Page 13 of A Famous Little Fourth of July
So what? Marlowe upbraided herself angrily.
After all, she knew what she was getting into, right? Bowie Robertson had turned out to be an honorable man, saying that he would step up when the time came, but he had made absolutely no promises to her about their future together in the traditional sense. When it came to that, he hadn’t said any of the things a woman wanted to hear with the sole goal of getting her into his bed.
As a matter of fact, if she were being honest about it, she thought with a sigh, Bowie hadn’t tried to get her into bed at all. She was the one who had made the first move. She had kissed him and made it abundantly clear that she wanted to make love with him last night.
If anything, Bowie had even tried to get her to back away, pausing right at the beginning and asking her if everything was all right. If she had suddenly backed away at that point, she knew he would have let her.
He might not have been happy about it, but he would have definitely let her.
No, she thought, tossing off the covers and looking around for her robe, last night had been a wonderful, singular experience—well, all right, two experiences, she amended with a smile. But right from the beginning she certainly knew that he had no intentions of turning that into their way of life from here on in.
If things wound up working themselves out, there might even be a few repeat performances of last night, but there was nothing on the drawing board to suggest it would turn into something permanent, and the sooner she wrapped her head around that, the better off she would be.
Besides, she had enough complications in her life right now. She certainly didn’t need anything more.
The main things on her mind right now should be finding who had targeted her and Bowie previously. And Ace and who had switched him for her so-called real brother that night. Also she needed to find out why they had done it. For all she knew, the person who had switched those two babies could have even been her own father.
The more she thought about it, the more it sounded like it could have been something he would be capable of. After all, the image of a sickly first son was not exactly in keeping with the kind of legend Payne Colton would have liked to project.
C’mon, Marlowe, up and at ’em, she silently ordered, sitting up. Seeing her robe, she pulled it over and put it on.
Last night was in the past—as was Bowie, she insisted. Time to face a new day. All she needed was to grab a quick shower and get dressed, and she could be on her way—that thought stopped her. Her car was still back at Colton Oil’s headquarters. Unless she felt up to a long walk—and she didn’t—she needed a ride.
Callum, she decided. She’d give her twin a call. He wouldn’t mind driving her in to work, and he wouldn’t ask her a lot of unwanted, pesky questions while he was doing it. Callum, thank goodness, knew when to mind his own business. He—
Marlowe stopped abruptly. Was she imagining things? Because right now she could have sworn she smelled...chicken soup?
But t
hat was impossible. She was positive that Bowie had put the remainder of the container of soup into the refrigerator before things had heated up between them last night. If it was there, how could she smell it now?
Curious, she went into the kitchen to investigate. Startled, Marlowe stifled a scream. But it was still loud enough to have Bowie almost drop the pot he had just finished warming up and was now about to transfer to the counter.
He put the pot down just in time. “Hell, Marlowe, you just made my heart stop,” he told her. “And not in a good way,” he added, as if remembering last night.
She glared at him. If there was one thing she hated, it was acting afraid in front of an audience, even an audience of one.
“Well, that makes two of us. I thought you’d left,” she accused, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm down her galloping pulse. “What are you doing here?”
“Not exactly the most welcoming tone of voice I’ve heard, but I’ll answer that I said I was taking Bigelow’s place as your bodyguard. That would include this morning until I get you back to the office and under his watchful eye. Don’t you remember?” he asked.
Marlowe shrugged. The only thing she had thought of this morning was that he wasn’t there. “I just assumed when I woke up and you weren’t next to me...”
“That I had folded my tent and disappeared into the night?” Bowie guessed. Had he caught a glimmer of disappointment in her eyes when she’d screamed? Perhaps that thought made him smile, although he clearly did his best to maintain a straight face.
“Something like that,” Marlowe admitted, hating just how happy the sight of him made her feel.
His being here didn’t change anything. He’d practically told her as much. He was just being honorable and living up to his word, but that didn’t mean he was about to turn over an entirely new leaf and become a new man. He was a commitmentphobe, and that wasn’t about to change.
“Well, you assumed wrong,” he told Marlowe.
So it would seem, she thought. Desperate to change the subject, she nodded at the pot on the counter. “What’s with the soup?”
He turned toward the counter, grateful to have something else to focus on. “Since you tolerated it so well last night, I thought maybe you could have some more soup for breakfast, too—until you can eat other food,” he explained. Then he looked at her more closely. “How’s your stomach this morning?”
“Well, I haven’t thrown up yet,” she answered, then added philosophically, “but then, the morning’s still young.”
“Ever the optimist,” he commented. And then he smiled encouragingly. “Maybe this is a sign of things to come,” he told her.