“You deliberately put yourself in harm’s way,” Paul said, his voice tight, “going near an animal you know is dangerous. What were you thinking?”
“Sharon thinks Darkside is my whisper horse,” Julia began.
Paul swung his gaze around to the other woman. “You encouraged her to go near Darkside? She can’t even ride.”
Sharon didn’t blink. “She’s got him eating out of her hand. Darnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Paul was practically vibrating with anger, and Julia decided she had to intervene. She laid her hand on his chest, where she could feel his heart pounding. “Darkside didn’t mean to knock me off the fence. He was just saying good-bye.”
“For God’s sake, horses don’t say good-bye,” Paul said.
“I gotta say, I’ve never seen a man move as fast as you did,” Sharon said. “One minute you were standing beside me at the barn door, and the next you were playing landing mat.”
“He has good reflexes from foosball,” Julia said.
Sharon directed a knowing look at Paul’s arm curving around her. “I think he has good motivation.”
Paul vaulted to his feet, holding out his hand to Julia with a clear air of command. When she put hers in his grasp, he yanked her off the ground and into his arms. “You scared the hell out of me,” he said into her hair. “Don’t ever do that again.”
She knew what he meant; he wanted her to stay away from Darkside, and she wasn’t going to promise that. So she just said, “Mmmph,” against the warmth of his chest and hugged him back.
He held her until his heartbeat slowed to its normal pace. As he released her, he stepped back, running both hands through his hair.
“Did I hurt you?” she asked. “I fell right on top of you.”
He shook his head, the tension in his face relaxing. “You’re just a wood sprite. You barely weigh a thing.”
“At least let me make sure your clothing is undamaged.” She walked around behind him and winced at the dirt and grass clinging to his shirt and slacks. Without thinking, she began to brush at it, her hands traveling over his back and shoulders before moving down to stroke his tight butt and the hard muscles of his thighs.
“Thanks, but it would be safer if you didn’t keep that up,” he said, twisting around to catch her hands.
As his fingers closed around her wrists, she shivered with the knowledge that she was poking at a tiger. It was thrilling and a little frightening, but she was determined to enjoy this experience fully. She’d never been involved with anyone like Paul Taggart before; he was protective of her, yes, but he treated her as an adult woman, unlike her family. In fact, he thought she was fascinating.
“Now after dinner tonight is a whole different scenario,” he said, his eyes glinting.
“I don’t remember being invited,” Julia said, enjoying the fact he still held on to her.
“Sweetheart, you are most definitely on the guest list. And it numbers exactly one.”
Chapter 15
JULIA FIDGETED WITH the fringe on her sage-green shawl as Paul drove her to the 1827 House, the nicest restaurant in downtown Sanctuary. After he told her where they were eating dinner, she’d made another flying visit to Annie B’s to buy a slim-fitting pleated taffeta sheath in shades of lavender and celadon. It looked like an Impressionist painting, especially when she added a necklace and earrings of glass leaves in varied hues of green. Paul had whistled when he saw her, so she figured it worked for him.
She had wanted to whistle at him too when he walked in her door dressed in a silver-gray suit and pale-mauve shirt. The suit draped over his tall, rangy frame like an elegant glove, and the shirt made his olive skin glow. Unfortunately, she’d never been good at whistling, so she’d settled for a slow scan up and down after which she gave him a long, appreciative kiss. That seemed to work for him too.
“You’ve gotten very quiet,” he said. “What’s bothering you?”
“Claire called after you dropped me at the inn. She’s set up a phone interview for me with some influential art blogger. It will be good for my show and the auction, but I’m nervous.” She hadn’t wanted to confess her inexperience to Claire, but nervous was an understatement about how she felt at the prospect of talking to Paxton Hayes. “My uncle has always handled all my publicity. I don’t even know what he tells the press.”
“We can do some research online,” Paul said. “Read the fellow’s blog. When is the interview?”
“Two o’clock tomorrow. He has to have time to write the article and post it, so people get interested in the show.”