Rachel And The Tough Guy Read online

  “What are you doing in this house?”

  About the Author

  Books by Jeanne Allan

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Copyright

  “What are you doing in this house?”

  “That’s a good question.” Rachel stalled for time. Nicholas looked mean enough to chase after her on two broken legs. Not that his leg was broken. He’d tom a few ligaments. “Don’t you think you ought to sit down?”

  “I asked who you are.” Nicholas was irritated.

  “I haven’t decided. Nurse doesn’t work. I hate the sight of blood. Cook is so limiting in scope.”

  “Who the hell are you?” he shouted.

  “What would you call me?” she challenged. “Nanny? The closest I could come was baby-sitter, but—” she deliberately swept her eyes over his battered, six-foot frame“—you’re not the type women call ‘baby.’”

  His eyebrows snapped together “Are you telling me my mother hired you to take care of me?”

  Rachel gave him a beaming smile. “Exactly.”

  Jeanne Allan loves travel, bird- and people-watching, reading, old movies, creative messes, red rooms, her two grown children, sometimes their pets, laughter and anything interesting. Having lived and traveled throughout the U.S. and Europe as a military wife, she and her husband of twenty-seven years now seek the perfect Colorado settings for her books. Jeanne, who was honored as Colorado Romance Writer for 1989, has always loved writing and telling stories, and she hopes her romances leave readers smiling.

  Books by Jeanne Allan

  HARLEQUIN ROMANCE

  3384—CHARLOTTE’S COWBOY

  3408—MOVING IN WITH ADAM

  3437—A MISTLETOE MARRIAGE

  3456—NEEDED: ONE DAD

  3471—DO YOU TAKE THIS COWBOY?

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  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  Rachel and the Tough Guy

  Jeanne Allan

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN

  MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  CHAPTER ONE

  WARM, noontime breezes carried the sounds of slamming car doors down to the three-story house on Grand Lake. Rachel froze. No. Not yet. He wasn’t supposed to arrive until almost noon. She looked at her watch. Fifteen minutes before the hour. She wasn’t ready. He’d come too soon. She hadn’t worked out a solid plan. Hired yesterday evening, the quick drive up early this morning. She kept thinking there would be more time...

  Two voices traveled on the late June breezes. Dyan’s voice and a deep male voice with a sharp edge. Had the voice belonged to anyone else, Rachel would have assumed pain caused the sharpness. When it came to Nicholas Bonelli and his current battered condition, his mother and Dyan had been brutally frank in describing son and brother as a bossy, autocratic, surly, ill-tempered martinet.

  Nicholas Bonelli. After fifteen years of failing to keep her vow, she’d come up with one last desperate plan. A plan which centered on Nicholas Bonelli helping her.

  Rachel stepped back from the window in case he stopped complaining long enough to look up. Although looking up appeared to be beyond his current capabilities. Navigating the rocky path to the front door with his right arm totally immobilized, his right leg in a cast, and a crutch under his left arm probably took every ounce of concentration he could muster. Said concentration not interfering one iota with a stream of curses and complaints. For a second she sympathized with the man hobbling toward the front door, then she remembered who he was.

  And why she was here.

  Through the lace curtain Rachel watched Dyan heave some bags onto the small front porch before retracing her steps up to the road. Passing her stove-up brother, Dyan stuck out her tongue at his back.

  “Leave those bags for Charlie,” he said irritably. “Even if you did manage to leave your husband and kids in the dust, they ought to be arriving soon.” Heavy sarcasm further whetted his voice. “You’d think a cop’s daughter would demonstrate at least a token acknowledgment of the fact that we have a speed limit here in Colorado.”

  Dyan barreled back down the path, luggage hanging from her. Dropping her awkward burdens on the porch, she said, “Give me the key,” and jumped up the single step.

  The porch roof hid the two from Rachel’s watching eyes. She heard the rasp of the key in the lock, then muted voices from the level below. A prudent person would remove the window screen, crawl out onto the porch roof, shimmy down the nearby evergreen tree and run back to Colorado Springs as fast as her legs could carry her. Rachel wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers and waited.

