Conspiracy Game (GhostWalkers, #4)(85)

“Rebellion!” Ken grinned at her. “I knew it was coming. You can’t mess with a woman’s coffee, Jack. See, hon, if you marry me and cook three meals a day with a snack or two thrown in daily, I’ll let you have all the coffee you want.”

“How good of you to let me.” Briony kicked his shin under the table. “You just pretend to be the sweet, easygoing brother. I’m not marrying you so you have a cook.”

“That’s not right,” Ken complained, rubbing his shin and trying to look pathetic. “I’m still growing, and all I get around here is lists for work.” He held up a small notebook and scowled at his brother. “No fuel to keep me going.”

“She’s not cooking your meals, Ken, so stop whining.” Jack glanced over at Briony. “I told you he whined.”

“Wheedle,” Ken corrected. “I wheedle. It sounds so much better than whining.”

Laughing, Briony shook her head. “You two are so crazy. So is it okay for me to walk through the yard now?”

“We just have alarms set,” Ken said, “small strobes that will go off to alert us if anyone has breached the parameters. It’s safe enough.”

Jack looked up alertly. “Are you planning on going for a walk today?”

She nodded. “If I have the time. I want to do a little cleaning and put together something for dinner.”

He shook his head. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Idiot,” Ken hissed, wadding up a napkin and throwing it at his brother. “Are you insane? Don’t listen to him, Briony. You want to cook, get on with it, I say.”

“I like to cook, Jack. It’s always been something I’ve been interested in doing. I didn’t have a chance to do a lot of it, but now I’ve got several months to play.”

“I bought you some sketchpads the other day,” Jack said. “I left them in the great room on the coffee table along with a few other drawing supplies.”

“You did?” Briony’s eyes lit up. “Thank you for remembering.”

“He’s been looking all morning at a furniture book,” Ken confided. “Thinks he can make a better cradle than you can find anywhere else, and he probably can too. Believe it or not, my brother’s gifted that way.” There was a singular note of pride in Ken’s voice.

Jack flicked a repressing glance at him and then caught the expression on Briony’s transparent face. She looked at him almost as if the sun rose and set with him. Her expression turned his insides out and made him uncomfortable. She was getting the wrong idea about him. Part of him loved it and part of him—the sane part—hated it. And damn him to hell, there were the beginnings of love in her eyes. Between Ken and Briony he felt like a fraud. They were killing him with their belief in him.

He rose abruptly, nearly knocking the chair over, shoved it out of his way, and caught her chin in his hand. He hadn’t intended to touch her, or even acknowledge her, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Stay close to the house,” he warned gruffly and bent to brush her mouth with his.

Heat flared instantly, the moment his lips feathered against the soft curve of hers. His hand slipped to the nape of her neck, tilting her head for a better angle, so his tongue could delve deep, teasing, stroking, exploring her incredible mouth. He pulled away abruptly—self-preservation required it—and pressed his brow to hers, breathing deep. “You remember one thing. You decide you want to get married, it’s going to be to me.”

Briony watched him stalk outside, slamming the kitchen door behind him. Both eyebrows raised, she turned to Ken.

“Close your mouth, honey. That’s Jack trying to be romantic and failing miserably. Don’t let him get away with that shit either. If he’s going to ask you, make him do it all the way. You know—down on one knee, looking stupid.”

Briony nearly choked. “That’s just mean, Ken.”

He leaned close to her. “If you do it, Briony, tell me first so I can videotape it. I could blackmail him for the rest of his life.”

“He would never get on his knees for anyone,” she pointed out, gathering dishes and taking them to the sink. “It would never happen.”

“You could just be wrong, Miss Jenkins.” Ken pushed back his chair and caught up his hat. “I think, for you, he’d do just about anything.”

Briony watched him saunter out the back door and walk along the path toward the shop, taking the same direction Jack had. She took a deep breath and turned around, surveying the large kitchen with its wood floor and large beams. It was beautiful to her—the wide open spaces. It looked—and felt—like a home to her.

She glanced back to the window, her gaze searching for Jack. “Why do I feel so strongly about you? Why do I feel like I know you better than you know yourself?”

She set the dishes in the sink and wandered through the house, exploring the various rooms. It was obvious to her that the two men had planned each section of the house carefully. Ken’s style was distinctly different from Jack’s—yet there were touches here and there that reminded her of his twin. He liked Western motifs and music, yet he had a gun cabinet beside his bed and another in his office—just as Jack did. Jack had shelves of books everywhere.

Briony retrieved the pregnancy book and carried it into his office. She stood in the doorway frowning. The office was finished, walls in place, a beautiful one-of-a-kind desk that she suspected Jack had built, piles of papers, and a box containing a brand-new computer. Beside the box was another carton containing paper, but it was open and there was a column as long as or longer than her arm of paper spread across the desk and onto the floor. She went closer to examine the handwritten notes.