Loe raamatut: «Close Proximity»
Rafe’s eyes were closed, his chin tipped up, as he stretched the kinks from his muscles….
My, how she’d love to run her fingers down the naked length of him. She could only imagine how hard, how sculpted, his body would feel.
Libby tightened her grip on the chopsticks until she feared they’d snap in half.
Soft blue denim hugged his butt. And what a nice, tight butt it was, too.
Libby grinned. She was being so bad. She knew it, and it was so unlike her. But what harm was there in checking out the view? she wondered, her smile widening.
What she’d really like was to see his slick, black river of hair flowing free against the bare flesh covering the wide, strong expanse of his muscular back. To feel those silken tresses against her own naked flesh. A loose and languid chuckle rose in her throat, and she did her best to stifle it.
“What has you grinning from ear to ear?” he asked.
About the Author
DONNA CLAYTON
is fascinated with Native American cultures. After researching the traditions and philosophies of various Pacific Coast Indians, she strove to create what she hopes is a richly textured history and a strong present-day sense of community for the fictional Mokee-kittuun tribe featured in her story. An award-winning, bestselling author, Donna lives in Delaware with her husband, two sons and Jake, her four-year-old Border collie.
Close Proximity
Donna Clayton
Meet the Coltons—a California dynasty with a legacy of privilege and power.
Libby Corbett: High-powered attorney. She came home to clear her father’s name. But now that her life is in jeopardy, this take-charge woman must entrust everything to one man—a man who has a chip on his shoulder almost as big as her own!
Rafe James: Native American rancher. A proud loner, he knows the only way to help the town through its crisis is to get close to the one woman who threatens to topple all his defenses.
Blake Fallon: Tough-to-tame director. In spite of his rules against mixing business with pleasure, anyone can see there’s something going on between the Hopechest Ranch’s director and his loyal assistant….
Todd Lamb: Ruthless tycoon. Now that he’s been named head of Springer, Inc., all the long hours he’s spent devoted to his work are about to pay off. Or are they?
This book is joyously dedicated to fellow authors
Maggie Price, Jean Brashear and Cara Colter. Ladies,
you made this a rollicking adventure, and I’m grateful
to the bones to have had this chance to work with you.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
One
T he steps of the courthouse were crowded with camera-wielding media, placard-waving radicals and other individuals who were just plain curious. And to think, Prosperino used to be such a sleepy little town.
With traffic at a standstill, Rafe James sat in his pickup truck watching the circus unfold before him. The irate anti-oil-company chants of several ringleaders could be heard even though his windows were rolled up tight against the chilly March morning.
Having lived most of his life on the Crooked Arrow Reservation, Rafe didn’t travel into town often anymore. Nearly everything he needed could be bought or bartered for right on the reservation, so Rafe didn’t have much to do with the outside world these days. There simply wasn’t much need, unless he had a side job going.
Two different insurance companies called upon him at times to do a little investigative work. And he also used Prosperino as a base for meeting with buyers for his beloved horses. Equestrians from all over the world had purchased the Appaloosas he bred and trained. He didn’t think of this as a bragging right, just fact. A fact he took pride in.
For the most part, Rafe kept to the rez, among his own kind. However, he’d found himself drawn into town every single day since David Corbett, the vice-president of Springer, Inc. had been arrested. The need for information regarding the oil company’s problems had Rafe’s investigative antennae on alert, urging him to listen to gossip, devour each newspaper article he found on the case, study every word of the local evening news. Hell, the story had hit the national news lately. And it was going worldwide, he realized when he saw the CNN van parked up the street.
No way was David Corbett guilty of the disregard for human life and attempted murder charges he was currently facing. The man was too honest, too fair-minded, too compassionate, too honorable to have intentionally tainted the water supply with DMBE, or any other chemical, for that matter. Rafe didn’t care what the EPA had discovered, or that the evidence shed a poor light on Springer’s ex-VP. And Rafe wanted to laugh when he’d read the FBI’s so-called theory.
