Текст книги "Daring Dylan "
Автор книги: Jacie Floyd
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
“Gosh, no, Marvin,” she said. “He loves country music. He meant he couldn’t stand to go another minute without hearing some more Garth. Thunder Rolls is his favorite, and you haven’t played that more than five or six times.”
Marvin unclamped his hand from Dylan’s shoulder, rolled his beer bottle between his palms and squinted suspiciously at Dylan. “That right, pal?”
This time Dylan had no doubt about whether it was relief or humiliation he felt toward Gracie. Humiliation definitely prevailed. Laced with strains of annoyance. Maybe even anger. Why did she keep interfering? Not once, not twice, but three times in one night. That was one thing he’d straighten her out about when they got home. He didn’t need anyone to keep him out of trouble, let alone the aggravating little Dr. Fix-It.
And looking at her in the dim light of the pub, all happy-faced and smiling, he realized she didn’t have a clue she’d done anything wrong. She’d been doing what Gracie liked to do best. Step in to fill a need, avoid trouble, and smooth things over for a friend.
And he was the friend. He liked the sound of that. Maybe what she’d done wasn’t so bad after all. But he’d still talk to her about it. Later. For now, he’d go along. Again.
“That’s right,” he agreed, glad he wasn’t under oath. “Love that Garth.”
“Hell, Gracie.” Marvin beamed at her with a gold tooth gleaming in the front of his mouth. “You should have said somethin’. Stick around. Thunder Rolls is comin’ up next.” He tipped his beer bottle back and drained it, belching loudly before swaggering away to rejoin his friends at the pool table.
With the show over, everyone else heaved sighs of relief or disappointment and returned to his or her own business.
“I’m going to stop in the restroom,” Gracie said, “but I’ve got the truck, so you guys don’t have to wait.”
“I’ll go with you.” Tanya headed for the ladies’ room.
“I’ll wait,” Dylan and Clayton said in unison.
Arms crossed, they glowered at one another. They tapped their toes to the song Dylan presumed was his new favorite and glowered some more.
“You can leave any time,” Dylan said. “I’ll follow Gracie to make sure she gets home safely.”
“That’s okay.” Clayton enunciated each word with exaggerated precision. “I b’lieve in seeing my date home.”
“You’re on a date? And a threesome, at that. Is it common here to let your dates entertain another man while you sit at the bar and drink?”
“Tanya’s not with us. I mean I’m not with Tanya.” The idea seemed to alarm him. “Gracie just invited her along becaush—because she felt sorry for her. The same reason she invited you to join them.”
“Okay.” How many beers Clayton had put away?
“I wouldn’t go getting any ideas about Gracie if I were you.” A hiccup punctuated the advice. “You can’t expect her to like someone who spent the night hiding behind her skirt.”
“Haven’t you been doing that your whole life?” Dylan asked with a smirk.
Chapter Thirteen
The punch came out of nowhere and slammed into Dylan’s nose with a sickening crunch. Seeing stars at the same time blood spurted everywhere, he returned the blow with a stirring sense of exhilaration. Finally, someone had obliged him with a fight. One he didn’t have to start, and one that Gracie wasn’t around to stop. Clayton stepped in close, pounding precision blows into Dylan’s ribs. Clayton grunted when Dylan pummeled him in return.
By the time they broke apart, Dylan’s vision had cleared. Clayton groaned, held his right hand gingerly and covered his eye with his left. Dylan slumped against the table searching for something to staunch the blood flowing from his nose.
A weight with the force of an anvil landed in the middle of his back. He crashed into the table, flipping it over. Dishes flew in every direction, and Gracie shrieked in the background. Before he got to his feet, she had launched herself onto the back of his assailant, the biker named Marvin.
“Cut it out, Marvin. Don’t hurt your hands!”
Dylan wrapped his arms around her waist to haul her out of harm’s way. Clayton reached for her at the same time.
“Leave her alone.” Clayton tried to push Dylan away.
“You leave her alone.” Dylan returned the shove.
Clayton responded with a swing. Dylan ducked. The fist landed in Marvin’s side instead, and he folded in half with an ooph! All hell broke loose as the other bikers and some roughnecks from the bar joined in.
