Not Even for Love(3)

As she plunged down the stairs, she caught herself up, consciously took three deep breaths, and then descended at a more careful, reasonable pace. What was wrong with her?

He was standing exactly as he had been, though his eyes were busy scanning the shelves near him. He tilted his head to read a book title, and Jordan noticed the rainwater running in silver rivulets down his neck into the collar of his shirt.

“I brought two. You look as if you may need them,” she said, extending him one of the towels.

“Thanks,” he said succinctly before he buried his face in the absorbent terry cloth. He held his head still for several seconds before he raked the towel over his dark unruly hair and then around his neck, whisking quickly past the deep triangle where his shirt was open. The thick hair on his chest was curled damply. Jordan quickly averted her eyes.

He looked down at the ever-widening pool at his feet. “You’re going to have a helluva mess on your floor. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. It will mop up. Who—”

“Hell, I’m sorry again. I’m Reeves Grant.” He stuck out his hand and Jordan prevented herself just in time from jumping away from it. For some unknown reason, it seemed terribly risky to touch him, even in a friendly handshake. She didn’t know what threat touching him posed; she only knew physical contact with him would be dangerous.

And it was. She had swallowed the unreasonable caution and taken his proffered hand. The moment his fingers squeezed around hers, the muscles around her heart constricted similarly, and for an instant she didn’t think she would be able to breathe again. However, to her vast relief, her involuntary brain impulses took over, and she sucked in enough breath to murmur, “Jordan Hadlock.” Though he seemed reluctant to release it, she pulled her tingling hand out of his grasp.

“Thank you for letting me in,” he said.

“What are you doing out on a night like this? Were you looking for me for some reason?”

He smiled ruefully. “No. I wish I could say it was that simple. I arrived this afternoon—dusk really. I’ve never been to Lucerne and wanted to scout around before I checked into a room. I dismissed the cab, walked along the lake shore for a while, had a bite to eat, and then started walking through the old town. The storm came up and I got hopelessly lost.” He grinned at her winningly, boyishly, abashedly, and she laughed.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s easy to get lost if you don’t know your way around the old town.”

“Yes, but I’m a jaded traveler. I’ve been all over the world and am reputed to ‘know my way around.’ You won’t let it get out that I blew my reputation tonight, will you?” he whispered conspiratorially.

“I promise,” she echoed his hushed tones. Then she asked, “What do you do that takes you all over the world, Mr. Grant?”

“I’m a photojournalist. Free-lance mostly. Sometimes I team up with one of the news services if one of their own men is unavailable.”

Her eyes opened wide in realization. “Reeves Grant. Are you ‘R. Grant’?” He nodded. “I see your photographs often. I read a lot of magazines.” She smiled as she indicated the shelves with a sweeping hand. “Your work must be fascinating,” she said.

He shrugged modestly. “Well, it pays the rent. Or it would if I had an address. I live in hotels most of the time,” he said. “Anyway, I can’t tell you what a godsend your store was. I’ve been wandering around out there in this rain for half an hour and then I saw your lights on. I couldn’t believe the sign on the door. An English newsstand! A beacon on a dark night, the lighthouse amidst the storm,” he said dramatically, and Jordan laughed again.

“Well, hardly that impressive,” she said, smiling. “But I’m glad I was handy.”

“Do you have a telephone? And can you recommend a hotel before I completely ruin your floor?”

“Yes to both.” Turning to the counter with the old-fashioned cash register on it, she pulled a telephone from beneath it along with a well-used brochure. “Which hotel do you prefer? Any along the shore of the lake are excellent, if your budget—”

“I’m on an expense account,” he said, grinning. “You choose.”

“All right.” She placed the receiver to her ear and then groaned, “Oh, no!”

“What’s the matter?”

“The telephone is dead. I’m sorry. Sometimes when we have a bad storm …” Her voice trailed off as she looked at him mournfully.

He only shrugged again. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find a room if you can direct me out of here.”