Oh, someone had deliberately contaminated the water. And that someone was involved with Springer. But the Hopechest Ranch for children hadn’t been the target as the FBI believed. And neither had the town of Prosperino.
Rafe had his own suspicions about this whole mess. But who was going to listen to an Indian playing a guessing game filled with speculation and conjecture? Nobody, that’s who.
All Rafe knew for sure was that David Corbett was innocent. Rafe’s gut told him the man was being used as a scapegoat. And if there was one thing he hated, it was when someone took the blame for an offense he didn’t commit, when someone was forced into the role of victim.
Victim. The very word turned Rafe’s blood to acid. Memories swam and churned in his head. But he cut them off, strangled the life out of them before they had a chance to come into focus.
This wasn’t about him. It was about Corbett.
Rafe sighed as he thought about the dire straits the man was in. But Rafe knew him to be intelligent and savvy. Surely, Corbett would get himself out of this tight spot. He’d find himself a good lawyer. Surely, the evidence could somehow be refuted—
Like the eyes of an eagle homing on prey, his gaze zeroed in on the woman who exited the front doors of the courthouse. The morning sun glinted off the long tumble of her hair, turning it the color of polished copper. Immediately, she was besieged by media people hounding her with questions. The radicals pressed in on her as well, shouting slurs, chanting angry accusations.
Her chin was tipped up defiantly as she faced down what she so obviously saw as the opposition. Confidence seemed to ooze from her, and the tiny hairs on the base of Rafe’s neck stood on end. Something deep in him stirred—
A horn blared behind him, and instinct alone kept him from starting. He couldn’t believe he’d become so wrapped up in the scene on the courthouse steps, or in the red-haired beauty standing there.
Darting a glance in his rearview mirror, Rafe saw the irate motorist mouthing and gesturing an obscenity. Reacting to such nonsense never even entered Rafe’s head. Instead, he searched for and found a parking spot, pulled in his truck and cut the engine. He was out on the sidewalk and making his way toward the courthouse before he even had time to think.
This morning he hadn’t intended on doing anything more than picking up the daily paper, but instinct had changed his plan. He was being urged into action by the overwhelming need to discover who the woman was. If the Elders had taught him anything, it was to listen to his gut. One’s very life could depend on heeding what might seem to others as sheer impulse.
What an odd thought. But he didn’t take time to reflect on it. By the time he reached the base of the brick steps, the mob was descending toward him and the woman was pushing her way through the crowd.
“David Corbett is innocent,” she told them all. “That fact will be proven.
Strong vehemence girded her statement, and Rafe got a shadowy sense that those words—that tone—just might put her in peril.
“I’ll stake my entire career on it. I have nothing further to say at this time.”
The media continued to pepper the woman with questions, but she remained stonily silent as she moved through them, doing her best to brush aside the microphones being shoved at her.
“How can Corbett ever refute the mountain of evidence against him?”
Her skin, Rafe noticed, was like creamy porcelain.
“Wouldn’t it be easier for everyone if Corbett simply pleaded guilty to all charges?”
She moved with grace and style. The woman was poised. Even under fire.
“How does he feel about Springer turning its back on him?”
Her fingers were tapered, her nails neatly manicured with clear gloss. The thought of them raking down the length of his chest burst into his mind, unbidden, and Rafe’s jaw clenched in reaction.
“Have you taken a leave of absence from your law firm in San Francisco? Or are you taking this case with your boss’s blessings?”
Her eyes were an astonishing aquamarine. Clear. Earnest. Intelligent. Connecting with them for the first time was enough to make a man feel as if he’d been kicked in the chest by a wild stallion.
“What did David Corbett say when he learned that his job was taken over by Todd Lamb?”
That gaze of hers brought the ocean to mind. The wide-open Pacific on a bright, still afternoon. A man could get lost in those eyes.
“As Corbett’s daughter, do you really feel you can set aside emotion and successfully represent your father in this case?”
This final query caused the woman to blanch. She blinked, her well-shaped mouth parting just enough for her to inhale a quick breath. The confidence expressed on her delicate features slipped a notch. As hard as she tried to hide her reaction behind a reflexive swallow and a small plastic smile, the sudden vulnerability clouding her blue-green gaze affected Rafe.
