quizzical.
“Hey,” she said. “We’re good?”
“Yeah,” he managed. “We’re good.”
Chapter Five
Chloe climbed into Ian’s Lincoln Navigator, settled in the deep leather seat, and surveyed the cavernous cockpit. She pursed her lips in disapproval. Exactly what she pictured Ian Dowling driving: a shamefully expensive, ridiculously large, gas-guzzling, exhaust-spewing, road-hogging vehicle.
“Big car,” she murmured.
“Safe,” he clipped back, his tone making it clear he hadn’t missed her censure. She gave a mental shrug. Subtlety had never been one of her strengths.
As soon as Preston was buckled into the backseat—looking absurdly small sitting in the middle of the massive bench—they got underway.
Determined to put them on better footing, she shot Ian a friendly glance. “Have you ever been to the Hudson Valley?” she asked.
“No.”
“You’re in for a treat then. It’s beautiful this time of year.”
No response at all to that.
Oh, well. So much for conversation. Abandoning further attempts at polite discourse, Chloe limited her comments to guiding him down darkened rural roads toward the small town of Benton, taking advantage of the ensuing silence to surreptitiously study him.
He was good-looking, but definitely not her type. Too aggressively rugged for her taste. She’d always been drawn to lean, educated, worldly types. Men who resembled her father… and Jeff. The realization gave her an unpleasant start. Maybe, she thought, she needed a new type.
But definitely not Dowling, despite the thousand dollar suit he wore. What, she wondered, did the man do for a living? Someone else she might have asked directly. It was an innocuous enough question, after all. But something about his cool self-possession didn’t invite confidences or personal questions.
So she attempted to puzzle him out on her own. He had money, that much was clear. Money he earned through his own efforts; she highly doubted his funds came from a family trust. Her initial assessment of Ian Dowling told her he did something physical. He radiated male force of will the way a heater radiated heat. He was tall, thickly muscular, and moved with the confident stride of someone fully at ease in his body. His profile presented a strong jaw, sharply sculpted cheekbones, and a nose that had been broken at least once. So a cop, maybe, or a professional athlete.
But neither occupation quite seemed to fit. It took Chloe a minute to puzzle out why. Then it struck her—everything about him, from the way he moved to the way he spoke, even the way he gripped the steering wheel—suggested that he was used to being in charge. This was a man who routinely, probably unthinkingly, sized up situations, gave orders, and took control. Not someone who answered to a boss. She’d noted his commanding presence from the moment she’d first laid eyes on him, and again later when he’d tossed that check on Sara’s desk, determined to get his way.
She’d resented the hell out of him for it. And yet… there was another side to Dowling she couldn’t help but be intrigued by. Once, years ago, a group of friends had dragged her along to a boxing exhibition at Madison Square Garden. She’d hated the event, hated the spectacle of two men beating each other senseless and calling it sport. But there had been one moment that had caught her attention and held her in thrall. One fighter was clearly outranked by his opponent, losing badly. He was on his knees, beaten and bloodied. He should have given up. Thrown in the towel—literally. But he didn’t.
Ian Dowling didn’t strike her as the kind of man who would quit fighting, either. Even—maybe especially—when he was losing.
“This is it?” he asked, as they road they were on hooked into Benton.
“Yup. This is it.”
Once a thriving mill town, it had happily settled into its current incarnation as a small, artsy community with traditional hometown flair. The
“Hey,” she said. “We’re good?”
“Yeah,” he managed. “We’re good.”
Chapter Five
Chloe climbed into Ian’s Lincoln Navigator, settled in the deep leather seat, and surveyed the cavernous cockpit. She pursed her lips in disapproval. Exactly what she pictured Ian Dowling driving: a shamefully expensive, ridiculously large, gas-guzzling, exhaust-spewing, road-hogging vehicle.
“Big car,” she murmured.
“Safe,” he clipped back, his tone making it clear he hadn’t missed her censure. She gave a mental shrug. Subtlety had never been one of her strengths.
As soon as Preston was buckled into the backseat—looking absurdly small sitting in the middle of the massive bench—they got underway.
Determined to put them on better footing, she shot Ian a friendly glance. “Have you ever been to the Hudson Valley?” she asked.
“No.”
“You’re in for a treat then. It’s beautiful this time of year.”
No response at all to that.
Oh, well. So much for conversation. Abandoning further attempts at polite discourse, Chloe limited her comments to guiding him down darkened rural roads toward the small town of Benton, taking advantage of the ensuing silence to surreptitiously study him.
He was good-looking, but definitely not her type. Too aggressively rugged for her taste. She’d always been drawn to lean, educated, worldly types. Men who resembled her father… and Jeff. The realization gave her an unpleasant start. Maybe, she thought, she needed a new type.
But definitely not Dowling, despite the thousand dollar suit he wore. What, she wondered, did the man do for a living? Someone else she might have asked directly. It was an innocuous enough question, after all. But something about his cool self-possession didn’t invite confidences or personal questions.
So she attempted to puzzle him out on her own. He had money, that much was clear. Money he earned through his own efforts; she highly doubted his funds came from a family trust. Her initial assessment of Ian Dowling told her he did something physical. He radiated male force of will the way a heater radiated heat. He was tall, thickly muscular, and moved with the confident stride of someone fully at ease in his body. His profile presented a strong jaw, sharply sculpted cheekbones, and a nose that had been broken at least once. So a cop, maybe, or a professional athlete.
But neither occupation quite seemed to fit. It took Chloe a minute to puzzle out why. Then it struck her—everything about him, from the way he moved to the way he spoke, even the way he gripped the steering wheel—suggested that he was used to being in charge. This was a man who routinely, probably unthinkingly, sized up situations, gave orders, and took control. Not someone who answered to a boss. She’d noted his commanding presence from the moment she’d first laid eyes on him, and again later when he’d tossed that check on Sara’s desk, determined to get his way.
She’d resented the hell out of him for it. And yet… there was another side to Dowling she couldn’t help but be intrigued by. Once, years ago, a group of friends had dragged her along to a boxing exhibition at Madison Square Garden. She’d hated the event, hated the spectacle of two men beating each other senseless and calling it sport. But there had been one moment that had caught her attention and held her in thrall. One fighter was clearly outranked by his opponent, losing badly. He was on his knees, beaten and bloodied. He should have given up. Thrown in the towel—literally. But he didn’t.
Ian Dowling didn’t strike her as the kind of man who would quit fighting, either. Even—maybe especially—when he was losing.
“This is it?” he asked, as they road they were on hooked into Benton.
“Yup. This is it.”
Once a thriving mill town, it had happily settled into its current incarnation as a small, artsy community with traditional hometown flair. The
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