black beak, shook it several times to make certain that it was dead, and swallowed it. Then he screeched happily.
“I’ll cart you and your perch out to the back porch if you don’t quiet down,” she warned. “One talkative male in this house will be enough tonight.”
She checked the casserole dish in the oven, turned the heat down under a pot of tiny potatoes on the stove, then hurried through the house, nervously fluffing pillows and checking for dust devils. When she realized how uncharacteristic her housekeeping frenzy was, she stopped abruptly and declared to the field-stone fireplace, “I am not doing this for Rucker McClure’s benefit! I have nothing against cheerleading, beehive hairdos, or home ec degrees, but they aren’t my style!”
She heard the sound of the Cadillac crunching up her gravel driveway. Dinah trotted to the baby grand piano, which occupied one corner of the living room, and sat down. She gave her white slacks and brightly colored pullover a quick perusal, made sure her French braid extended neatly down the center of her back, then rested her fingers on the piano keys and began playing a Chopin piece. She knew exactly what picture she wanted to present when Rucker stopped on her porch and looked through the glass panes of the front door. Casual, elegant intimidation. Watch your step, Mr. McClure.
She kept her face composed and serene when she heard his heavy footsteps on the whitewashed plank porch, and she kept playing with outward patience until his cheerful rapping signaled that the show had begun.
Grace Kelly, eat your heart out, Dinah thought proudly as she slowly raised her head to look at him. He had a large grocery bag in one hand, and the possum was perched on his shoulder. She sighed. Who could deal intelligently with a man who thought of a possum as a fashion accessory?
Through the glass panes he gave her approach a sensual inspection so hot it could have dissolved steel. Tendrils of tickling sensation exploded in her stomach and spread downward. Stop seducing me, you Southern Don Juan, she begged silently. One corner of his mouth rising into a smile, he held up a hand, wrist relaxed, and shook it. Hubbah hubbah, chicky, the gesture told her. Nice tomatoes. It wasn’t quite the humble, intimidated response she’d hoped to evoke.
But it was sincere, sexy, and effective—so effective that Dinah’s body felt deliciously languid even as she rolled her eyes in exasperation. Decorum gone, she put a hand on her hip, swung the door open, and looked at him wryly.
“So you and Dewey didn’t come back until after lunch today,” she said with mild rebuke. “And both of you had hangovers. And no doves.”
He nodded, looking a little sheepish. “I forgot how fast news travels in a small town. We had a good time, though. He’s a great character. The best Baptist deacon I’ve ever known.”
“Come in before I lose all my heat from the fireplace.”
“I wouldn’t want you to lose all your heat,” he noted smoothly as he stepped inside. She closed the door and watched him look around the big, open living room at the piano, the mixture of abstract and classical art, the white-on-white contemporary decor, and the bookcases filled to overflowing. “This is some farmhouse,” he observed.
“I did some renovating and redecorating. Make yourself at home. Give me your coat.”
“I never had a home like this.” He handed her the grocery bag and the possum, then shucked off the same windbreaker he’d worn the day before. Underneath it, his soul stirring body was covered in a fresh selection from his collection of plaid shirts and jeans.
“Beer?” she asked, forcing her traitorous eyes to the grocery bag.
“Champagne. Hah. Surprised you, didn’t I?”
“I didn’t know our package store carried champagne. Everyone got excited last year when the owner broughtin some twenty-dollar bottles of wine. People went in just to look at them.”
“Ah, but I went to Birmingham
“I’ll cart you and your perch out to the back porch if you don’t quiet down,” she warned. “One talkative male in this house will be enough tonight.”
She checked the casserole dish in the oven, turned the heat down under a pot of tiny potatoes on the stove, then hurried through the house, nervously fluffing pillows and checking for dust devils. When she realized how uncharacteristic her housekeeping frenzy was, she stopped abruptly and declared to the field-stone fireplace, “I am not doing this for Rucker McClure’s benefit! I have nothing against cheerleading, beehive hairdos, or home ec degrees, but they aren’t my style!”
She heard the sound of the Cadillac crunching up her gravel driveway. Dinah trotted to the baby grand piano, which occupied one corner of the living room, and sat down. She gave her white slacks and brightly colored pullover a quick perusal, made sure her French braid extended neatly down the center of her back, then rested her fingers on the piano keys and began playing a Chopin piece. She knew exactly what picture she wanted to present when Rucker stopped on her porch and looked through the glass panes of the front door. Casual, elegant intimidation. Watch your step, Mr. McClure.
She kept her face composed and serene when she heard his heavy footsteps on the whitewashed plank porch, and she kept playing with outward patience until his cheerful rapping signaled that the show had begun.
Grace Kelly, eat your heart out, Dinah thought proudly as she slowly raised her head to look at him. He had a large grocery bag in one hand, and the possum was perched on his shoulder. She sighed. Who could deal intelligently with a man who thought of a possum as a fashion accessory?
Through the glass panes he gave her approach a sensual inspection so hot it could have dissolved steel. Tendrils of tickling sensation exploded in her stomach and spread downward. Stop seducing me, you Southern Don Juan, she begged silently. One corner of his mouth rising into a smile, he held up a hand, wrist relaxed, and shook it. Hubbah hubbah, chicky, the gesture told her. Nice tomatoes. It wasn’t quite the humble, intimidated response she’d hoped to evoke.
But it was sincere, sexy, and effective—so effective that Dinah’s body felt deliciously languid even as she rolled her eyes in exasperation. Decorum gone, she put a hand on her hip, swung the door open, and looked at him wryly.
“So you and Dewey didn’t come back until after lunch today,” she said with mild rebuke. “And both of you had hangovers. And no doves.”
He nodded, looking a little sheepish. “I forgot how fast news travels in a small town. We had a good time, though. He’s a great character. The best Baptist deacon I’ve ever known.”
“Come in before I lose all my heat from the fireplace.”
“I wouldn’t want you to lose all your heat,” he noted smoothly as he stepped inside. She closed the door and watched him look around the big, open living room at the piano, the mixture of abstract and classical art, the white-on-white contemporary decor, and the bookcases filled to overflowing. “This is some farmhouse,” he observed.
“I did some renovating and redecorating. Make yourself at home. Give me your coat.”
“I never had a home like this.” He handed her the grocery bag and the possum, then shucked off the same windbreaker he’d worn the day before. Underneath it, his soul stirring body was covered in a fresh selection from his collection of plaid shirts and jeans.
“Beer?” she asked, forcing her traitorous eyes to the grocery bag.
“Champagne. Hah. Surprised you, didn’t I?”
“I didn’t know our package store carried champagne. Everyone got excited last year when the owner broughtin some twenty-dollar bottles of wine. People went in just to look at them.”
“Ah, but I went to Birmingham
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