soft tread behind her. She spun around, bracing herself against the counter.
He didn’t come near her; he paused across the large room, leaning against the hardwood breakfast table. “Did you really manage to be left in such a comfortable position that money doesn’t matter to you?” he asked in a manner that sounded ridiculously conversational.
She answered evenly. “It’s none of your business. But if I were starving, Mr. Lane, I wouldn’t sell you my interest in this house.”
She didn’t realize how tightly her hands were braced against the counter until he started to approach her, looming too tall and powerful in the dark shadows of the kitchen.
“Don’t touch me!” she exclaimed, forgetting for the moment her determination to play it entirely cool. “I swear I’ll call the police and get a warrant against you!”
He laughed, walking past her to the sink. “I wasn’t planning on touching you, Miss Anderson.” He grimaced, still a little too pleasant, then raised his hands to her, looking at them himself. “I’m well aware that it isn’t at all logical,” he murmured, and to Susan’s annoyance she discovered that she stared at his hands, barely hearing his words. They were large and long-fingered—just as Peter’s must have been once. Short-clipped, clean nails. He wore a sports watch and one ring, on his right hand, a garnet.
“But I’m afraid I’d feel a little tainted,” he continued pleasantly.
“What?”
She stared into his eyes, the blood draining from her face. His pleasant, searching smile brought home the import of his words, and the raging desire to tear into him again was almost more than she could bear.
She pushed away from the counter, lifting her chin as she strode past him in the shadows.
“Miss Anderson?”
She ignored him and walked back to the parlor. He followed her but didn’t touch her. He blocked the stairway, leaning idly against the banister.
“I think it only decent to warn you: I’m afraid you can’t call the police. We lost the phone wires while I was talking to Jerry.”
He was staring at her very curiously. She wondered what he could see. Here—away from the glow of the fire—it was very dark. She could see little herself, except for the casual stance of his form and the glint in his eyes.
“Would you excuse me, please, Mr. Lane?” she said politely.
“Why?”
“I’d like to go up to my room.”
“I’m sorry. You can’t.”
“Why on earth not?” she exploded.
“Because he said not to let you sleep for several hours.”
“Oh, good God!” He still didn’t move, and Susan was sure that he wouldn’t. Even in the shadows she could see—or perhaps sense—something else about him that was heart-wrenchingly like his father. He had a certain twist to his jaw, a determined jut that meant neither hell nor high water would move him.
She turned around again and strode back to the kitchen. He followed her.
Back by the refrigerator she spun to face him. “Have a heart, Mr. Lane. Some semblance of one, at least! I will not pass out again. I will not drop dead and disturb your conscience. Please—let me be someplace where you aren’t!”
“I wish I could,” he whispered softly.
Returning his gaze, she found herself momentarily tongue-tied. Mesmerized for the passage of countless seconds. The way he looked at her … there was a real sense of sorrow, almost wistfulness, in his eyes. And more. A certain scrutiny that made her feel hot inside. Nervous and uneasy … and breathless, her heart pounding too hard within her chest.
He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled it open. Darkness greeted him, and he emitted a soft groan, turned to get a candle, then returned with it to study the contents. “In regard to your earlier comment,” he muttered, “I’m starving at the moment. What have you got in here?”
“If you’re starving,” she said tartly, “you should be grateful that I was around or else there wouldn’t have
He didn’t come near her; he paused across the large room, leaning against the hardwood breakfast table. “Did you really manage to be left in such a comfortable position that money doesn’t matter to you?” he asked in a manner that sounded ridiculously conversational.
She answered evenly. “It’s none of your business. But if I were starving, Mr. Lane, I wouldn’t sell you my interest in this house.”
She didn’t realize how tightly her hands were braced against the counter until he started to approach her, looming too tall and powerful in the dark shadows of the kitchen.
“Don’t touch me!” she exclaimed, forgetting for the moment her determination to play it entirely cool. “I swear I’ll call the police and get a warrant against you!”
He laughed, walking past her to the sink. “I wasn’t planning on touching you, Miss Anderson.” He grimaced, still a little too pleasant, then raised his hands to her, looking at them himself. “I’m well aware that it isn’t at all logical,” he murmured, and to Susan’s annoyance she discovered that she stared at his hands, barely hearing his words. They were large and long-fingered—just as Peter’s must have been once. Short-clipped, clean nails. He wore a sports watch and one ring, on his right hand, a garnet.
“But I’m afraid I’d feel a little tainted,” he continued pleasantly.
“What?”
She stared into his eyes, the blood draining from her face. His pleasant, searching smile brought home the import of his words, and the raging desire to tear into him again was almost more than she could bear.
She pushed away from the counter, lifting her chin as she strode past him in the shadows.
“Miss Anderson?”
She ignored him and walked back to the parlor. He followed her but didn’t touch her. He blocked the stairway, leaning idly against the banister.
“I think it only decent to warn you: I’m afraid you can’t call the police. We lost the phone wires while I was talking to Jerry.”
He was staring at her very curiously. She wondered what he could see. Here—away from the glow of the fire—it was very dark. She could see little herself, except for the casual stance of his form and the glint in his eyes.
“Would you excuse me, please, Mr. Lane?” she said politely.
“Why?”
“I’d like to go up to my room.”
“I’m sorry. You can’t.”
“Why on earth not?” she exploded.
“Because he said not to let you sleep for several hours.”
“Oh, good God!” He still didn’t move, and Susan was sure that he wouldn’t. Even in the shadows she could see—or perhaps sense—something else about him that was heart-wrenchingly like his father. He had a certain twist to his jaw, a determined jut that meant neither hell nor high water would move him.
She turned around again and strode back to the kitchen. He followed her.
Back by the refrigerator she spun to face him. “Have a heart, Mr. Lane. Some semblance of one, at least! I will not pass out again. I will not drop dead and disturb your conscience. Please—let me be someplace where you aren’t!”
“I wish I could,” he whispered softly.
Returning his gaze, she found herself momentarily tongue-tied. Mesmerized for the passage of countless seconds. The way he looked at her … there was a real sense of sorrow, almost wistfulness, in his eyes. And more. A certain scrutiny that made her feel hot inside. Nervous and uneasy … and breathless, her heart pounding too hard within her chest.
He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled it open. Darkness greeted him, and he emitted a soft groan, turned to get a candle, then returned with it to study the contents. “In regard to your earlier comment,” he muttered, “I’m starving at the moment. What have you got in here?”
“If you’re starving,” she said tartly, “you should be grateful that I was around or else there wouldn’t have