Provoked (Forbidden Crush #2)

Chapter 4

4

A part of me knows that Ingrid is attempting to rile me up by flirting with a ranch hand. She’s so innocent and na?ve she’s overacting. A more subtle show might deceive me long enough to rile my temper. But that’s not what has my blood boiling to the point that my collar feels tight around my throat.

Ingrid stops at the base of the shallow steps. Her pale blond eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks as she takes in a deep breath. Then her coffee-brown eyes meet mine with a newly minted glint of determination.

“Justin,” she enunciates carefully. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I arch one eyebrow in disbelief. “Since when do you swear, Ingrid? And who was that guy?”

She huffs out a laugh of disbelief. “Seriously? That’s all you’ve got to say?” She pushes past me to unlock the door with a shiny brass key she retrieved quickly from under the cushion on the glider. She pauses with one foot inside, her slim shoulders relaxing like she’s glad to be so close to shutting me out again. “That was Danvers. He’ll be back in a few days to take me shopping.”

Staying patiently where I am, I wait for her to realize I’m not going to be leaving this porch anytime soon. The moving truck is due in a few more hours, and I’m determined to be here for the entire unloading. I’ll grab a hotel room in town when they’ve fully vacated the premises, and I know Ingrid won’t be harassed. “That doesn’t tell me anything,” I grouse.

Ingrid turns slightly to stare at me over her shoulder. “Again, why are you here?”

Since most of the anger has leached from her voice, this time I answer her. “I’m here to make sure nobody tries to take advantage of you. A young woman on her own…” I hesitate to find a way to complete that sentence that won’t set Ingrid off again.

“For how long?”

I stare at her blankly, wondering if I missed something while I was contemplating my words.

“How long are you going to hover?” she bites out, her naturally pale skin flush with emotion.

“When the movers are done and gone, I’ll leave you to get settled in.”

“That’s it? You’ll leave Montana?”

Didn’t I just say that? I jerk my chin in assent, wondering for the thousandth time what I did specifically to turn her against me. And why she looks both eager and disappointed right now.

“When are they coming?”

I check my phone for any updates, but there’s been nothing since this morning. “Should be any time now. If you’d give me your phone number, you’d know that.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes like the kid she basically is. “Uh-huh. No thanks. ”

She disappears inside and I resume my seat on the top step. At least I know she’s here and safe. Aside from the cowboy Romeo, that is. I frown, adding a note to my phone to check up on him when I’m back in New York with access to my investigators. I could call one now, but then Ingrid would hear and there’d be more hell to pay.

A cold bottle of water appears over my right shoulder. “Here. You shouldn’t get dehydrated,” Ingrid says with a long sigh.

“Thanks.” I think that may be the first thing Ingrid has voluntarily given me since she declared me public enemy number one to her independence. I can feel her hesitating behind me. Like a wild animal, she’s unsure what to do with my back turned to her. I sigh and snap open the bottle cap. “Something the matter, Ingrid?”

Her slight weight shifts on the floorboards. “You haven’t yelled yet. What are you waiting for?”

At that, I twist to stare at her. She’s biting her lip, her eyes worried. “As you’ve pointed out many times, you’re an adult. One who isn’t interested in my opinions regarding her safety. Is there something you want to confess, little Ingrid? Do you want the absolution of my yelling at you?”

She gapes at me in shock, then licks her lips. Her arms reach up to clasp her elbows, pushing her perfect breasts higher and out. She’s too young and na?ve to be flaunting her body like that. Someone will get the wrong message and back her into a corner she can’t escape from. I growl instinctively, even though I realize how unreasonable I’m being — even in my own head. Ingrid flushes scarlet and swiftly retreats.

Leaving Justin to act like a possessive gargoyle on the porch, I stomp up the stairs with the first of my suitcases silently fuming. Why can’t he ever see me as a grownup? Not once in the last three years since I graduated from college have I had to ask him for help — or money from my inheritance. Technically, I’m allowed to withdraw a generous yearly allowance until I take possession of the capital. But as my trustee, Justin controls the rules for receiving said allowance, and one of them is I have to live in New York. With him. Not happening.

It wouldn’t be so bad if he were just an ass. I still wouldn’t want to live with him, but it wouldn’t set my temper on fire. But he’s a genuinely good guy if you dig down under about twenty layers of ornery and another ten of built-up big city veneer. I’ve given up hope of ever seeing any more of the sweet guy drowning under all of that. He’s made it more than clear he doesn’t want that guy to even exist, let alone be seen.

I stare down from the window in the upstairs hallway that overlooks the front. From here, I can just make out the tips of his shoes. He didn’t follow me inside. I don’t know why that bothers me. If he had, I’d have told him to get out. Firmly. Is that why he didn’t?