Mightily.
Reveling in her utter beauty hadn’t been his only pursuit of the last few seconds; he’d also absorbed the reporters’ questions and all the information the nonstop grilling had suggested. He knew who the woman was, where she was from and why she’d arrived in Prosperino.
Shouldering his way into the crowd, he stepped between the woman and the last television correspondent who had spoken.
“Back off.” The tight expression Rafe offered the man and the threat lacing the edges of his tone had the reporter retreating automatically.
Lightly grasping the woman’s elbow, Rafe focused every nuance of his attention on her. There were questions in her eyes. He saw them. But now was not the time for answers.
“Where’s your car?” His voice was quiet. Meant only for her.
She pointed, and he led the way. Miraculously, the horde parted and allowed them access to the sidewalk and the cars that were parked along the curb. He opened the driver’s door and she slid behind the wheel, thrusting her attaché case onto the passenger seat beside her. The engine sparked to life, and after offering him one quick look of gratitude, she pulled into traffic and drove off down the street.
Libby Corbett pulled into the driveway of her childhood home. She sat in the quiet, her hands resting lightly on the steering wheel as she stared at the huge white Victorian house with its fancy gingerbread trim. As a little girl, she’d spent many an evening curled up on that porch swing between her mom and dad. They had been an incredibly close-knit family of three; racing and cavorting in the shade of the trees out in the backyard in the spring, playing board games at the kitchen table on rainy winter evenings, making up songs at the old grand piano in the living room, reading the classics together in her parents’ massive king-size bed.
She’d been in junior high school when she slowly became cognizant of all that her parents had sacrificed in order to accommodate her special needs, in order to keep her feeling safe and secure. The opportunities to travel they had given up. The social life they had let pass them by. All for her sake. They had understood how uncomfortable their daughter had felt around people.
The severe stuttering problem that had plagued her all through her adolescence had made her painfully shy. She’d grown up virtually friendless. It was nearly impossible to make friends when you refused to speak.
However, her parents had succeeded in filling in all the gaps in Libby’s life, and her memories of growing up in Prosperino were filled with happiness and joy. Through her high-school years she’d worked hard to overcome her speech impediment. She’d so wanted to liberate her parents of the worry they suffered on her account. She’d been desperate to somehow free them, to give them back their lives so they could enjoy each other and the world around them. But just when intensive speech therapy seemed to have put that goal within her reach, fate had dropped yet another obstacle into the path of the Corbett family.
When her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer, Libby knew it was her turn to become the caretaker. And she had done everything she could to make her mother’s load lighter. She’d rushed home from school to cook and clean. She’d done the shopping, the laundry. She’d accompanied her father to the hospital on daily visits. She’d knelt by the toilet, holding a cool, damp cloth to her mother’s forehead when the chemo treatments caused such violent vomiting. When her mom’s silken hair had fallen out in clumps, Libby had refused to cry, choosing instead to run out and buy several colorful turbans she knew would bring a smile to her mother’s wan and weary face.
Libby had done everything in her power to be strong for her mom, to somehow pay her back for all the love and caring the woman had showered on her.
Sandra’s cancer had gone into remission, but the disease had taken its toll on her emotional welfare. The years of battling had stolen her zest for living. And then in ’97, the cancer had returned.
Both Libby and her father had nearly died of grief when Sandra Corbett had passed away. Their terrible loss had only made them closer. When it came time for her to start her career, Libby had balked at leaving her dad all alone, but he’d gently pushed her out of the nest so that she could test her wings. With a law degree under her belt and her exciting job with a prestigious firm in San Francisco, Libby was terribly grateful that her father had allowed her the freedom to fly. There simply wasn’t enough room in the entire universe to contain the love Libby felt for her father.
David Corbett had been her champion when she’d been a little girl. Her knight in shining armor. He’d sacrificed so much for her, made her feel secure, made her feel loved at a time when the awful stammer she suffered made her feel flawed and awkward and often stupid.