  The front screen door slammed. A golden-mantled ground squirrel cautiously making his way around a small boulder froze, his striped body barely quivering. He flashed into a nearby hole as Dyan bounded down the porch step and up the path. Without turning her head she made a thumbs-up gesture over her shoulder in the direction of the window where Rachel stood. Dust settled on the path in her wake. A large yellow butterfly drifted down to a small patch of violet larkspur blossoms. Up on the road a car engine, Dyan’s, came to life and roared away. Rachel winced at the screeching brakes and angry honking which marked Dyan’s departure. The road sounds faded in the distance. A hummingbird flew shrilly past the bedroom window.

  The man below bellowed in outrage.

  Rachel took a deep breath and headed downstairs.

  Nicholas Bonelli stood in the middle of the huge, open living room. Irritation, frustration and disbelief fought it out on his dark, olive-skinned face. At the sound of Rachel’s footsteps, he started, the sudden movement destroying his fragile balance and causing his weight to land on his right foot. The foot encased in a cast halfway up his leg. Sweat beaded on his brow as he teetered on his good leg, fighting to remain standing. A string of curses blued the air.

  Rachel stopped halfway down the staircase, locking her hand on the banister to keep from rushing to his rescue. His squared chin and sharp, angled face told her this man always won his battles. Almost always. It took a superhero to best iron and steel. And neon-pink fleece seat covers, came the involuntary thought. She swallowed an inappropriate bubble of laughter.

  “You have a nasty sense of humor, lady, laughing at someone else’s pain.” The rage filling dark brown eyes almost hid the humiliation. “Do you pull the wings off flies, too? Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in this house?”

  “That’s a good question. Who I am, I mean.” Rachel sat on the stairs before her wobbly knees betrayed her. One didn’t rush an angry bull. Handicapped as he was, she ought to be able to outrun him, but he looked mean enough to chase after her on two broken legs. Not that his leg was broken. He’d torn a few ligaments. Judging by the pain etched on his face, she doubted he’d appreciate the distinction. Reminding herself, he needed her, she locked her shaking hands around yellow-clad knees. “After your mother hired me, I tried to come up with what I should be called.” She frowned at the white knuckles gripping the crutch. “Don’t you think you ought to sit down?”

  “I asked who you are.”

  “I haven’t decided. Nurse doesn’t work. I hate the sight of blood. Cook is so l
imiting in scope. Chief bottlewasher? There’s a dishwasher.” Forgetting the circumstances for the moment, she leaned forward to add in an awed voice, “When your mother said her ‘place at the lake,’ I pictured something rustic, maybe outdoor plumbing.” Rachel’s wide gesture encompassed ten-foot high ceilings, peeled log walls, stained-glass transoms, faded Navajo rugs, oil paintings, the huge rugged stone fireplace, and enough furniture to outfit a lodge. “I can’t believe all this.”

  “Who the hell are you?” he shouted.

  His voice, if not the words, put Rachel forcibly in mind of a two-year-old kicking and screaming in frustration as he tested his limits. The shell of the clever, unrelenting bloodhound of big business surrounded a confused little boy who was too proud to admit to his severe pain. Rachel knew all about handling little boys. She raised her eyebrows. “Since when do we yell indoors?” she asked in her best schoolmarm voice.

  “Since we want answers to questions,” he snarled.

  “I always encourage questions. Questions are the sign of a open, active, inquiring mind.”

  “Thank you,” he said dangerously. “I like to think I have an open, active, inquiring mind.”

  The image of a frightened little boy vanished. A very angry full-size male confronted her. One struggling to control his emotions. If his jaw tightened much more, Rachel feared it would lock forever on him. She knew if she backed down now, she’d lost. “What would you call me?” she challenged. “Nanny? The closest I could come was baby-sitter, but—” she deliberately swept her eyes over his battered, six-foot frame “—you’re not the type women call ‘Baby.’”