Punches landed indiscriminately before Guidry pulled Marvin off Clayton, breaking Clayton’s grip on Brinker, Brinker’s arm lock on Dylan, and Dylan’s chokehold on one of the bikers. Guidry thumped heads together like melons, and the brawlers lost interest fast.
“Get out, all of you.” He steered Dylan and Clayton to the door with a firm hand on Dylan’s elbow and a steadying arm around Clay’s shoulders. The bikers and others who had jumped into the fray stumbled out the door and scattered, hooting and hollering as they went.
“Sorry ‘bout that, Guidry,” a biker said.
“Didn’t know you packed such a wallop, Clay,” one of the fishermen called out.
“Helluva good fight,” Marvin muttered, slapping Dylan on his back as he passed by.
“You sure your hands are all right, Marvin?” Gracie asked.
“They’re fine.” He waved away her concern.
The roar of Harleys and pickup trucks faded into the night. Guidry started in on Clayton, who required a steadying hand to keep him upright. Gracie and Tanya eyed Clayton and Dylan with reproach, but remained silent.
“Doc, you know better than this. I thought you were here with Gracie. You should’ve quit drinking about three beers ago if you intended to drive home.” The bartender fished in Clayton’s jacket pocket and extracted his keys. “You either find yourself a ride, or I’ll call the police chief to come see the damage you and your buddy caused.”
“Not my buddy,” he mumbled through swollen lips. “I’ll walk home.”
“I’ll take him.” Tanya’s offer surprised everyone. Especially Clayton, if his slack-jawed expression was any indication. “Looks like he’ll need some tending when he gets there, and since I have a three-year-old, I’m pretty handy with a Band-Aid.”
“Gracie can patch me up.” Clayton tried to stand without Guidry’s support and failed.
“She’s going to have her hands full with Dylan.” Tanya accepted the brunt of Clayton’s weight from the bartender. “And he’s going her way. You’ll just have to put up with some TLC from plain little ol’ me instead of the love of your life.”
“I can take care of myself.” He failed to evade the grasp of a dynamo half his size.
“I’ll just push you out of the car when we get to your driveway.”
Their bickering carried through the night air until two car doors slammed, one after the other.
“And as for you...” Guidry turned to Dylan.
He raised his hands to ward off a lecture. “I can drive. I only had two beers.”
“Then what’s your excuse for trashing my bar?” The man could have squashed him on the sidewalk like a bug, and he looked like he might be thinking about doing it, too.
“No excuse.” Dylan pushed his hair off his forehead and winced. He couldn’t tell which hurt worse—his nose, ribs, or hand. “I didn’t know how drunk he was or that he has such a short fuse, but it shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry.”
Guidry crossed his immense arms and looked even more threatening. “Who’s going to pay for the damage?”
“Surely you have insurance,” Gracie said, stepping between them. “You shouldn’t expect—”
Dylan’s tolerance for her interference snapped. “Stay out of this, Gracie. I don’t need your help.”
Damn, the pain in her eyes dulled their sparkle. He hated knowing he’d caused that.
“Oh. Well. Excuse me.” Physically, she turned her back on him. Emotionally, she moved a million miles away.
He doubted if slashing her with a knife would have wounded her more. “Gracie...”
Dropping her chin, she dug around inside her purse. With Guidry waiting for a reckoning, Dylan postponed his apology to Gracie until later.
“I’ll have my assistant call you about the bill in the morning,” he told Guidry.
A grunt was all the appreciation the offer received. “Stay out of my bar until I get the money.”
“‘Night, Guidry,” Gracie said.
“You gonna be around next Saturday for Marley’s wedding?” he asked as she turned to leave.
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss your kid sister’s wedding for anything. I still can’t believe the little squirt’s getting married.”
“Tell me about it. She’s twenty-two now, with a degree in marine biology.”
“Amazing. And to think I used to babysit her.” Gracie shook her head. “Tell Aunt Betty I’m available if they need help at the church or the reception hall next week.”
“Will do.” The bartender disappeared through the door, leaving Gracie and Dylan alone on the sidewalk.
Her features sharpened with disdain. “Can you drive?” She’d withdrawn into someone cold and aloof. Someone very unlike the real Gracie.
“Sure.” He made a heroic effort not to whimper.
She waited beside him as he hauled himself into the Navigator. His ribs protested the effort. Under the streetlight, he noticed the wet spot on the front of her blouse. If it wouldn’t hurt his face to do it, he’d grin. “Somebody spill a drink on you?”
