Now he realized it had been a place designed for road-weary families, with a swimming pool and a breakfast buffet.But as a child, it had been unimaginable that he could have enough food to get full and he could make his own waffles.
Afterward, his father had driven them the rest of the way to the Running Wind.Cade had a vague recollection of a Garth Brooks song playing on the truck’s stereo when he’d encountered his first-ever bump gate.
It had seemed to him that they’d traveled forever before the big house came into view.To his mind, it had been about the size of the hotel they’d stayed at the previous night.And when his father had said that he was supposed to live there with his mother, Cade had stared in wide-eyed disbelief.
Then he’d noticed the man at the top of the stairs.Imposingly tall, frightening in his far-reaching power.
His mother had looked out of the side window, refusing to speak, and Jeffrey had said the man was William Donovan—the man most people called the Colonel—Cade’s grandfather.Cade remembered standing there mute and paralyzed.He hadn’t known he’d had a dad, let alone a big, tall grandfather who wore a suit coat and massive black felt hat and never smiled.
For at least the first week Cade had been so overwhelmed that he’d sneaked into his mother’s bedroom and slept on the floor.
As time had progressed, and without his conscious awareness, the palatial space had become his home, part of him.It had been built to endure the harsh Texas weather, unbearable summer heat, relentless tropical storms, never-ending wind.
He appreciated the craftsmanship of the structure and the fact it had been designed with family in mind.“Even Miss Libby wears boots when she’s at the house.That’s the reality of ranch life.When it was built, my great-great-grandmother said that the big house had to withstand people living in it, employees dropping by, visitors showing up.There’s no carpet, and no fussy collectibles.More than one set of spurs have gouged the floors.And that’s the way it should be.”He hesitated.“So, other than me hanging out with socialites, whoring around and the fact I’m a snob, tell me about my type.”
“Mr.Donovan, I come from a hardworking family.Even now we live a moderate lifestyle.I was the first to go to college, and I couldn’t have done that if I hadn’t gotten a scholarship.”She exhaled.
“And I’m illegitimate.”
She blinked.“Meaning?”
“As in my mother was not married to my father.”
A smile teased the corner of her mouth.“Well, I can assure you that I’ve heard you called a bastard, and never once did it refer to your parentage.”
He raised an eyebrow in appreciation of her boldness.“Well said, Ms.McBride.So tell me again about how I’m not your type.”
After a quick exhalation, she said, “You have me there.”
“You said you had at least five reasons we shouldn’t dance together.We got rid of number one.What’s next?”
He knew he was making her a little uncomfortable, probably because she wanted to be in his arms as much as he wanted to have her there.
Her cheeks now held streaks of embarrassment.“I think what I’m trying to say—badly—is that I don’t sleep around.”
“And you’ve heard that I do?”
“Actually…” She scowled.“No.”
“I don’t date.Haven’t in the last few years.”
“You know, I think I’ve made some assumptions.”
“And?”
“Maybe I’ve underestimated you.”
Vaguely he was aware of other people around them.There was an air of intimacy, though, about the way he was standing near Sofia.People stayed away from them, and it was as if it were only the two of them outside.“Since you’re clearly at a loss for words, shall I tell you about my type?Then we can take it from there?”
“I’ve done a really bad job of this.”
“My type is a woman who is honest, who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to go after it.My type is someone who is comfortable with who she is, not trying to impress anyone.She’s tall.Or not.She’s curvy.Or not.Perhaps you meant to say I’m not your type.”
“That would be rude.”
“But true?”
“You know it’s not.”
