If Winter Comes by Diana Palmer Page A

Bryan Moreland
was standing there, idly leaning against the wall, his dark eyes pointedly
studying the too-tight top she was wearing.
     
     
     
    Five
     
    H e smiled at the
expression on her face. “Who were you expecting?” he asked.
     
    She swallowed. “Not
you,” she said without thinking. He was wearing slacks and an open-necked
burgundy velour shirt that bared a sensuous amount of hair-roughened bronzed
flesh.
     
    “Why?”
     
    “Well…”
     
    “You might as well
invite me in,” he told her. “I’ve got a feeling it won’t be a short
explanation.”
     
    “Oh!” She opened the
door wider and stepped aside to let him in beside her. He went straight to the
armchair by the window and lowered his big body into it.
     
    “Would you like some
coffee?” she asked, stunned by his sudden appearance.
     
    “If you can spare it,”
he replied with a wry smile. “I just put the lady mayor on a plane. I haven’t
even had lunch yet. That’s why I came. I thought you might like to go out for a
burger and fries.”
     
    It was almost
laughable, the mayor taking a reporter out for a hamburger.
     
    “Well, I…” she
stammered.
     
    “Aren’t you hungry?” he
asked. “Or are you still smarting from that round with Ed?”
     
    She lowered her eyes.
“I didn’t mean to ruin your tour.”
     
    He laughed. “My God, is
that why you ran away?”
     
    “I thought you were
angry with me,” she admitted.
     
    “I was furious. But
that was this morning, and this is now,” he explained quietly. “I don’t hold
grudges. You and Ed can damned well fight it out, but not on my time. Now do
you want supper or not?”
     
    She looked up, studying
him. “I just cooked an omelet.”
     
    “Big enough for two?”
he teased.
     
    She nodded. “I can make
some toast.”
     
    “How about cinnamon
toast?” he asked, rising. “I’m pretty good at it.”
     
    “You can cook?” she
asked, forgetting that she looked like something out of a ragbag, that she
wasn’t wearing makeup and her long hair was gathered back with a rubber band in
a travesty of a ponytail.
     
    “My mother thought it
would be a good idea if I learned,” he recalled with an amused smile. “She
gives me a refresher course every year at Christmas.”
     
    “What else can you
cook?” she asked, leading the way into the small kitchen.
     
    “The best pepper steak
you’ve ever tasted.”
     
    “I don’t believe you.”
     
    “Come to dinner
Sunday,” he said, “I’ll prove it.”
     
    “At your apartment?”
she asked as she handed him the bread and a cookie sheet spread with aluminum
foil.
     
    “At the farm. I’ll pick
you up early in the morning, and you can spend the day.”
     
    She thought for a
minute, feeling herself sinking into deep water. She’d been too pleased at the
sight of him tonight, too happy that he’d bothered to come and ask her out.
     
    He came up behind her;
and with a quick-silver thrill of excitement, she felt his big, warm hands
pressing into her tiny waist. “I have a housekeeper, Mrs. Brodie. She’s elderly
and buxom, and she’ll cut off my hands if I try to seduce you. Satisfied, Miss
Purity?”
     
    She felt her color
coming and going as he drew her closer, his breath whispering warmly in her
hair.
     
    “I…I wasn’t worried
about that,” she managed weakly.
     
    Deep, soft laughter
rumbled in the chest at her back. “Do you think I’m too old to feel desire?” he
asked.
     
    “Mr. Moreland!” she burst
out.
     
    “Make itBryan ,” he
said.
     
    “Bryan,” she repeated
breathlessly.
     
    “Why aren’t there any
men in your life?” he asked suddenly. “Why don’t you date?”
     
    Her eyes closed against
the memory. “I date you,” she corrected weakly.
     
    “Before me there was
someone. Who? When?” he asked harshly, his fingers biting into her soft flesh.
“Tell me!”
     
    “He was married,” she
said miserably.
     
    There was a long, heavy
silence behind her. “Did