Calculated Risk Read Online Free Page A

look
gorgeous!”
    A weak smile etched Stevie’s
lips. She watched Bobby turn five shades of red, his expression
much like the basset hound her uncle owned. The kid really has it bad. Now, why couldn’t I inspire this
type of response from a male who uses a razor more than once a
month!
    Mascaraed lashes shielded
her glance at Quintin. The intensity of his feelings was all too
visible on his face. If looks could
kill. Stevie shook off a chill that had
little to do with the winter temperature.
    The melodic door chimes heralded more
arrivals. “Aren’t those wild?” Bobby grinned. “A friend of Dad’s
had those made to celebrate the renovation of Cedar
Hill.”
    “Cedar Hill?”
    “We’re not quite Belle Meade,” he said,
laughing. “Let me give you the grand tour.” Turning his back on his
father, Bobby hesitated for a moment before letting shaky fingers
slide along Stevie’s bare arm to grip her elbow.
    Stevie gave a backward glance in
Quintin’s direction, took note of his scowling expression, and
decided she was damned either way. “Belle Meade once presided over
five thousand acres. How does Cedar Hill compare?” came her
pleasant inquiry while Bobby led her across the mammoth entrance
foyer with its black and white marble floor and open twisted
staircase.
    “Back in 1850, this manor house was
queen to about a thousand meadowland acres. Five years ago, Dad
saved the place from a wrecking ball,” Bobby explained. “Vandals
and vagrants had set small fires; windows were glassless holes; the
roof had more birds’ nests than shingles. Dad liked the ten acres
of land; we both hated living in an apartment, so…”
    “The rest, as they say, is history,”
Stevie supplied, viewing with approval the ornate powder room, with
its double marble sink and French toile wallpaper. “Who did all the
decorating?”
    “Dad and I. We’ve been researching the
books at the historical society, hunting through antique stores,
looking for odds and ends, period pieces, good reproductions.”
Bobby pushed open the study door. “There’s quite a bit of history
in some of our furniture.”
    There was no doubt in Stevie’s mind
that the den was Quintin Ward’s private domain: the room looked
like him. Massive, bold, solid. From the leather-topped desk to the
oversized furnishings to the beautiful collection of books, their
tooled bindings displayed to best advantage in the floor-to-ceiling
bookcases.
    Carved doors led from the study to the
formal parlor with its arched windows defined by Doric columns.
Walls were a mellow gold accented with cream-painted woodwork;
chandelier wall sconces highlighted the polished wood floor,
Oriental carpets, and a comfortable mix of Georgian tables and
chairs combined with contemporary sofas and lamps.
    “You’ve really done a remarkable job.”
Stevie meant the compliment. She followed Bobby into the large
gathering room that was obviously the center of family activity.
From the ornate fireplace, blue-gold-tipped flames crackled and
hissed a greeting, inviting the growing number of guests to warm
themselves. “Do you play?” Stevie nodded toward the baby grand
piano in the opposite corner.
    “Dad and I are taking lessons,” Bobby
grumbled the reply. “I like to listen to music – not do those
endless scales.”
    Stevie favored him with a maternal
smile. “I think you’ll appreciate music more when you learn how
it’s made. The most joyous sounds come from the emotions –“ her
hand patted his breast pocket “—and from the heart.”
    “Do…do you play?” His eyes were rived
on the feminine hand that touched him.
    “Yes. Piano, drums and guitar.” A low
chuckle escaped her. “My first crib was a blanket-lined bass case,”
Stevie informed Bobby. “My mother was a gospel singer and my father
a jazz trumpet player. We were quite the gypsies, going from one
gig to another. I’ve always been surrounded by music. I don’t know
anything else.”
    “Your life is