  His eyebrows snapped together. “Are you telling me, in your annoyingly obtuse way, my mother hired you to take care of me?”

  Rachel gave him the beaming smile she reserved for students who’d finally mastered the alphabet. “Exactly.”

  “Forget it. Pack up and get out.” Presenting his back to her, he laboriously made his way to the telephone.

  She could leave. She could say she tried. She had no intention of going anywhere. “Your mother said to tell you not to bother phoning her. She’s monitoring her answering machine and won’t pick up if she hears your voice.” A ominous silence greeted her words. Rachel resisted an urge to flee.

  He slowly replaced the receiver. “Dyan picked a fight with me to have an excuse to storm out. She really is on her way back to Colorado Springs.”

  “You’ve got it.” She was sure she could outrace him to the front door.

  “And Charlie never planned to drive up with his kids.”

  “Give the man an A-plus. But then, you are supposed to be some kind of hotshot detective, aren’t you?” He was the Bonelli half of Addison and Bonelli, the hottest investigative agency around, the one multinational corporations called when they suspected industrial espionage, or insider trading or embezzlement, or any other esoteric white-collar crime, and wanted the matter handled expeditiously, with sensitivity and discretion. And persistence. Nicholas Bonelli was known for never giving up.

  He turned slowly and awkwardly around. “If I were some kind of hotshot detective, I’d have figured out who the hell you are, but I don’t seem to be able to manage that.” Weariness replaced the hostility in his voice.

  He was going to accept her. She’d overcome the first hurdle. “Your mother mentioned you’d suffered a concussion.” She would be generous in victory.

  “A slight concussion.” He shuffled over to a worn wicker chaise longue and carefully lowered his body to the faded, sagging cushion. Laying the crutch on the floor, with the aid of his uninjured arm he swung his injured leg onto the chaise. He leaned back against a mound of pillows and closed his eyes. “In case you didn’t understand me, you’re fired.” Pain seemed to hollow even deeper the flesh beneath high, pronounced cheekbones.

  Feeling a momentary stab of compassion, Rachel forced herself to harden her heart. In pain, barely able to move unaided, unable to do the simplest things for himself, he obviously had no intention of giving up without a fight. Everyone had warned her he was a temperamental patient at best. That’s why she was being paid an extremely generous wage to dance in attendance on him while he convalesced. No one needed to know she’d have done it for free.

  Standing up, she ran lightly down the stairs. “Dyan said you wouldn’t be lunching on the way up. I bought some cold cuts—ham, turkey, roast beef. What kind of sandwich do you want?”

  “I said you’re fired.”

  “You can’t fire me. You didn’t hire me. I picked up some fresh rye bread on the way up this morning. How about ham and Swiss cheese on rye? Iced tea or lemonade?” Dyan had packed for him, and she hadn’t packed food.

  “Who are you?” he asked wearily. “The new housekeeper?”

  “How about warden? You’re in prison and I’m the warden.”

  Eyelids shot up and startled brown eyes stared at her before narrowing to dark, suspicious slits. “Do I know you?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He closed his eyes.

  Rachel waited a minute. “You never said if ham and cheese on rye is okay. I made the iced tea fresh this morning.”

  “I’m not hungry. Take your food and get out.”

  In the kitchen Rachel clung to the edge of the countertop until her knees stopped knocking together. She’d survived round one, but she hadn’t won. Not yet. The task ahead loomed higher than the Rocky Mountains, but she could do it. He couldn’t escape from her. His mother had made sure of that. She had him where she wanted him. All she had to do was keep him from gaining the upper hand. He was a battered wreck of a man. How hard could it be?

  She made two sandwiches. Leaving one on the kitchen countertop, she curled up in a chair in the living room and took a large bite of her sandwich, noisily crunching the crisp lettuce. She crushed a potato chip between her teeth.

