Holding the Dream by Nora Roberts Page B

cheered her considerably to picture him on probation at Templeton California.
    â€œI had six months to decide if I wanted to be based here permanently or go back to Atlanta.” Reading her mind easily, he grinned. “I like it here—the sea, the cliffs, the forests. I like the people I work with. But I don’t intend to continue to live in a hotel, however well run and lovely it may be.”
    She shrugged, irritated by the way the wine seemed to be sitting like lead under her breastbone. “Your business, De Witt, not mine.”
    He would not, he told himself patiently, allow her prickly nature to divert him from his objective. “You know the area, you have contacts and a good eye for quality and value. I thought you could let me know if you hear about any interesting property, particularly in the Seventeen Mile Drive area.”
    â€œI’m not a realtor,” she muttered.
    â€œGood. That means I don’t have to worry about your commission.”
    Because she appreciated that, she bent. “There is a place—might be a little big for your needs.”
    â€œI like big.”
    â€œFigures. It’s near Pebble Beach. Four or five bedrooms, I can’t remember. But it’s back off the road, a lot of cypress trees and a nice established yard. Decks,” she continued, squinting her eyes as she tried to remember. “Front and back. Wood—cedar, I think. Lots of glass. It’s been on the market about six months and hasn’t moved. There’s probably a reason for that.”
    â€œMight be it was waiting for the right buyer. Do you know the realtor?”
    â€œSure, they’re a client. Monterey Bay Real Estate. Ask for Arlene. She shoots straight.”
    â€œI appreciate it. If it works out, I’ll have to buy you dinner.”
    â€œNo, thanks. Just consider it a—” She broke off as pain stabbed into her stomach, then, like a sick echo, erupted in her head. The glass slipped out of her hand and shattered on the tile even as he grabbed her.
    â€œHold on.” He picked her up, had a moment to notice she was little more than bones and nerves, before he eased her onto the cushions of a chair. “Jesus Christ, Kate, you’re dead white. I’ll get someone.”
    â€œNo.” Biting back on the pain, she grabbed at his arm. “It’s nothing. Just a twinge. Sometimes alcohol—wine on an empty stomach,” she managed, regulating her breathing. “I should know better.”
    His brow knit, his voice thrummed with impatience. “When did you eat last?”
    â€œI was kind of swamped today.”
    â€œIdiot.” He straightened. “There’s enough food around here for three hundred starving sailors. I’ll get you a damn plate.”
    â€œNo, I—” Ordinarily that vicious look wouldn’t have quelled her, but at the moment she was feeling shaky. “Okay, thanks, but don’t say anything. It’ll only worry them, andthey’ve got all these people here. Just don’t say anything,” she repeated, then watched him, after one last, smoldering look, stride off.
    Her hand trembled a bit as she opened her bag and swigged from a small medicine bottle. All right, she promised herself, she would take better care of herself. She’d start trying those yoga exercises Margo had shown her. She’d stop drinking so much damn coffee.
    She would stop thinking.
    By the time he came back she was feeling steadier. One look at the plate he carried and she let out a laugh. “How many of those starving sailors do you intend to feed?”
    â€œJust eat,” he ordered and popped a small, succulent shrimp into her mouth himself.
    After a moment’s deliberation, she scooted over on the cushion. A distraction, even in the form of Byron De Witt, was what she needed. “I guess I have to ask you to sit down and share.”
    â€œYou’re always so gracious.”
    She