The brothers claimed they’d heard about her through a doctor friend—a woman who’d said she had the touch of a healer with babies. That was an exaggeration, of course. Phoebe couldn’t heal anyone.
Certainly not anyone as damaged and traumatized as this Fergus sounded.
She’d lowered her defenses when it became obvious the guys weren’t looking for sex, surrogate sex, or any of the other ridiculous things guys assumed masseuses really were. But now she felt unsure again.
Their brother had been through something terrible. He likely had post-traumatic stress syndrome or whatever that was called. It was sad and it was awful—but she had no knowledge or skills to help someone in that kind of situation.
When it came down to it, she’d only agreed to come because she was a complete dolt. The brothers had been so darling that she just couldn’t find a way to say no.
She suddenly realized that the slip of paper with the address was no longer on the seat, but had been stolen. “Damn it, Mop! Give it!”
Mop coughed up the damp, chewed piece of paper. Thankfully the number on the address was still legible. At the next right, she turned on Magnolia, left three blocks later on Willow, then followed the hillside climb. In theory she knew where the rich lived. She just never had an excuse to dawdle in their neighborhood.
A handful of mansions perched on the cliff, overlooking the river below where their grandfathers had once scooped up fortunes in gold. The homes were hidden behind high fences and wrought-iron gates.
Still, the hardwoods were stripped bare at this time of year, so Phoebe could catch fleeting glimpses of the gorgeous homes. Most were built of the local stone and marble, with big, wraparound verandas and lush landscaping.
The Lockwood house was tucked in the curve of a secluded cul-de-sac. Feeling like a trespasser, she drove past the gates, past the two-story house and five-car garage—as instructed—and pulled up to a smaller home beyond. The brothers had called it the bachelor house, which was apparently a historical term—a place where the young unmarried men hung out before they were married, where they could sow wild oats away from their mother’s judgmental eyes. The concept sounded distinctly decadent and Southern to Phoebe, but the point was that Fergus had been living there since he got out of the hospital, according to his brothers.
Close up, the main house didn’t look so ritzy as it did sturdy and lived in, with cheerful lights beaming from all the windows downstairs. By contrast, only a single light shone from the bachelor house, making the place look dark and gloomy and ghostly.
Sheliked ghost stories, she reminded herself, besides which it was too late to chicken out now. Before she could open the door and climb out, the back porch light popped on, so the brothers must have been watching for her. Mop and Duster bounded off her lap and galloped for the shadows, promptly peed and then zoomed straight for the guys in the doorway. Phoebe followed more slowly. The same Lockwood Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
brothers who’d charmed the devil out of her were already giving the girls a thorough petting, but they stood up and turned serious the instant she approached.
“I’ll pay you up-front,” Harry said quietly.
“Oh, shut up,” she said crossly. “I told you that five hundred dollars was ridiculous. I don’t do bribes.”
She added firmly, “I don’t do miracles, either.”
“That’s not what we heard.”
“Well, you heard wrong. This is so out of my league. Your brother’s going to think you’re nuts for bringing in a masseuse. And I do, too.”
Neither brother argued with her—they’d already been over all that ground—Ben just motioned her in.
The dogs frisked ahead.
It wasn’t her kind of decor, yet right off the place drew her. The kitchen was cluttered with plates and containers of food—none of which looked touched—but beyond the debris were lead-paned glass cupboards and a slate sink and a clay-tiled floor. She had to identify things by gleams of reflected light, since apparently no one believed in turning on lights around here.
Beyond the kitchen were doors leading to a utility room and bathroom and eventually a bedroom or two, she guessed. But off to the right was the living room. She caught a glimpse of stuccoed walls and an arched fieldstone fireplace before she heard a gruff,“What the hell?”
So. Not hard to guess that the dogs were already introducing themselves to Fergus.
She trailed after them, finally locating the one light source—a single reading lamp outfitted with a nominal fifteen-watt bulb. Still, even in the gloom, she easily identified the living room as a testosterone den. No froufrou had ever crossed this threshold. From the dark wood to the shutters to the hardwood floors, it was a guy’s place all the way. The couch and chairs were upholstered in a deep claret red, the coffee table chosen to tolerate boots and glass marks. The room smelled of dust and last night’s whiskey and silence.
She heard the brothers talking in the kitchen, guessed they wouldn’t lag behind more than a few moments. In those spare seconds, though, the lonely stillness of the room tugged at her…and yeah, so did the body on the couch.
At first look, if her hormones had perked to attention, she just might have turned tail and run. That was the threat, of course. That she’d care about a man who would hurt her again—who’d form preconceptions about her and her profession, who’d judge her