Frowning, I head down the stairs to grab another suitcase. This one is heavy and while I can just about manage carrying it over a curb or something equally low, I hadn’t thought through how I was going to maneuver it upstairs. I’m doing that now. It’s not going well.

When the wheels catch and slide backward on the step above, the lower end bangs into my shin. The shout of pain and fear of being sent backwards down the stairs escapes before I can hold it back.

In an instant, Justin is behind me, wrapping one firm arm around my waist and restraining the aggressive suitcase with the other.

I close my eyes in pain — and possibly to avoid the I told you so that I’m sure is telegraphing sharply from Justin’s eyes. Swiftly and before I can protest, he lifts me up and over his shoulder and carries both of us, me and the suitcase, up the stairs. He drops the luggage on the landing, readjusts my body, and carries me into the bathroom at the end of the hall.

Opening my eyes to assess the situation when he sets me down, I see his dark head bent over my leg. I’m seated on the vanity, feeling breathless from the way his warm hands are palpating my shin.

Justin finally raises his head. His dark green eyes are filled with worry, his gorgeous lips twisted into a frown. “You’re going to have a knot there for a week or so…”

I nod, too bemused to speak. “You need to keep an eye on it and see a doctor if it changes. Do you have a car here?”

I shake my head no. “I’m going to go car shopping on Saturday.”

Justin’s frown deepens, and I mentally mouth his next words as he speaks them. “I’m not leaving you alone without a vehicle like this, Ingrid.” Now if I were writing this script, he would have said darling and sealed his emphatic declaration with a passionate kiss. But… maybe that’s why I’m a jewelry designer instead of a romance novelist. I still like my version better, though.

Instead, I sigh and nod, suddenly tired from the trials of the day. I haven’t told Justin that I saw him on the plane yet. There doesn’t seem to be any point in poking that bear.

“Come on, I think you should stay off your feet for a bit. Which room is your bedroom?”

“The one to the right.” I point out the open door of the bathroom to the room adjacent. All three of the bedrooms (remade from the original six) are large, but that room faces east, and I thought it would be lovely to wake up to the sunrise. If I change my mind, I can easily move to one of the others. The furniture is included in the rent and it’s all charming cottage stuff.

Justin slides one arm beneath my knees and picks me up, this time cradling me against his chest. Without another word he carries me the twenty feet into the next room and sets me down gently but without ceremony on the edge of the bed. Then he goes back to the hallway and retrieves the suitcase which he sets down adjacent to the one I managed successfully.

Five minutes later and all my luggage is upstairs. Justin has gone out to his car and retrieved his overnight case, which he carries into the room across the hall. The movers are still coming, right? I need to tell them where to put everything, although honestly I have no idea what’s on the truck. I’ve felt rudderless in terms of a home ever since my parents died. And even then, something was missing. When I went to live with Justin, I knew it was only temporary, so I treated that awful fluffy room like a guestroom. Justin himself gradually became an anchor, but not his cold, silent apartment.

“Do you even have any food here?” he asks brusquely, startling me from my daydreams.

“I don’t know. I think someone said something about putting some basics in the refrigerator, but I don’t know what that means or if it happened.”

Justin narrows his eyes in disdain. “Ingrid. Were you planning to just not eat until someone came by?”

I shake my head mutely, then point to the suitcases in the corner. “I have snacks.”

His cheeks go red and I can tell he’s holding in the yelling. I hunch my shoulders forward, wondering if there is really anyone on the planet that can live up to all of his expectations.

Justin lets out his frustration with a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll be back in a minute.” With that, he turns and heads downstairs.

A few minutes later, I sigh with relief when I open the fridge door. There are sandwich fixings, some milk and bread, and a couple of casseroles that look like ones my grandmother made up on Saturday to take to anyone in town willing to accept them on Sunday. She never missed an opportunity to involve more people in her day, something that made her warm and beloved by many and left me always feeling like I was in the margins, even in my own extended family.

More important than the food right now, there is ice in the freezer trays. I shake out half a dozen cubes into a sandwich bag, seal it and wrap it in a thin kitchen towel as I make my way back to Ingrid. I’m more worried than I let on about her leg. At a minimum, it’s going to leave her with a nasty bruise. The wheel of the suitcase scraped a wide gouge from her smooth skin. I didn’t see any blood, but I’ll feel better if someone can keep an eye on her and make sure there are no dangerous blood clots forming.

Setting the icepack on her shin, my lips twitch when her eyes narrow in aggravation at the shock of cold. “Thanks. I think…” she mutters as I sit down on the bed so she won’t strain her neck.