She looked down and wrinkled her nose as she sniffed. “Smells like beer.”
He turned on the motor and leaned out to close the door. Pain shot through his side, taking his breath away. He hugged his rib cage, closed his eyes, and waited for the ache to subside.
When his breath returned to his lungs, he opened his eyes. Gracie lingered beside him. Although she kept her hands clasped, he could see them twitching with the instinct to offer assistance. One moment of silence stretched into two.
Gracie moved to close the car door. “See you later, then.”
A tough as nails stance was all well and good, but what was the point if it meant going home alone? She remained by the Navigator waiting for him to drive away, but he couldn’t do it. None of his extremities would do as they were told. Well, hell, if she wanted to help, he’d let her.
He powered down the window. “All right, you win,” he said as if she’d been haranguing him for hours. “You can drive me home if you really want to. My car or yours?”
“Yours.” She tried to hide her smug smile, but he spotted it.
His ribs seriously protested the effort required in switching seats. Pulling shallow breaths into his lungs, he closed his eyes and reclined the passenger seat while Gracie slid behind the wheel.
“That was a pretty stupid display,” she said after a few miles of silence.
“I know.” He winced as she plowed through a three-foot-wide pothole instead of going around it.
“You were spoiling for a fight when you got to McStone’s, weren’t you?”
“Yep.” Monosyllables were about all his split lip could handle. He inventoried his teeth with his tongue.
His ribs protested when she turned off the paved highway onto the rutted road leading to Liberty House. He could have sworn the Navigator had better shocks than this.
After a few excruciating minutes, she pulled to a stop. He considered getting out of the vehicle, but wasn’t sure he could. He lifted one eyelid to see what mischief Gracie was up to. She didn’t normally remain quiet for long.
She peered at him from mere inches away, assessing the damage to his face. She bit her lower lip and let one gentle finger tug at his split and swollen one, then tilted his head toward the light. “It’s probably not as bad as it looks.”
He removed his chin from her grasp. He wanted her to touch him with passion, not clinical detachment.
She invaded his space once again to unhook his seat belt. The fall of her silky hair brushed his shoulder. The scent of coconut shampoo wafted toward him. He inhaled deeply, groaning when pain knifed through him.
Gracie’s hand joined his on his rib cage. Her look of concern indicated she intended to poke and prod and ask him if it hurt when she pressed against him there.
“I’m not a patient.” He swooped in to stop her protest with a kiss.
At the same moment, she lifted her head and bumped his lip. Ouch! He ignored the pain and angled for better position. Just a brush of lips at first, then he sent out his tongue to lick her. He pulled her more closely to him, opening his mouth over hers.
Oddly, she tasted metallic, almost coppery. Like blood.
Shit, no. That was him. “Damn.”
Gracie tried to duck behind medical neutrality, but her voice quavered as she spoke. “You should have that looked at.”
Dylan fished a napkin out of the glove box. “Tomorrow,” he said, promising himself that’s when he’d pick up where they’d left off.
He yanked on the door handle and got out with careful execution.
She came up beside him. “You might have a broken rib or two.”
“I can manage.” He waved her off and evaded the hand she tried to hook through his arm.
It took him about ten minutes to get from the car to his room. It took him most of the night to vanquish his inappropriate thoughts of Gracie.
Chapter Fourteen
Gracie pressed her ear against the door to Dylan’s room.
Silence. Absolute silence swirled around on the other side. She tapped a brisk, business-like tattoo on the hardwood.
More silence.
She chewed her lip, considering her choices. Should she barge in or not? She’d give anything to avoid seeing him, but hanging the new window treatment in his room was the last of the chores on Granddad’s list, and she wanted to be finished this morning. In two hours, Gran needed her to come to the hospital to help transport Granddad home. After that, she was scheduled to fill in for Gran, taking care of the final ice cream production for the festival.
She hadn’t seen Dylan since he’d limped into the house like the walking wounded last night. He’d made it very clear outside McStone’s, and then again outside the house, that he didn’t want her help. Even if he had deigned to let her drive him home.
She knocked again and took a deep breath. Now or never.
Opening the door, she tiptoed inside. Rumpled sheets beckoned from the bed. Dylan’s clothes littered the floor, but the man himself was absent. Thank heavens.
