head. “At least, I think it is. She seems nuts about Fred, but who knows? Appearances can be... deceptive. Especially in relationships.”
“True.” To outsiders, Maggie’s parents had seemed the perfect couple, and nothing could have been further from the truth.
T.J. spooned a large serving of carrots onto his plate. “You never mentioned why you’re here.”
Dangerous Ground warnings flashed in her mind. She chewed slowly, then swallowed. She’d better stick as close as possible to the truth. “I needed a rest.”
“From what?” Clearly surprised, he stabbed a hot-buttered carrot with his fork then raked it into his mouth.
“My mother was injured in an accident. I’ve spent the last several years caring for her.” Her hand shook. Had she been too specific?
He looked down at his plate. His voice lost its acidity, almost gentled. “Did she... recover?”
Strange. He seemed genuinely empathetic. Because of Carolyn? “Yes, she did.”
Empathetic? Genuine? Impossible. Maggie took another bite of hot, succulent roast, warning herself to be careful here. This man was not what he seemed.
As soon as the thought formed in her mind, a whisper of heat crept over her skin as if verifying the thought. Again feeling watched, Maggie instinctively turned to look behind her. But, as on the stairs earlier, she saw no one. Nothing except the French doors, which were tightly closed.
“Something wrong?”
T.J.’s voice startled her. Maggie whipped back around in her chair and forced a smile to her lips. “No. No, everything is fine.”
He watched her warily, and she tilted her head. “There’s something... I don’t know... special about this house. Do you feel it?”
He didn’t answer. Just chewed his food and stared daggers at her.
What had she done wrong now? Well, hell. At this rate, they’d both die of old age before she got past his first line of defense. “Have you been here long?”
“Yes.” He speared a potato.
And he didn’t like it. So why didn’t he leave? “Mmm.” She sipped at her tea. The chilled glass was sweating, and droplets of moisture ran down it in rivulets to the tablecloth. “How long will you stay?”
“Until I leave.”
Why did he sound upset? Evasive? “Miss Hattie mentioned magazines. Do you enjoy traveling?”
He polished off his last carrot, dabbed at his lips with his napkin, then stood up. “If you’ll excuse me. This session of Twenty Questions is over.” He lifted his plate, then went into the kitchen.
Maggie let out a frustrated sigh. Something wasn’t right here. What it was, she didn’t have a clue. But MacGregor reeked of being a man in trouble—and one peeved to the tips of his arrogant ears about something. The question was what. Did it have anything to do with Carolyn?
After finishing her meal alone, Maggie took her plate and the platter into the kitchen.
MacGregor stood at the sink scrubbing a blue enamel roasting pan, his arms submerged in hot, soapy water up to his elbows.
She set her plate onto the counter and, when he finished rinsing the pan, she grabbed a dishcloth and reached for it. “I’ll dry.”
He frowned, didn’t utter so much as a whisper, but passed the pan.
She took it, her cool fingers brushing against his warm, wet ones. Their gazes locked. Emotions fumbled through MacGregor’s eyes. Hope. Bitterness. Then anger. His frown deepened. Before he could smart-off at her, she gave him her best, disgusted look. “I don’t know how long you’ve been here, MacGregor, but your social skills could stand a little elbow grease.”
“I’m not social.” He plunged the lid into the suds. A wall of water splashed onto the counter.
“No kidding?” She cupped her hand and swiped the water back into the sink, then patted the counter dry with the cloth.
He scrubbed the pan lid until she thought the enamel would be worn clean through. An apple in the fruit bowl looked entirely too tempting. She grabbed it. Sidling up to MacGregor
“True.” To outsiders, Maggie’s parents had seemed the perfect couple, and nothing could have been further from the truth.
T.J. spooned a large serving of carrots onto his plate. “You never mentioned why you’re here.”
Dangerous Ground warnings flashed in her mind. She chewed slowly, then swallowed. She’d better stick as close as possible to the truth. “I needed a rest.”
“From what?” Clearly surprised, he stabbed a hot-buttered carrot with his fork then raked it into his mouth.
“My mother was injured in an accident. I’ve spent the last several years caring for her.” Her hand shook. Had she been too specific?
He looked down at his plate. His voice lost its acidity, almost gentled. “Did she... recover?”
Strange. He seemed genuinely empathetic. Because of Carolyn? “Yes, she did.”
Empathetic? Genuine? Impossible. Maggie took another bite of hot, succulent roast, warning herself to be careful here. This man was not what he seemed.
As soon as the thought formed in her mind, a whisper of heat crept over her skin as if verifying the thought. Again feeling watched, Maggie instinctively turned to look behind her. But, as on the stairs earlier, she saw no one. Nothing except the French doors, which were tightly closed.
“Something wrong?”
T.J.’s voice startled her. Maggie whipped back around in her chair and forced a smile to her lips. “No. No, everything is fine.”
He watched her warily, and she tilted her head. “There’s something... I don’t know... special about this house. Do you feel it?”
He didn’t answer. Just chewed his food and stared daggers at her.
What had she done wrong now? Well, hell. At this rate, they’d both die of old age before she got past his first line of defense. “Have you been here long?”
“Yes.” He speared a potato.
And he didn’t like it. So why didn’t he leave? “Mmm.” She sipped at her tea. The chilled glass was sweating, and droplets of moisture ran down it in rivulets to the tablecloth. “How long will you stay?”
“Until I leave.”
Why did he sound upset? Evasive? “Miss Hattie mentioned magazines. Do you enjoy traveling?”
He polished off his last carrot, dabbed at his lips with his napkin, then stood up. “If you’ll excuse me. This session of Twenty Questions is over.” He lifted his plate, then went into the kitchen.
Maggie let out a frustrated sigh. Something wasn’t right here. What it was, she didn’t have a clue. But MacGregor reeked of being a man in trouble—and one peeved to the tips of his arrogant ears about something. The question was what. Did it have anything to do with Carolyn?
After finishing her meal alone, Maggie took her plate and the platter into the kitchen.
MacGregor stood at the sink scrubbing a blue enamel roasting pan, his arms submerged in hot, soapy water up to his elbows.
She set her plate onto the counter and, when he finished rinsing the pan, she grabbed a dishcloth and reached for it. “I’ll dry.”
He frowned, didn’t utter so much as a whisper, but passed the pan.
She took it, her cool fingers brushing against his warm, wet ones. Their gazes locked. Emotions fumbled through MacGregor’s eyes. Hope. Bitterness. Then anger. His frown deepened. Before he could smart-off at her, she gave him her best, disgusted look. “I don’t know how long you’ve been here, MacGregor, but your social skills could stand a little elbow grease.”
“I’m not social.” He plunged the lid into the suds. A wall of water splashed onto the counter.
“No kidding?” She cupped her hand and swiped the water back into the sink, then patted the counter dry with the cloth.
He scrubbed the pan lid until she thought the enamel would be worn clean through. An apple in the fruit bowl looked entirely too tempting. She grabbed it. Sidling up to MacGregor
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