Years ago, Libby had been strong for her mother through those long months of her illness. It had about killed her to keep her chin up and a smile on her face, but she’d been proud to offer a shoulder for her mom to lean on. Now the time had arrived for her to be strong for her father. Now was her opportunity to repay him for his years of total devotion and sacrifice.
When her father had called her to request that she find him a good lawyer, Libby hadn’t a clue why he might need representation. She’d assured him that she could take care of any personal legal matters he might have. She might be a criminal attorney, she remembered telling him, but someone in her firm could certainly see that his will was properly filed.
Her knees had grown wobbly when he’d finally confessed that he was calling her from jail and that he was facing felony charges.
Disregard for human life? Attempted murder?
That very evening the story had hit the west coast newspapers.
How could anyone—the EPA, the FBI and least of all the executives at Springer, Inc.—believe that straitlaced David Corbett could be guilty of those crimes?
Libby had immediately gone to the partners in the firm and requested time away from the practice in order to give her father the best representation available. No one had a greater stake in this than she did. No other attorney would be willing to go to any lengths to prove her father’s innocence like she would. Together, she and her father would beat this thing.
Uncertainty, gray and thick, gathered around her like a wintry coastal mist.
Why had her father balked initially when she’d proposed she travel north to act as his lawyer? She hadn’t really thought about it at the time, so caught up was she in his plight. Why had he tried so hard to decline her offer of help? Sure, he’d used the excuse of not wanting her life interrupted by what was sure to be a mess—the biggest three-ring circus in the history of Prosperino, he’d said. He’d tried to reason that her professional reputation might be in jeopardy just by having her name associated with the case. However, she couldn’t help but wonder if, just maybe, her father doubted her ability as an attorney. Maybe he thought she didn’t have the skills necessary to successfully clear his name.
“But I can help you, Daddy,” she whispered in the solitude of the car, wretched emotion burning her throat, unshed tears prickling the backs of her eyelids.
Fear gripped her belly with icy fingers when she thought of all the hostility she’d faced at the courthouse today. From the media. From the townspeople. Everyone seemed so dead-set against her dad. Everyone.
Suddenly she remembered the rich, mahogany eyes of the man who had come to her aid this morning. Never in her life had she experienced an expression filled with such complex and concentrated intensity. The memory made her shiver.
When the man had touched her, when he’d taken her by the arm, the chaos in her mind calmed. She’d felt safe. Secure. He’d been like a harbor in the midst of a terrible storm.
But that was silly. Safe and secure with a complete stranger? Come on, Libby, her brain lectured. You’re letting down your guard.
That protected feeling had simply come from the fact that he seemed to be on her side when no one else had been. The man must know her father, must have had some dealings with him. The thought brought her comfort.
Maybe everyone wasn’t against her father.
She inhaled deeply and tipped up her chin. She sure wouldn’t be able to clear her father’s name by wallowing in doubt and self-pity.
The car key was cool against her palm as she pulled it from the ignition. Shoving open the door, she exited the car, bringing with her the bag of groceries she’d purchased this afternoon and her attaché case. With a small thrust of her hip, she closed the car door. The heels of her shoes clicked on the paved drive as she made her way to the porch.
Libby looked up and was truly astonished to see him standing on the front lawn. The man with those intense, dark eyes.
Two
H e was a big man. Tall. Lean. Powerful. And his features looked as if they’d been chiseled from some golden-hued stone from the desert, his cheekbones high and sharp, his jaw angular.
Without conscious thought, her steps slowed, then stopped altogether.
Something about his stance gave the impression that he was primed, ready. To attack or flee, she couldn’t tell which.
Just then the afternoon breeze tangled itself in his long, raven hair, whipping it across his eyes and jaw, obscuring his face from view. An odd, out-of-the-blue urge welled up in Libby, and she had to fight the impulse to go to him, to brush back his hair, experience what she easily imagined would be the silken texture of it between her fingers. The startling thought made her eyes go wide, made her heart trip in her chest.
In the calm of the moment, she realized he was the most luscious man she’d ever laid eyes on.
That astonishing notion made her suck in a quick breath. What on earth had gotten into her?
