neutral conversation, very neutral."
"Thank you." It sounded heartfelt.
Taking charge of the shopping cart by grabbing the handle, he pushed it toward the deli as she walked beside him, fantasizing that they were a couple, and wondering where this was going to lead.
David wondered the same thing as he considered his next move. He hadn't forgotten her insult at the supper, implying that he was nothing but a worthless flirt. It still rankled him, so why did he persist?
Because you want to make love to her, stupid. You'd take her to bed in a New York minute if you could manage it.
So she held men with neither property nor money in contempt, did she? Stubbornly, he wanted her to be attracted to him in spite of her belief that he was a man without means or ambition.
He stopped at a small table with two chairs. "Your pleasure, ma'am? Coffee black? Cream? Sugar?"
"Just black, thank you."
He left her sitting, and returned shortly, balancing two cups of coffee and an offering wrapped in a napkin.
Hoping she'd enjoy his humor, he winked and said, "I'm a risk-taker. I thought I'd add a scone and hope you wouldn't think it too forward of me." He added a careful measure of pleading to his look, and watched her expression soften. Aha. Progress.
"Okay," she acknowledged. "Truce. Maybe I've misjudged you a tiny bit. Maybe you're only misguided and a bit wrong-headed."
"Thank you, I think. Oddly, I don't even know your name. Not fair. You know mine." This time she laughed. His heart caught. He was in real trouble.
"That's right. We never got far enough the other night for introductions. I'm Lindsay Keith." She held out her hand.
He took it, enjoying the strength combined with softness, and the unmistakable, electric charge he felt, holding it. She smiled at him and the room grew brighter. She even smelled good.
"You have the most delightful scent about you," he commented before he thought, then braced himself for her reaction. Why the hell couldn't he keep his mouth shut? She surprised him.
"I'm wearing one of my own fragrances. I'm a perfumer. I own a shop downtown. Have you always wanted to own a restaurant?"
His happiness bubble burst. There it was again. She was fishing for information about his financial status. He answered casually, judging her reaction.
"Yeah, but I don't want to work that hard. There are more important things in life than money. I already work three nights a week, so I get by." The look on her face held enough understanding to set off alarm bells in his head. Had he carried his deception too far?
"It sounds exhausting." Scorn colored with amusement crept into her voice.
He gazed at her, unbelieving. She thought he was some kind of a lazy bum. She couldn't see he was teasing? He liked her—hell, yes he did—and that she so quickly believed the worst, stung.
"At least as tiring as running a little perfume shop." It just came out—from some stupid, juvenile need to spite her for not responding to him when he tried to impress her. What next? Standing on his head?
Her cheeks flushed with color. Oh, hell. He was screwed. He'd made her mad with that damned spontaneous remark. Whatever her reaction, he deserved it.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
"Yes, Mr. Martin, I believe you did." This time she was really steamed, but even worse, he saw the hurt in her eyes. God damn it. He didn't mean to hurt her. It tore him up.
"You are one of those tediously predictable men who thinks a woman can't possibly have the business skills to gain success by her own efforts."
He couldn't help smiling. She sounded like an enraged feminist. Oops. When her expression changed to one of intense dislike, he knew she had misread his smile. She thought he was mocking her.
Reaching for her shopping cart as she stood, Lindsay settled an intense look on him, as though she had just turned over a rock and found something revolting. "I don't see any need for us to have any sort of conversation in the future.
"Thank you." It sounded heartfelt.
Taking charge of the shopping cart by grabbing the handle, he pushed it toward the deli as she walked beside him, fantasizing that they were a couple, and wondering where this was going to lead.
David wondered the same thing as he considered his next move. He hadn't forgotten her insult at the supper, implying that he was nothing but a worthless flirt. It still rankled him, so why did he persist?
Because you want to make love to her, stupid. You'd take her to bed in a New York minute if you could manage it.
So she held men with neither property nor money in contempt, did she? Stubbornly, he wanted her to be attracted to him in spite of her belief that he was a man without means or ambition.
He stopped at a small table with two chairs. "Your pleasure, ma'am? Coffee black? Cream? Sugar?"
"Just black, thank you."
He left her sitting, and returned shortly, balancing two cups of coffee and an offering wrapped in a napkin.
Hoping she'd enjoy his humor, he winked and said, "I'm a risk-taker. I thought I'd add a scone and hope you wouldn't think it too forward of me." He added a careful measure of pleading to his look, and watched her expression soften. Aha. Progress.
"Okay," she acknowledged. "Truce. Maybe I've misjudged you a tiny bit. Maybe you're only misguided and a bit wrong-headed."
"Thank you, I think. Oddly, I don't even know your name. Not fair. You know mine." This time she laughed. His heart caught. He was in real trouble.
"That's right. We never got far enough the other night for introductions. I'm Lindsay Keith." She held out her hand.
He took it, enjoying the strength combined with softness, and the unmistakable, electric charge he felt, holding it. She smiled at him and the room grew brighter. She even smelled good.
"You have the most delightful scent about you," he commented before he thought, then braced himself for her reaction. Why the hell couldn't he keep his mouth shut? She surprised him.
"I'm wearing one of my own fragrances. I'm a perfumer. I own a shop downtown. Have you always wanted to own a restaurant?"
His happiness bubble burst. There it was again. She was fishing for information about his financial status. He answered casually, judging her reaction.
"Yeah, but I don't want to work that hard. There are more important things in life than money. I already work three nights a week, so I get by." The look on her face held enough understanding to set off alarm bells in his head. Had he carried his deception too far?
"It sounds exhausting." Scorn colored with amusement crept into her voice.
He gazed at her, unbelieving. She thought he was some kind of a lazy bum. She couldn't see he was teasing? He liked her—hell, yes he did—and that she so quickly believed the worst, stung.
"At least as tiring as running a little perfume shop." It just came out—from some stupid, juvenile need to spite her for not responding to him when he tried to impress her. What next? Standing on his head?
Her cheeks flushed with color. Oh, hell. He was screwed. He'd made her mad with that damned spontaneous remark. Whatever her reaction, he deserved it.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
"Yes, Mr. Martin, I believe you did." This time she was really steamed, but even worse, he saw the hurt in her eyes. God damn it. He didn't mean to hurt her. It tore him up.
"You are one of those tediously predictable men who thinks a woman can't possibly have the business skills to gain success by her own efforts."
He couldn't help smiling. She sounded like an enraged feminist. Oops. When her expression changed to one of intense dislike, he knew she had misread his smile. She thought he was mocking her.
Reaching for her shopping cart as she stood, Lindsay settled an intense look on him, as though she had just turned over a rock and found something revolting. "I don't see any need for us to have any sort of conversation in the future.
Similar Books
