Пепельный рассвет. Антон Демченко

he had trouble coughing up an apology. Either he never made mistakes, or he didn’t admit them. He turned his attention back to Brandy. “Are you always that careless?”

      “I beg your pardon?” A total stranger was criticizing her? She was no longer afraid of the man, but she was acutely aware of him. He watched her with the same brooding intensity she’d noted earlier today. Which alone would be enough to sap any woman’s strength. Teamed with a magnetic physical presence only fully appreciated in close quarters, resistance didn’t stand a chance. The gut-level reaction he aroused in her was appalling. She had to hang on to what little annoyance she could.

      “All I’m saying, lady, is you need to be more careful. It’s dangerous out there. Is this your kid?”

      “Yep. I’m Chloe.”

      “Uh-huh.” His lips pulled into what might have been a faint smile. Or a grimace. On him, it was hard to tell.

      “Since you’re obviously not here to rob the place, what do you want?” Brandy relaxed a little, but not much. The verdict was still out on this good-looking, gimme-a-nail-and-I’ll-chew-it guy.

      Dressed in snug black jeans, white shirt and scuffed cowboy boots, he was a rugged poster boy for testosterone therapy. Maybe he wasn’t a thief or mugger, but he’d stolen her breath away. She’d led a nunlike existence since her divorce and was easy prey. Clearly her sheltered hormones revolted against all logic. Nothing else would explain her attraction to this bad-tempered stranger.

      On second thought, maybe attraction wasn’t what unnerved her. It had to be that nagging sense of recognition, which had nothing to do with their brief encounter on the road today. This stranger tripped switches she had forgotten she possessed. Why did she feel like she’d seen herself reflected in his night-dark eyes many times? Had their paths crossed long before today?

      Ridiculous. If she’d ever met this imposing specimen of male authority, she would remember. Maybe he seemed familiar because once upon a lonely night, she’d glimpsed him in a dream. Was he the Midnight Man?

      No, he might look like a dream, but this guy could be a nightmare for all she knew. Since her divorce, she’d formed a clear notion of her ideal man and this dangerous, too-handsome-for-his-own-good hunk was not it. Next time around, she was voting for quiet, stable and unexciting. Safe.

      He extended his hand, which was as large and tan as the rest of him. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, ma’am. I’m Patrick Templeton.”

      “Trick!” Chloe chirped.

      He frowned again, but managed not to scowl in her innocent, upturned face. “Yeah, that’s right. People call me Trick. How did you know?”

      Chloe smiled in the direction of the file cabinet. “I’m a good guesser.”

      The name finally registered with Brandy. “You’re Patrick Templeton? The owner of Hotspur Well Control?”

      “Yeah. I’m also the defendant in Futterman’s latest bogus lawsuit.” He leaned forward, bracing one hand on the desk beside her hip. His face was too close. She edged back and drew a deep breath, but still couldn’t breathe properly. Was he sucking all the oxygen out of the room?

      “I don’t have time for this, lady,” he said in a measured tone. “I have fires to put out.”

      Brandy couldn’t respond for a moment. She was busy fighting an internal wildfire ignited by the disconcerting knowledge that she already knew how kissing him would feel. Impossible. She did not possess that much imagination. Awareness and longing coursed through her like a river of molten gold. What was happening here? Was this what hypnosis was all about?

      Finally Chloe tugged on her hand. “Mommy? Trick is talking to you.”

      “Sorry.” She marshaled enough energy to step away from him. She was losing her grip. Fantasy men did not come to life and storm into one’s office. She was the one who needed lessons on what was real and what was make-believe. “You have fires to control, and I have bedtime stories to read. Maybe we should call it a night.”

      “Harry Peet’s got everything all wrong,” he insisted. “I need—”

      “I’m sure you understand why I can’t discuss a pending case with a defendant. If you’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Futterman, call his secretary tomorrow during regular office hours. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were just leaving.”

      “Right.” He seemed confused by her dismissal. Had he never had a request denied before? “Can I help you carry anything?”

      Too late to go gallant on her. “No, thank you. I’m quite used to carrying my own load.” At the last moment, she remembered the conference documents stacked in the printer tray. She quickly divided the two copies, placed one on her desk and took Chloe with her to drop the other on Futterman’s desk where he would find it first thing in the morning.

      She expected Templeton to be gone when she returned, but no such luck. “Allow me to show you out.”

      Apparently no one could show him anything. He led the way to the front door and stood on the sidewalk while Brandy locked the door. The lock didn’t stick or fight back this time. Strange. The shiny white pickup with the flaming Hotspur logo on the door was angled into the space next to her battered Ford Escort. The truck’s impressive automotive good looks were as intimidating to the little car as its owner’s were to her. She tossed her briefcase and purse on the front seat and leaned in the back to buckle Chloe into her booster seat.

      “Wait!” Chloe yelled when she started to close the door.

      “What, honey?”

      “Let Celestian get in first. You don’t want to squash him.”

      “No, I don’t.” Brandy paused to give Chloe’s invisible playmate time to make himself comfortable on the seat. She caught Trick Templeton’s amused look. A slow smile transformed his features, making him seem even more familiar.

      “Don’t ask.” She cranked the window down halfway and shut the door.

      He backed up, his hands in front of him. “I wasn’t about to.”

      “Mommy, I didn’t say goodbye to Trick.”

      Brandy sighed. Why did her daughter insist on treating this soon-to-be-sued defendant like a long-lost uncle?

      “Tell her goodbye,” she said, “or we’ll be here all night.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” He braced one hand on the car’s roof and leaned down to look inside. “Goodbye, Little Bit.”

      “Don’t leave yet, Trick,” Chloe whispered.

      “Why not?” he whispered back.

      “We might need your help.”

      “Chloe, say goodbye to Mr. Templeton.”

      “Bye, Trick.” She extended her little fingers like a miniature queen deigning to accept a subject’s kiss. He reached in, his large hand swallowing hers, and pumped a couple of times.

      “Nice meeting you, kid.”

      “Don’t leave yet,” Chloe warned again.

      “I won’t.” He walked around the car as Brandy slid behind the steering wheel. “How old is she again?”

      “Five.”

      “Funny. I would’ve guessed thirty.”

      “I know.” Brandy grinned. “Be sure to call for an appointment tomorrow.”

      “Don’t worry, I will. And I’m sorry if I…” His sentence dribbled off.

      “Stormed into my office like a renegade SWAT team door kicker and scared the bejeezus out of me and my innocent child?”

      “Little Bit didn’t seem scared,” he pointed out.

      “I