Her feet paused beside his discarded jeans. A pair of boxer-briefs lay next to them. She almost picked up both items, under the guise of tidying up, but stopped herself.
She pictured him asleep in the bed, naked. The pillow carried a hollowed-out imprint. She imagined his sun-streaked hair mussed from his night’s sleep, a muscular forearm blocking the sunlight from his eyes. His broad shoulders and chest tapered to slim hips. The sheet covered his hips and groin. Barely. He’d turn over, dislodging the fabric...
Edging closer, she inhaled. The bedding carried his musky scent. Masculine… delicious. She shook her head at her own foolishness. What in the world was she doing? She had work to do, and it needed to be done. Now. While he was out.
It took only a minute to move a chair away from the window then bring in her ladder and tools. Perched on a middle rung, she dropped her screwdriver when a cell phone beeped on an end table.
Debating whether to answer it or not, she heard a splash from the bathroom. While she hovered, paralyzed with surprise, the bathroom door swung open. Dylan appeared, briskly dragging a towel across his wet body. He skidded to a stop when his gaze riveted on her gaping curiosity, then wrapped the luckiest towel on earth around his waist.
Close… so close to the whole enchilada.
“What are you doing here?” Dylan barked as he picked up the phone. Dark circles around his eyes gave him an owlish look. Except that she’d never seen an owl in a towel, of course.
“Hanging drapes.” A sweep of her arm indicated the obvious. “But don’t worry, I’ll go.”
“Hello,” he said into the receiver, motioning for Gracie to continue her task. “Yes, Uncle Arthur. I did call yesterday. I could use your help with something.”
She should leave. The chore wasn’t noisy, and it required her to face away from him, but all that was beside the point. She knew he was there. She knew he was engaged in a private conversation. And she knew he was the next thing to naked.
With just the right angle, she could see his buff chest and sculpted shoulders reflected in the window. The chiseled muscles sported an interesting array of cuts and bruises. She decided to stay.
“You know Jack Benning over at Latham, Benning and Brown, don’t you? I called him yesterday about a deed they handled twenty-five years ago for some Cordial Street property in East Langden.”
At the mention of Clay’s old address, Gracie’s ears perked up. While she pretended not to study him or listen in, she surreptitiously watched him inspect the worst of his bruises as he talked. She had to put every one of her medical instincts on hold to keep from taking the task into her own hands, but who was she kidding?
The thought of touching those solid pecs, running her fingers through the mat of damp chest hair, and stroking the ridges of his abdomen like a banjo had nothing to do with healing and everything to do with sheer, unadulterated lust. The onslaught of desire set her fingers trembling. A wall bracket slipped through her fingers, hitting the floor with a clank.
Shooting him an apologetic look, Gracie moved on to the center mount, determined to keep her hands and mind off of his body and under control. She could do it. If she could just keep her eyes off of him as well.
“They claimed attorney-client privilege and wouldn’t give me any details, but all the principles are dead. You think you’d have more success getting the information?”
With the final bracket removed, Gracie climbed off the ladder to retrieve the new ones. Of its own accord, her gaze returned to Dylan’s body. Why couldn’t he be scrawny and underdeveloped? A man with his looks and money shouldn’t be blessed with physical perfection, too. And he should never, ever be allowed to lounge on an unmade bed wearing nothing but a swatch of terry cloth.
With a pillow propped behind his back and a leg bent at the knee, he had the look of a Greek god waiting for a flock of handmaidens to feed him grapes, slather his body in oil, and lick his toes. Or other, more interesting, parts of his body.
After imagining herself in the role of most-favored handmaiden, Gracie realized the one-sided conversation had ended. Dylan had put down the phone and was watching her.
Watching her watch him.
Oops! Busted. A blush spread from her cheeks down to the soles of her feet.
The corners of his mouth quirked into a killer smile. One that revealed his perfect white teeth, unmasked a dimple in his right cheek that was deep enough to lose a finger in, and put a dancing light into eyes that were as inviting as sin, despite being black and blue and puffy from the fight the night before.
Her small reserve of resistance melted into a thick, viscous pool of desire. And she knew with sick dread that it must have the same effect on every woman who witnessed it. She vowed not to become his next conquest. He could go ahead and wow Tanya with it if he wanted, but Gracie was made of sterner stuff.
