully built, with solid muscles and a broad chest. He was also incredibly handsome, she thought, with his thick, black hair and devastating smile.

      But he wasn’t smiling now, she realized, and she was the reason.

      He placed his large hands flat on the wood tabletop and leaned close. He had wonderful hands, she thought, staring at them. A man’s hands, large and rough, with short, blunt nails and a long, jagged scar on his right thumb. She had the craziest desire to cover those hands with her own, to feel their roughness under her smooth palms.

      When she lifted her eyes to his, the intensity of his dark gaze seemed to suck the air right out of her lungs. She couldn’t remember ever having had his undivided attention like this or having him look at her, really look at her as he was looking at her right now. For the first time in the past year, she didn’t feel as if she were invisible.

      She wasn’t certain she liked the feeling at all.

      “Mr. Sinclair—”

      “I refuse to accept your resignation.”

      His deep, familiar voice had never sounded so gruff before, so firm. He cares about me, she thought in amazement, then quickly chided herself. As an employee, of course.

      She folded her hands primly in her lap and held his level gaze. “I apologize for leaving so suddenly, but I’m certain that Francine will work out for you. She’s really quite—”

      “I said—” he leaned closer, lowering his voice, but it still sounded like a shout “—I refuse to accept your resignation. Francine is history. I want you, Abigail.”

      His words thrilled her, yet flustered her at the same time. I want you, Abigail. She felt herself sway toward him.

      As a secretary, you ninny, Abigail yelled silently at herself.