Paderevsky and I have to fill his shoes--no easy task, I assure you. He’s a magnificent hornist.”
“Yes,” Graham ground out. “Damn. Look, I’m not going to spend the entire night arguing with you. I want the key you used to get into my office. Give it to me and I’ll go.”
“The key? Oh; you believed me!” She laughed and hoped she was the only one who could hear how hollowly. “No, no, I don’t have a key. I bribed a janitor.”
“Damn it, woman!” he hissed angrily, but quickly reined in his temper. “Only I have a key to my office.”
“Then how could I have one?”
He slung his rifle over his shoulder and took one long step toward her. His toes were just inches from hers. It was all she could do to stop herself from snatching her feet away, shriveling them up like the Wicked Witch of the East. Her heart beat wildly. Had she pushed him too far? What if he had come out into the grove to check on Harry in the snake pit and had stumbled on her? Or maybe he was on his way to Paddie’s cottage to make her think someone was watching her? Poachers, indeed. Who would steal grapefruit blossoms?
Graham gave her just enough time to panic before he asked calmly, “Would you like me to search your belongings until I find it?”
Whitney reached over and dug around in her decrepit canvas bag. There was a bust of Beethoven silk-screened on the outside. If Graham noticed, he said nothing. She suddenly realized the man was skulking about in his grove without a flashlight. The moon was bright, but, in her estimation, not that bright. She withdrew a deerskin chamois cloth and glanced around at him. He had his rifle pointed at her. “That’s not necessary,” she said crisply. “I’m not likely to attack you with anything less than a machine gun—”
“The key, please.”
She unfolded the rag and, trying to ignore the long barrel of the rifle, handed over his accursed key. “Enjoy,” she said.
“This had better be your only copy?”
It wasn’t. Paddie would never have let Whitney use her only copy of such an important weapon. “Of course. Why would I need two?”
“If I catch you in my office again, I’m going to drag you to the police by your heels. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“And I’m not in any mood to rescue you from a band of poachers. You’d better be off my property by noon tomorrow.”
“Gladly.”
He moved in front of her, so that they were again toe-to-toe and she could see the muscles tensed in his arms and the hard set of his jaw. His shadow cast over her. With one finger, he tilted her chin up toward him. But, surprisingly, when he spoke, his drawl was sonorous and almost gentle. “And Whitney,” he said, “stick to playing your damned horn.”
She thought he would turn on his heels and disappear into the night, but he didn’t. He cupped her elbows and brought her to her feet. Her horn was between them, but he didn’t notice, and neither did she. She only noticed his eyes. They were a cool, cool green, and yet they seemed to burn with bridled passion and intensity. They were eyes she could look at for a long time.
He smiled, and up close it was more powerful, more sensual, than ever. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to kiss a woman in sweat pants as much as I do you,” he said in a low, lazy drawl. “Why do you think that is, Whitney?”
“Maybe it’s my French horn.”
“Maybe it’s you.”
And finally he did kiss her, his mouth lightly grazing her lips. He touched her cheek, his skin as cool as the night air. Whitney gripped her horn, but was too mesmerized by the play of his lips and tongue on her mouth to pull back. Harry would say she was jumping out of the frying pan into the fire, She would agree, and jump willingly. She could seem to do nothing else.
“Noon,” he said, and was gone before she had finished her nod.
Not only did the tent stink, but it leaked. Having seen the holes and handled the worn fabric, Whitney was not
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