Tears of the Renegade by Linda Howard Page B

across the spines of the books, considering and rejecting as she read the titles. Before she could choose a book, the doorbell chimed, then was followed promptly by a hard knock that rattled the door.
    She knew instinctively who it was, but her steps didn’t falter as she went to the door and opened it.
    He was leaning against the door frame, his breath misting in the cold air. His blue eyes were leaping with a strange anger. “I didn’t want you involved in this,” he snapped.
    Susan stepped back and waved him into the house. He had made some concession to the weather, after all, she noted, as he shrugged out of the lightweight jacket he wore. She took it from him and hung it neatly in the coat closet. She was calm, as if the shock of seeing his cruelty had freed her from the dizzying spell of his sensuality. Her heartbeat was slow and steady, her breathing regular.
    â€œI’ve just put on a pot of coffee. Would you like some?”
    His mouth thinned into a hard line. “Aren’t you going to offer me whiskey, try to get me drunk so it’ll be easier to handle me?”
    Did he think that was why Imogene had offered him something to drink? She started to ask him, then shut her mouth, because it was possible that he was right. Imogene could have offered coffee, because there was always a fresh pot made after every meal. And neither Imogene nor Preston drank very much, beyond what was required socially.
    Instead she treated his question literally. “I don’t have any whiskey in the house, because I don’t drink it. If you want something alcoholic, you’ll have to settle for wine. Not only that, I think it would be difficult to get you drunk, and that being drunk would make you harder to handle, rather than easier.”
    â€œYou’re right about that; I make a mean drunk. Coffee will do fine,” he said tersely, and followed her as she went into the kitchen. Without looking, she knew that he was examining her home, seeing the warmth and comfort of it, so different from the formal perfection of Blackstone House. Her rooms were large and airy, with a lot of windows; the floors were natural wood, polished to a high gloss. A profusion of plants, happy in the warmth and light, gave the rooms both color and coziness.
    He watched as she took two brown earthenware mugs from the cabinet and poured the strong, hot coffee into them. “Cream or sugar?” she asked, and he shook his head, taking the cup from her.
    â€œThere’s a fire lit in the den; let’s go in there. I was cold when I got home,” she said by way of explanation, leading the way into the other room.
    She curled up in her favorite position, in a corner of the love seat that sat directly before the fire, but he propped himself against the mantel as he drank his coffee. Again he looked athis surroundings, taking in her books, the needlepoint she’d been working on, the television and stereo system perched in place on the built-in shelves. He didn’t say anything, and she wondered if he used silence as a weapon, forcing others to make the first move. But she wasn’t uncomfortable, and she felt safe in her own home. She drank her coffee and watched the fire, content to wait.
    He placed the mug on the mantel with a thud, and Susan looked up. “Would you like more coffee?” she offered.
    â€œNo.”
    The flat refusal, untempered by the added “thank you” that politeness demanded, signaled that he was ready for the silence to end. Susan mentally braced herself, then set her cup aside and said evenly, “I suppose you want to talk about leasing the ridges.”
    He uttered an explicit Anglo-Saxon phrase that brought her to her feet, her cheeks flaming, ready to show him the door. He reached out and caught her arm, swinging her around and hauling her up against his body in a single movement that stunned her with its swiftness. He wrapped his left arm around her waist,