  Nicholas Bonelli pretended to be asleep. She’d bet his mind was racing to find a way out of his current situation. His mother had tried to close every loophole. Taking advantage of his closed eyes, Rachel studied the dark face beneath short, wavy, blue-black hair. Black eyebrows lent a menacing air, but some women would kill for the ridiculously long ebony eyelashes. Perilously close to his right eye, a red, angry scar clashed with his olive-toned skin. The barest hint of blue coloring his chin suggested a perpetual five o’clock shadow. He looked tough and rugged.

  If one discounted the hollow cheeks and high cheekbones. Rachel’s mother would take one look at him and insist on plying him with nourishing foods. Rachel considered his sprawling body. Regardless of what her mother might think, he was neither malnourished nor skinny. He’d separated his shoulder, broken his arm and ripped up his ankle, but even battered, his body spoke of conditioning and wiry strength. Not to mention possessing wide shoulders, narrow hips, and a lean waist.

  Rachel chewed her lunch thoughtfully, adjectives springing to mind. Sinister, elemental, primitive. Yet vulnerable and in need of nurturing. Hollywood would cast him as a hardened criminal whose salvation lay in the love of a good woman. She took another bite. According to Dyan, plenty of women agreed with central casting, lining up to be the one to win his heart. Dyan had wished them luck in finding it. Funny how sisters never saw brothers as the object of some woman’s passion. Rachel couldn’t imagine a woman going gaga over her brother Tony, as much as she loved him. Of course Tony didn’t have bad boy sex appeal oozing from every pore of his body.

  “You hungry for that sandwich or me?”

  Rachel gave a little jump at the dry voice. “Much good a man in your condition would do me.”

  “Shows what you know.” He pulled himself to an upright sitting position and reached for his crutch.

  “Can I help you?”

  “No. I’m going to raid the refrigerator. Don’t worry. I won’t touch your food. I’ll eat what was here.”

  “Saltine crackers, peanut butter, instant oatmeal. Eat your gourmet heart out.”

  “Thank you.” He h
eaved his body upward. “I will.”

  She would have shoved him backward onto the chaise if she didn’t fear worsening his injuries. Instead she stood and blocked his way. “No wonder your mother kicked you out.”

  “She didn’t kick me out.” He slowly detoured around her. “I decided I’d be better off staying with Dyan and Charlie.”

  “Where you ran Dyan into the ground waiting on you hand and foot, not to mention treating Andy and JoJo like unpaid servants.”

  “I did not—”

  “When your mother said you were a pain in the...well, the world’s most difficult patient, Dyan assured me your mother didn’t exaggerate. The two of them used words like obstinate, impossible, grouchy, certifiable, and those are the ones I can repeat. Dyan muttered repeatedly about justifiable homicide and claimed Charlie locked up his guns to prevent anyone from using them on you.”

  “I’ve had enough of you, lady, so—”

  “Rachel.”

  “What?”

  “My name is Rachel. Not lady. Rachel Stuart.” Carrying her sandwich, she followed him as he made his awkward way into the kitchen. “And you’re Nicholas Bonelli, so now we’ve been formally introduced. Do you want tea or lemonade with your ham and cheese?”

  He looked from the sandwich on the countertop to her. “I’m having peanut butter and crackers, after which I’m heading back to the Springs.”

  “It’s a long walk.”

  Balancing on one leg, his crutch propped against the cabinet, he took the jar of peanut butter from the cupboard. “Someone will come get me.”

  “Who?” She took another bite of sandwich and slowly chewed. When he didn’t answer, she said, “I’m to tell you from your mother and sister that they have begged, bribed, threatened, intimidated and/or otherwise made it very clear to every member of your family, to your every employee and to every person of your acquaintance who has a driver’s licence that he or she is absolutely not, under any circumstances, under pain of something awful, to drive up here after you. That includes Charles Addison. You, Mr. Bonelli, have been banished from Colorado Springs for the crime of selfish, extremely offensive and entirely unacceptable behavior as a convalescent. You’re to stay here until you’re back on both feet and self-sufficient.” She managed to beam at him in spite of the black look on his face. “Word perfect. Your mother made me memorize it.”