Once I’m sure she’s not avoiding the ice on her injury, I study her face. She looks like one of those demure but sensual angels from a Renaissance painting, somehow out of place in even these vintage surroundings. She should be seated in a frame of velvets and tapestries. As if reading my mind, Ingrid narrows her eyes at me. I sigh and address the dinner issue. “Do you want a sandwich now or wait for a casserole to warm?”

Her eyes brighten. “There’s casserole? What kind? ”

I shrug. “Not a clue. There are two of them, though, with heating instructions. I assume that’s what you want?”

She nods enthusiastically, so I stand to head back to the kitchen. “Could you bring me my phone?” Ingrid asks softly. I nod without turning around. It must be downstairs with her purse.

Back in the narrow entry, I hesitate before opening her bag. It’s not a monstrosity like I’ve seen most women carry, but it’s big enough to hold trouble. Her phone is sitting neatly to one side, so I slide it out, leaving the bag where it is on the credenza. Heading back upstairs, I realize I’ve gotten as much cardio in as twenty minutes in the gym. Ingrid gives me an odd look at my self-satisfied smirk as I hand her the phone.

In the kitchen, the old stove with manual dials transports me back to my youth again. There were good times. Family picnics down by the river, playing softball (badly) with my brothers when they were short a friend and asked me to play. It’s just that all those times were always so crowded. So full of people. Unless I was home sick, I can’t remember a single event where I was alone with either of my parents. And even if I’d been allowed, there wasn’t space at the table to hold a book while I ate. My parents had strict rules about meals. No books, no swearing, no name calling — like that ever stopped my older brother Steve. Still, they loved me in their own way — and I can’t say that about anyone in my current life.

Setting the oven to preheat, I remember that I haven’t checked my own phone recently and those movers are expected any minute.

As if summoned by my thoughts, I hear the telltale growl of a diesel engine making its way down the drive.

When the two men emerge from the truck, I know I made the right decision to come here. Ingrid is far too innocent to stand up to these guys if one of them was set on taking advantage of her .

The taller of the two slides open the back of the truck and attaches the ramp. The other turns to me. “Thought we were delivering to a lady named Ingrid Winters. She here?”

Well, at least they’re being professional with that part. My ire subsides ever so slightly as I nod. “She hurt her leg and is resting upstairs. How much of this is boxes versus furniture?”

The man in the truck looks back into the cavern before pursing his lips. “No furniture. It’s all boxes.”

That seems strange. They lived in a mansion. There must have been some nicer pieces, or family heirlooms worth keeping. Not the movers’ problem, though. I shrug and direct them inside. “Stack them in the living room, then. I’ll get out of your way.”

And with that, they kick into production. Boxes are already starting to line the walls by the time I slide the casserole into the oven. Which makes me grimace because when did I give up manual labor? But we all know it would take ten times longer if I offered to ‘help’ and I’d be the butt of mover jokes for years down the road as well. Still, it feels like I should pull out my wallet and check if my man card is still valid.

The softer thump on the stairs is barely perceptible between the thud of boxes being stacked in the living room. I peer around the corner of the kitchen to see Ingrid limping down the stairs, a grimace of pain on her pretty face when she has to place weight on her injured leg.

“Ingrid,” I growl in warning. “What the hell are you doing?”

She visibly winces. “No shouting, Justin. This is my house, not yours, and I thought I made it clear that yelling at me is neither effective nor appreciated.” The tilt of her elegant nose reminds me once again of the difference in our pedigrees. Ingrid doesn’t think of herself as aristocratic, but that doesn’t make it less true.

I sigh and bang my head against the doorjamb. “Then don’t do stupid shit that could cause more damage. ”

The bright spots of pink high on her cheekbones tell me she’s more than ready to fire back at me, but she purses her lips instead. “Why are you down here, anyway?” I finally ask more calmly.

“Somebody didn’t check with me to see where I wanted everything put.”

I shrug. “It’s all boxes. I can move anything you want upstairs, but won’t it be easier to unpack down here? Fewer trips if it belongs down here, anyway.”

She’s still standing there with her bad leg raised, staring at me. I can’t stand it anymore, so I scoop her up, ignoring her muffled protests and settle her on one of the barstools at the kitchen island. She needs to elevate that leg, but this will keep her from falling over, at least.

“Do you know what’s in them?” she asks quietly, almost with a hint of trepidation. It calms my rising temper.

“No, Ingrid. The housekeeper did the packing and I’ve no idea what she selected. I take it you don’t either?”

She shakes her head mutely and I sigh. “Well, another day or two isn’t going to spoil anything that didn’t survive all those years in storage.”

Ingrid casts a thoughtful glance over her shoulder towards the living room. “I guess?”

She doesn’t sound so sure.