She suppressed a smile when she realized that just because experience had forced her to swear off men entirely, she was still a woman. The feminine part of her demanded its right to appreciate a good-looking man when she saw one.
With an economy of movement, he turned his head, lifting his chin a fraction, and the wind whisked his hair back over his shoulders. And massive shoulders they were, too. Her eyes slid down the length of him. Over his broad chest covered by a white button-down shirt, narrow hips belted with a strip of suede decorated in a beaded, distinctly Native American design. His jeans, denim worn soft and supple with age, encased muscular thighs.
A desolate sigh whispered across her brain as she imagined him naked. The thought nearly made her choke.
She forced her gaze to the sculpted features of his face.
Who was he? And what was he doing here?
As much as she wanted to focus on the issues important to the here and now, she couldn’t stop the unbidden perceptions from flashing in her mind like sharp bolts of lightning.
Untamed. Stealthy. Panther-like.
Each description that zipped through her thoughts caused a friction that heated her blood.
He didn’t seem in any way unrefined or brutish. But…feral. Yes. That was it. A wildness exuded from him like heat radiating from the sun. Natural. Genuine.
Libby realized her heart was hammering and her mouth had gone as dry as the California desert. Enough of this, she silently ordered. When her feet still didn’t move and her tongue remained cleaved to the roof of her mouth, she silently ordered, Enough.
Suddenly she was moving again, and rather than making her way to the front door as she’d first intended, she veered toward the man.
“I didn’t get the chance to thank you this morning,” she called to him. “For helping me escape those reporters at the courthouse.”
Until now his countenance had expressed a tentativeness as if he wasn’t quite sure he should approach. But now his tense features relaxed, if only a bit.
“I’m Libby Corbett. David Corbett’s daughter.” As soon as the introduction left her mouth, she silently decided he must realize those facts already. How else would he have known where to find her?
His steely silence made her nervous. “Can I help you with something?” she asked.
“I was thinking that maybe I could help you.”
She remembered the commanding tone he’d used when addressing the reporter this morning. But now his voice sounded rich. Resonant. And a delicious tremor coursed down the full length of her spine.
“Oh?”
It was the only answer she could pull from the fog of her thoughts.
His mouth and jaw line went taut, and Libby got the distinct feeling that he’d somehow gotten his pride knocked out of joint, that maybe her one, tiny response had somehow belittled him. Although his boots remained planted in the grass, he turned his head, obviously considering making an exit then and there. She could tell.
“Wait,” she called. She took several steps toward him, leaving the concrete, her high heels a hindrance in the thick grass. The bag of groceries grew heavy suddenly and she shifted them into her other arm. “You know my dad?”
His nod was almost imperceptible.
“You know something about the case? You can help my father?”
“I’d like to help him.”
The fact that he hadn’t answered the first question wasn’t lost on her, but she offered him a smile anyway. She felt as though she’d sailed into a sea of enemies since arriving in Prosperino. Anyone who was willing to help her dad would be considered a friend until she had some reason to think otherwise.
“Would you come in for a cup of coffee, Mr.…?”
“James. Rafe James.”
“Well, Mr. James—”
“Rafe.”
“Well, Rafe. You’ll have to call me Libby, then, won’t you?”
The smile he offered her was small, but it provoked an amazing response in her. Thoughts turned chaotic as images materialized in her brain. Sensual visions of that wide mouth of his raining kisses over her body.
It had been so easy to conceive of this man as wild, animalistic. But now it was just as easy to picture him in the role of tender lover. In any other puzzle, those two opposing pieces wouldn’t go together. But with Rafe James, they somehow fit.
Perfectly.
What a ridiculous notion. This man was a complete stranger to her.
Shoving the inappropriate thoughts from her mind, she said, “So, should we go in?”
He nodded slightly and then moved toward her.
The muscles of his thighs played under the fabric of his jeans, and Libby had to force her eyes to avert to the ground. Before she realized it, he was close. Very close. He smelled like citrusy cedar and leather, and she had to force herself not to close her eyes and get lost in the scent.
