Joan Pickart - Taming Tall, Dark Brandon

But being in Prescott for Christmas wasn’t what had her hopping mad. It was the emotion of inadequacy, of not being up for all she’d taken on and promised to do. Complete physical exhaustion. That was infuriating.

The pain in Andrea’s head increased, but she now knew the frequent headaches were caused by fatigue. They even had the official medical diagnosis of fatigue headaches.

She was only twenty-seven years old, for heaven’s sake, not one hundred and seven. She was five foot six, weighed one hundred and twenty-two pounds, and had thought she was in tip-top shape.

Ha! What a joke. She was falling apart. A total wreck. Talk about embarrassing. This whole situation was mortifying.

What was she supposed to do in dinky little Prescott for two weeks? Sit in a rocking chair with a blanket over her knees and knit? She didn’t know how to knit, and she certainly didn’t know how to spend lazy days doing absolutely nothing.

She hated this. She really, really hated this.

Andrea was pulled from her fuming thoughts by the sudden slowing of traffic and the realization that she was approaching Prescott.

Glancing quickly at the piece of paper she had taped to the center console, she shifted into the lefthand lane. She’d written precise instructions to herself after carefully studying a map she’d spread out on her kitchen table.

An image of her empty apartment flitted in her mental vision, but it evoked no nostalgia or homesickness.

It was a group of rooms where she ate, slept and spent very few leisurely hours, the majority of her life being centered on Challenge Advertising.

As her mind roamed from room to room in the high-rise apartment in Phoenix, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d rearranged the furniture or purchased something new, pretty and personal for the place she’d called home for the past five years.

Why was she suddenly thinking about her dull apartment? she wondered. She’d do well to pay attention to her surroundings, or she’d probably drive right past Hamilton House, the hotel where she’d made reservations for the next two, long weeks.

“Oh, great,” Andrea said aloud, frowning. “It’s starting to snow. Isn’t that just dandy?”

She hated cold weather. She hated snow. She hated Prescott, Arizona, and the reason that she was there.

Her doctor had suggested the small town, saying it was picture-perfect beautiful, with friendly people thrown in as an added bonus. Not having the time, nor the energy, to consider her options, she’d settled on Prescott without further thought.

“The crummy doctor might have mentioned that it snowed up here,” Andrea said, stopping at a red light. “Oh-hh, I’m really hating this.”

Brandon Hamilton stood behind the registration desk of Hamilton House, humming along with the carols that played softly in the large lobby of the hotel.

Excellent, he thought, looking down at a leatherbound registry. Once Ms. Andrea Cunningham arrived, Hamilton House would be booked solid through Christmas.

He couldn’t ask for better than that, especially since this was the first Christmas that he’d had the hotel up and running after the extensive renovations he’d put the charming old building through.

Brandon swept his gaze over the lobby, unable to curb the smile that formed on his lips.

Lookin’ good, he thought. The huge, decorated Christmas tree in the front window was spectacular, and the gleaming, baby grand in front of it sat ready to be played.

Three separate groupings of high-backed, Victorian-era easy chairs surrounded low, round tables. The carpeting was authentic, cabbage roses on a black background, worn in spots but holding its own, considering that it had been on the floor since the turn of the century.

It was all paying off, he thought with a nod of satisfaction. The months of stress, of sleepless, worryfilled nights, of spending nearly every penny he had, plus the funds from a hefty loan from the bank, to restore Hamilton House to the majestic hotel it had been, had definitely been worth it.

Now all he needed was for Andrea Cunningham to show up and take possession of her room to give him that final emotional rush of knowing that the hotel was filled to the brim with happy guests.

Brandon glanced at his watch.

Two fifty-two, he thought. Check-in time was three o’clock. Where are you, Ms. Cunningham? He glanced at the front door, anticipating the sight of her smiling, ready-for-the-holidays face. Any moment now she would enter the hotel, filled with Christmas cheer.

Andrea got out of her car in the designated parking lot across from the hotel. She read the sign mounted on a post and frowned.

According to the instructions, she was to leave her luggage in her vehicle, if she chose to do so, and a member of the staff of Hamilton House would deliver it safely to her room.

Not a chance, she thought, glaring up at the large flakes of falling snow for a second. She was not about to announce, for all to hear, the description of her flashy car. She was having enough trouble adjusting to the fact that she actually owned the silly thing, without telegraphing the news to the world.

A few minutes later Andrea began her trek out of the parking lot, tilting slightly to one side due to the weight of her heavy suitcase.

The wet snow was sticking to the ground, causing her to slip and slide on her two-inch heels. The snow was also soaking the dark blue business suit that she wore with a pale blue silk blouse.

She didn’t own a heavy coat, had no use for one in Phoenix. In her exhausted mental state, it just hadn’t occurred to her to investigate the possible difference in weather between the valley and this mountain town.

Prescott was only a hundred miles away, for heaven’s sake. That it was perched over five thousand feet up on a mountain was information she hadn’t known until she had been well under way to arrive here.