“Want to kiss anything and make it better?” he asked.
Yes! Her eyes lingered over a bruise on his washboard stomach.
“I’ve seen road kill that looked more inviting.” She hoped she sounded disdainful and uninterested instead of drunk on unrequited passion. “And I thought you didn’t want my help.”
Dumb. Stupid, really, to let him know how much that comment had cut her last night. To let him know that she even remembered it was foolish beyond permission.
“I didn’t say I didn’t want your help last night, Gracie. I said I didn’t need it.” He crossed his arms over his bare chest. His biceps and forearms bulged into display. Firm, corded. Strong, capable, comforting.
A quick hand to her mouth checked for drool. “Next time you get in a fight at McStone’s, make sure Marvin Gardens is on your side before you start swinging.”
“Marvin Gardens?” A more genuine version of the smile appeared. More endearing than sexy, but sexy nevertheless. “Is that his real name?”
“The name on his birth certificate is LeRoy. But during grade school, the name Marvin kind of stuck.” Gracie gathered her control and turned back to her project.
“He is big enough to build a hotel on.” Checking Dylan’s reflection in the window again, she watched him brush damp hair off his forehead. The movement elicited a wince and rotation of his shoulder in its socket. Muscles rippled like an earthquake down his chest and bruised ribcage. He froze, mid-ripple. “He’s not the LeRoy Gardens, is he? The landscape painter that’s been getting all the rave reviews in New York?”
“Yep. That’s our Marvin. His work is fabulous, isn’t it?”
“Incredible.” Dylan shook his head in wonder. “I went to one of his shows. One of my best friends is married to art critic Kara Enderley. She called his work ‘raw’ and ‘elemental’. The starting price on a canvas was around fifty thousand.”
“Yeah, we’re all really proud of him.” Gracie loved a good success story. “He was one of my mom’s art students way back when, but he had his own unique style and technique from the very beginning. Gran has a couple of his early paintings in the dining room. You should check them out.”
“I’ll do that.”
She risked a glance over her shoulder, then turned quickly away. He was entirely too comfortable with his state of undress to suit Gracie. “Were you soaking your wounds in the tub? How do you feel? Do you think you should have some look at you?”
“Someone’s looking at me now.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “You just can’t stand it, can you? You see someone who might be in pain and you have to play doctor.”
“I don’t play doctor, I am a doctor, just not the kind you need. If you don’t want my attention focused on you, get dressed. I’ll somehow manage to overcome the disappointment.”
“You can focus your attention on me anytime you want.” His voice deepened into a flirtatious rumble.
Somehow, while her back was turned, he’d come up behind her. His reflection appeared beside hers in the window, and she felt the heat of his body just inches away. Almost desperately she wanted to turn into him and share his warmth. She refused even to look at him, rather than give in to the need.
“I’m sorry about last night,” she said, warding off temptation. “I do tend to butt into situations that aren’t my business. But you’re an outsider here, and it doesn’t benefit you to alienate the people you intend to question.”
“Since you’re on Clayton’s side, I’d think you’d be pleased by the lack of cooperation I’ve received.”
She climbed off the ladder and turned to face him. “Why? The more you learn, the better his chances of being recognized as a Bradford.”
“There’s that. But what if, by some miracle, I discover what you and he contend is true, and I choose never to recognize him?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
He scratched his chin. “What’s in it for me?”
“The truth.”
“Some truths are harder to swallow than others.” To his credit, he seemed troubled by the possibility.
“But you won’t be able to ignore it if it’s shoved down your throat, will you?”
His chest expanded and contracted on a sigh. She wished he wouldn’t do that.
“No.” His reluctance was almost palpable. “I’m committed to getting to the bottom of this, however low that might be.”
“And you don’t believe there’s any way that you and Clay have the same father?”
He hesitated a second too long for certainty. “No, but I might not be the most perceptive observer. I’ve been thinking about bringing in a private investigator.”
“Another outsider?” She hooked her elbows on the ladder behind her and leaned back. “How would that help?”
“It couldn’t hurt. He’d be more experienced and objective than I am. Wouldn’t have a personal grudge against Clayton.”
“But the people here would think you’re just spreading your money around, trying to buy answers. They’d freeze a private investigator right out.”
The towel slipped down a notch on his hips. She almost stopped breathing while he adjusted it. “Do you have any other ideas?”
