Not Even for Love(4)

“But the rain,” she protested. “Why don’t you stay a while longer?” The words surprised her own ears and his brows quirked again in amusement. Covering her embarrassment, she hastened to add, “It may stop soon.”

He looked out the window at the storm, which was still raging. If anything, the thunder and lightning seemed to be increasing in ferocity.

“I’m no martyr,” he admitted. “I’ll stay awhile. Am I keeping you from anything?”

“No—I was only shelving some books.” She gestured toward the ladder.

“Then I insist on helping while I’m here.”

“No, it can wait. I—”

“I owe it to you,” he said. “That is, if you don’t mind my wet clothes.”

She did, but not in the way he suspected. The fine fabric of his blue shirt was still damp and clung to the ridges of muscle and bone on his torso. His jeans, tight to begin with, were molded in much the same way to narrow hips and long, lean thighs.

“No,” she said shakily. “I’m not exactly dressed for company either.” Suddenly, and for the first time, she was made aware of her appearance. After she had closed the shop, she had eaten a light dinner, showered, and donned her most comfortable pair of slacks and ribbed knit cotton sweater. She had drawn her hair back in a haphazard ponytail and secured it with a tortoiseshell clasp. Her feet were bare. And she was wearing no bra—a fact made crucial by the green eyes that traveled down her trim body. As if being alerted of his scrutiny, Jordan felt her nipples begin to pout beneath the soft pink cotton and she whirled away in alarm, willing them to return to their relaxed state.

Why wasn’t she wearing one of her functional skirts or business suits? Her homey clothes only made this bizarre situation seem more intimate than circumstances warranted.

But the intimacy was there with a reality that bordered on tangibility. Already she felt a shiver of anticipation each time she looked at Reeves Grant. Anticipation of what? The whole thing was becoming absurd, and she was sure the chaos existed only in her mind. He wasn’t aware of it.

Indeed, when she looked back at him he was kneeling down with the damp towel, mopping up the puddle he had made. “Please don’t bother with that,” she said as she ascended the ladder with an armload of books.

“I think my clothes have dried somewhat, and if I get this water up, I won’t feel so guilty about invading your store. Do you live here?” he asked abruptly.

She was stunned for a moment and suddenly wary. Then she remembered getting the towels. And with her casual appearance, of course, he would deduce that she lived here.

“Yes,” she answered. “Upstairs there is a small apartment. I’ve been here for three years.”

“Three years?” He seemed shocked. “You’re an American.”

It wasn’t a question, but she replied as if it had been. “Yes. I’m from the Midwest. Three years ago I found myself at loose ends and went to London. Business associates of my father helped me get this job. There is a chain of these English newsstands throughout Europe, usually in smaller towns where American and British newspapers are harder to find. We, of course, cater mostly to English-speaking tourists.”

“What happened three years ago to make you feel at loose ends?” It was as though he had heard nothing else, but had homed in on the one point in her narrative that she wished he had overlooked. She was tempted to tell him that it was none of his business and dismiss the subject immediately.

However, looking down at him from her place on the ladder, she saw the green eyes staring up at her, demanding the truth. One strong hand, with fingers sensitive enough to handle the delicate intricacies of his cameras, was resting next to her bare foot on the rung of the ladder.

She pulled her eyes away from his as she mumbled, “My husband died.” Her shaking hands busied themselves with the books she was lining up along the top shelf. It was taking much more time than should be necessary to get them just right.

“What are you putting up there?” he asked, breaking a silence that was stretching dangerously long.

“Philosophy and religion,” she said. “The current bestsellers go on the bottom shelves. The spicier the book, the lower the shelf.” She looked down at him and smiled impishly.

He laughed. “Good merchandising,” he said. “Here. This is all.” He handed up the last of the books and she leaned down to take them.

At that moment another crack of lightning struck close to the small shop and after a sizzling explosion at each fixture the lights went out.

“Jordan!” She had momentarily lost her balance, but his hands came up around her waist to steady her on the ladder. “Are you okay?” he asked in the sudden darkness.