It wasn’t like her to be so disorganized, she thought, struggling to keep her footing as she crossed the street. But then, nothing about her life was in its proper order at the moment.

Andrea shuffled along the snowy sidewalk, shivering as she headed for the front door of the hotel, the suitcase feeling heavier with every treacherous step.

Her dark brown hair, which she kept in a blunt cut to just above her shoulders, was plastered to her head, creating icy-cold rivulets of water that dribbled inside her blouse collar and down her back.

She struggled with the stained-glass double doors to the hotel, pushed her slippery suitcase inside the building, then skidded in behind it, nearly toppling over the large piece of luggage.

She’d made it, she thought, and she could easily think of ten other places she’d rather be.

Brandon looked toward the front doors as the copper bell overhead tinkled that they had been opened. He did a double take as the incredible sight before him registered in his mind.

A woman, who was definitely teetering on her feet, was soaking wet and dotted with snowflakes. Her hair was streaming water, her suit appeared glued to her body, and she was not smiling with holiday cheer.

He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that this very wet and obviously freezing cold woman, who was becoming more furious with every passing second, was Ms. Andrea Cunningham.

“Oh, hell,” Brandon muttered.

He rushed from behind the registration desk and across the lobby, then came to an abrupt halt in front of the woman, frantically searching his mind for something brilliant to say.

“Ms. Cunningham?” he said, beaming. “I’m Brandon Hamilton. Welcome to Hamilton House.”

Before attempting to respond to the syrupy-sweet greeting, Andrea took a deep, much-needed breath, then another, then one more. As she exhaled for the third time, a strange buzzing noise hummed in her ears and black dots paraded in front of her eyes.

She looked up into the dark eyes of Brandon Hamilton, blinked, then without having managed to speak one word...she fainted.

“Oh, Lord,” Brandon said, his eyes widening.

As the woman he assumed was Andrea Cunningham began to crumple forward, Brandon’s arms shot out instinctively. He scooped her up before she reached the highly polished tile floor of the entryway.

Brandon stood perfectly still for a moment, staring at the soggy bundle now nestled in his arms.

If this really was Andrea Cunningham, he thought, she was lovely, absolutely beautiful, in a wholesome way. Her eyes, which were now closed, were big and dark, her features were delicate, and her lips were made for kissing.

She was as light as a feather, even with soakingwet clothes. She was fairly tall, maybe five-six, but she was exactly right for his six-foot frame.

How old was she? Maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. The only thing that marred her pretty face were purple smudges of fatigue, or illness, beneath her eyes. She was—

“Cripe, Hamilton,” he said aloud, snapping back to attention. “Don’t just stand here. Do something.”

He turned and saw the dining room hostess crossing the lobby.

“Jennifer,” he called. “I need help.”

The attractive woman hurried to where Brandon stood.

“My gosh, Brandon,” she said. “What happened? Who is that? What’s wrong with her?”

“I think she’s our guest, Andrea Cunningham,” he said. “Please get on the phone and call Ben Rizzoli. Tell him we need a doctor over here...quick. Then have Mickey take that suitcase behind the counter, and find someone to cover the front desk.”

“Got it,” Jennifer said, then hurried away.

Andrea stirred in Brandon’s arms as he strode across the lobby and into his office. He kicked the door closed behind him and settled his precious cargo on a soft, beige leather sofa that was placed against one wall.

“Hello?” he said, hunkering next to the sofa. “Ms. Cunningham? Andrea?”

My, my, Andrea thought foggily, what a marvelously masculine voice that was calling her name. She was in the middle of the nicest dream, featuring one of the most ruggedly good-looking men she’d ever seen. He was “tall, dark and handsome” personified. The kind of man who appeared only in dreams or on the movie screen, but never walked around loose in real life.

He was holding her in strong arms against his rockhard chest. He had broad shoulders, thick dark hair, and eyes so dark they appeared obsidian.

The timbre of his voice was perfect; deep, rich and nimbly. He’d said his name. Oh, what was it? Brandon. Yes, that was it. It suited him.

“Andrea?” Brandon said. “Can you hear me? Open your eyes. Please?”

Her name had never sounded so lovely, so feminine, Andrea thought. Brandon’s voice floated over her, caressing her like plush velvet.

Oh, my, yes, this was a fantastic dream. But like all dreams, it had to end. She had to get up, go to work. She had so much that was waiting for her attention at the office.

Besides, she was terribly cold, chilled to the bone, in fact. The blankets on her bed felt clammy, as though she’d forgotten to put them in the dryer after removing them from the washing machine.

She wouldn’t have made up her bed with wet linens, would she? No, of course not. Handsome man named Brandon or not, she’d had enough of this.

Andrea’s lashes fluttered, then she opened her eyes slowly, taking a steadying breath in the process. In the next instant she gasped as she found herself staring at obsidian-eyed Brandon, the man from her dream.

“What are you doing here?” she said, attempting to sit up. “Don’t you know the rules about dreams? I’m awake now, so get out of my bedroom.”