Plenty, but she squashed the most obvious one. “About the investigation? Well, we could join forces.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t we be working at cross purposes?”
“We may want to find out for different reasons, and we may disagree about the probable outcome, but we both want to uncover the truth. We can concentrate on that and see what happens.” Gracie suspected she was babbling, but with Testosterone Mountain acting like a brain-cell magnet, she couldn’t stop.
“You don’t know anything more about investigating than I do.” His lips moved and sounds emerged, but his reasonable words faded beneath his very distracting body language. His physical presence challenged her to acknowledge him. His eyes dared her to come closer. And the stroke of his finger slowly traveling up her jaw toward her ear issued a clear invitation for her to touch him in return.
She reached up one hand and traced the chain attached to a religious medal that nestled against his chest. Crinkly chest hair tickled her fingers. She swallowed. “No, but the people here will talk to me.”
“You may be the only one who could talk the next person on my list into meeting with me.” He caressed the sensitive spot beneath her ear with a fingertip, circling it, teasing it.
Her fingers drifted down the chain links to the medal itself. She pretended to study it. “Why is that?”
“Because the last time I saw him, he tried to punch my lights out.”
She lifted her eyes to meet his. The impact nearly knocked her backward. His gaze hit her in the solar plexus like a force field. But his attention pulled her closer, enveloped her. Confused her. “You want to talk to Clay?”
“Mmhmm,” Dylan confirmed, apparently more concerned with the texture of her earlobe between his thumb and forefinger than with the conversation.
“Oh, boy, you really do need my help, don’t you?”
He leaned into her personal space, much, much closer than necessary. His breath teased her ear. His chuckle washed over her like a warm, sensual bath. “Do I have to admit that?”
She shivered and braced herself, making one last stab at detachment. “That’s the price for my assistance.”
“I’ll admit it. I need you, Gracie. I really, really need you. More than I would’ve ever thought possible.”
His hands settled on her shoulders. Time stood still as he pulled her closer. An inch… two inches. She became more aware than ever that only one person in the room had clothes on, and that one person wasn’t Dylan. Her breasts, primly covered in a T-shirt and bra, felt his heat through both layers.
He aligned his hips with hers. Her body had never fit so precisely with anyone’s before, and they were still standing. How much better would their pieces fit if they were horizontal? The four-poster bed behind them seemed to be calling her name.
He pressed his mouth to hers in a potent kiss that was more playful than romantic, more teasing than erotic, but Gracie felt the buzz of it all the way to her toes. His lips grazed hers, and she wanted more. She wanted those firm, sensual lips to settle on hers and tempt and taste and tantalize her.
She lifted her hands to the back of his head, eager to encourage and escalate the sensations rippling through her from the light touch of his kiss. Metal clunked against bone.
“Ow.” Clutching his skull at the nape of his neck, he pulled away. “What was that?”
“A bracket. Sorry, I forgot I had it in my hand.” She tossed the hardware aside and probed beneath his thick, blond hair for lumps. “Are you all right?”
“You don’t need to examine me.” He pulled away from her inspection. “After last night, what’s one more bump?”
“Oh, well, in that case...” Talk about a mood breaker. She was in a class by herself. Hadn’t Baxter always said so? Her shoulder’s slumped with disappointment. “I should finish this.” She climbed up the ladder.
“Why are you hanging curtains?” Sinking into a chair, he leaned his head back. “Don’t you have a decorator for that?”
“Of course, we do. She’s over at the church, supervising ice cream production for the festival tomorrow.”
“Your grandmother made these?” He lifted up a corner and rubbed the material between two fingers. “Nice.”
“Yep, and in a little while, I’m going to meet her at the hospital, and hopefully, bring Granddad home.”
“Can you get in touch with Clayton and see if he’ll join us for lunch? I wasn’t kidding about trying to talk to him.”
“Are you buying? You owe me for last night, remember?”
“I won’t forget my wallet, I promise.”
“Okay, but first, fill me in on what you’ve found out. From the conversation I overheard a few minutes ago, you know something about the house on Cordial Street.”
She thought he’d balk at confiding in her. He hesitated and then shrugged. “All right, you finish what you’re working on while I get dressed, and then we’ll talk.”
Darn, why did everything good in life demand a trade-off?