“Let me take this for you.”
When he reached to take the bag from her, his hand brushed her upper arm. The desire to protect herself by stepping away from him was great, as was the urge to move toward him, ever closer.
She did neither, and she thanked her lucky stars that she had sense enough to keep a level head on her shoulders. She had no idea what had gotten into her. The stress of worrying about her father’s tremendous troubles, she guessed. That and the despair of having gotten caught in the memories of her childhood.
After unlocking the door, she made her way through the house to the kitchen, very aware that Rafe James was close on her heels. She set her briefcase on the ceramic tile countertop of the island.
“Set the bag here,” she told him. Then she silently indicated that Rafe should take a seat on one of the high stools.
“So, how do you know my dad?” Libby busied herself putting away the quart of milk, the loaf of bread and the other groceries she’d purchased.
He didn’t answer right away, and his apparent hesitancy made her pause. With a bag of apples still in her hand, she lifted her gaze to his.
Finally, he said, “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. David Corbett and I are not and have never been friends.”
Libby’s brows drew together, but she remained silent, waiting.
“Sixteen years ago,” he continued, “your father hired me at Springer. I’m—”
The rest of his thought was cut short and he pressed his lips together. He took a moment to inhale, and Libby’s gaze unwittingly darted due south as his chest expanded. She blinked, and immediately directed her eyes to his.
“Let’s just say I’m grateful to him.”
He went quiet. Once she realized he didn’t mean to say more, she pulled open the refrigerator, placed the apples in the bin, then shut the door, pausing there with her hand on the stainless steel handle.
“You went to the trouble to search me out,” she said, “and offer my dad your help during this crisis, all because he gave you a job sixteen years ago?” She raised her brows. “Must have been one hell of a job.”
Moving across the room, she reached for the coffeepot and began filling it with water.
The sigh Rafe emitted sounded resigned. “He made me a security guard. Gave me a fair wage. A job with health benefits. Saw to it that I received thorough training. And I was able to use that training for more lucrative employment after I left Springer.”
As he talked, she placed a paper filter into the basket of the coffeemaker and spooned in the ground beans. Something about Rafe James’s motives just didn’t ring true. His manner was…reserved. Cautious. And had been since he’d first appeared out on the front yard. She poured the water into the reservoir and snapped on the machine.
Libby had been hurt by one secretive man in her past. She wasn’t about to fall prey to another—in any aspect of her life.
Whirling around to face him, she blurted, “So let me get this straight. You went to the trouble to search me out, and you want to help my dad, all because he gave you a job and properly trained you for that job.” She shrugged. “Seems to me my dad was only fulfilling his responsibilities.”
Her short, sharp laugh didn’t hold much humor, but conveyed instead a huge measure of skepticism. “My father has worked for Springer for nearly thirty years. I’m sure he’s hired lots of people. My front door is going to fall off its hinges if every single one of those grateful people come racing to help.”
A thunderous storm gathered in his mahogany eyes. She hadn’t meant to make him angry, but she felt it necessary to be blunt about his flimsy reasoning. Almost of their own volition, her arms crossed tightly over her body.
He stood, and the sheer size of him coupled with his surly expression was a daunting sight, to say the least. A person with any sense at all would feel afraid. However, she didn’t, and that wasn’t because her brain cells had suddenly gone dim, but because, although muscles bunched in his shoulders and ire sparked in his dark eyes, she knew in her heart she was perfectly safe with this man.
“Look, Ms. Corbett, you’re right when you said your father has hired lots of people over the years. And many of them are just like me.”
The emphasis he placed on those last three words made her frown.
Just like him? He was Native American. Most probably from the Mokee-kittuun tribe living on the Crooked Arrow Reservation just outside of town. But what did his ethnic group have to do with this? Although the question disturbed her, the confusion she felt kept her silent.
“For years,” he continued, “the people from the rez weren’t given a second glance when they applied for work at Springer. Your father did everything he could to change that. And as he moved up the corporate ladder, he continued in his efforts. Continued to treat us with fairness and respect.”
Tasuta katkend on lõppenud.
