LITMIR.BIZ

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sake, Regina, when did you actually see him smile?” she hissed, exasperated at her silly musings. “Just a stretch of facial muscles, that’s all it was. Because you yelled like a banshee and he was scared to death you’d do it again.”

      Still muttering to herself, Regina swept into the kitchen and turned on the stove. She needed to eat, and to heck with Clint Whitfield!

      After putting on a pot of salted water, she unpinned her hair and let it swirl around her face in a rambunctious blaze of defiance. Then she slumped down on a bar stool. “Don’t be a goose, Flynn,” she admonished. “You can’t afford pride—there’s Katie’s expenses to think of.” Her school was supported by private donations, plus steep fees from parents. But Regina was well paid, and with careful planning, was managing fine. Until her home and possessions became ashes in that ravenous blaze…

      Regina’s sigh reflected her inner conflict. Right or wrong, there was no denying that living in Clint Whitfield’s home had cut her expenses to the bone. But he’d gotten a break, too, she contended; regular house sitters were paid a substantial fee. And come to think of it, why did he dislike this beautiful house so much? She’d sensed his negative feelings several times during their confrontation.

      “Dang!” she swore, jumping as the doorbell sent its three-toned peal through the house. Switching on the intercom, she inquired curtly, “Who is it?”

      “Clint Whitfield.”

      “Oh, Jeez!” Regina whispered, clutching her chest. The husky male voice had sent her heart into a stunning somersault. She cleared her throat. “Just a minute!” After hurriedly smoothing her hair, she sped to the darkened foyer. The porch lights were on and she could see him through the door’s etched-glass insets; tall, bare-headed, forbiddingly stern. Snatching a fortifying breath, she lifted her chin and opened the door to face him.

      “Ah, Mr. Whitfield,” she drawled, her puckish sense of humor surfacing like a saving grace. “Returning to the scene of the crime?”

      His dark brows shot together. “This is not a laughing matter, Ms. Flynn.”

      “Maybe not,” she agreed with a wry smile. “But I learned long ago that if you can’t laugh at your problems, you’re in big trouble.”

      He didn’t smile back.

      Regina sighed. “So why are you here?”

      “To get my hat.”

      She blinked. “Your hat?”

      “Yes. When I left here, I…left in a hurry.” He frowned as her mouth quirked. “It’s on the desk,” he ended tersely.

      “Oh.” She stepped back. “Please, come in. After all, it is your house.” Turning, she proceeded him to the great room.

      At the desk, she paused to pick up the battered Stetson. It felt good to her fingers, heavy, masculine. When he took it, his hand brushed hers. The contact created an electrifying sensation.

      He jerked his hand back. “Sorry. Static electricity. This dry weather. Thanks,” he said, taking the hat.

      “You’re welcome. You know, if you hadn’t slammed out of here so fast, you wouldn’t have had to come back.” Regina met his gaze with a rueful smile. “Then again, if I hadn’t lost my temper, maybe you’d have kept yours and we could have talked this out.”

      She glanced at the hat he turned round and round in long, tanned fingers. Something loosened inside her. “You think we could try again? Like calm, rational adults this time?”

      Clint shoved back a lock of hair from his brow. “Look, I’m bushed, beat, wiped out from travel fatigue, certainly in no position to bandy clever words with you. The best I can do is apologize for my hot-headed exit. I don’t really think you’re a squatter and I doubt you’re a thief. But truth to tell, I don’t give a damn if you are or not. All I want is my hat, and in due time, your absence from my house.”

      “No explanation?”

      His eyes narrowed. “I said I didn’t—”

      “Give a damn,” she finished for him. “Yes, I heard. Something of a character flaw there,” she murmured just loud enough for him to overhear.

      He frowned.

      Regretting her barb, Regina tipped her head and gave his rugged face a keen, probing look. A highly sensitive woman, she saw beyond his flinty blue eyes to the profound weariness of heart and mind. His spirit was deeply troubled. And you have an incorrigibly soft heart, Flynn, she acknowledged with droll self-amusement.

      He turned his head, bringing into focus the scar slanting along one angular cheekbone. She’d noticed it as soon as he stepped into the brightly lit foyer, and wondered at the where, when, and how of it. Intriguing, she admitted, mentally tracing it with a fingertip.

      Responsive to the sudden warmth blossoming in her chest, Regina reached out to rescue the Stetson from his nervous fingers. “Here, let that rest a minute. You sit down, make yourself comfortable. If you’ve been subsisting on airline food all day, you’re bound to be ravenous, and it’s an indisputable fact that I make the best spaghetti sauce in the world—in the universe, actually. The freshest ingredients, herbs I grow myself, gourmet garlic, my Italian plum tomatoes…” She kissed her fingertips. “You’ll love it.”

      Without waiting for agreement, she replaced his hat on the desk and headed for the kitchen.

      Clint stood awkwardly in place. Dammit, he should get out of here! He didn’t want her spaghetti, didn’t want her chatter or warm smiles. Well, part of him did. And that part acted for him, drawing him along behind her as if on a leash.

      Surprisingly he really was hungry. In fact, the aromatic smells wafting from her kitchen were driving him crazy. My kitchen, he amended. He ran a rough hand over his face. “This isn’t necessary, you know.”

      “I know.” She pushed a button and a low, slumberous beat of music flowed through the room. “If you’d like to freshen up, the powder room is just down the hall….” She laughed, a chiming sound that brought a sliver of peace to his troubled mind. “I guess you know where it is,” she finished, eyes twinkling.

      In the bathroom, he found towels and washcloths neatly laid out, hand soap in a pump bottle, a tiny perfume sample, Lili, a toothbrush and toothpaste—and red, sling-back pumps, one lying on its side as if kicked off enroute. Feminine things. To his chagrin, he found the bathroom’s contents fascinating. Common, ordinary things, fascinating! Confounded, he shook his head at this atypical interest.

      When he returned to the kitchen, Regina handed him a corkscrew. “Would you mind opening that wine? On the sideboard. It’s a bold Texas red…or so the salesman told me!”

      Her chiming laugh broke out again. To his muddled astonishment, Clint soon found himself sitting on a bar stool, opening wine, watching her pleasingly competent movements. She added pasta and a bit of olive oil to the pot of boiling water. A knife swished through head lettuce, juicy wedges that she dressed with more oil, tarragon vinegar, garlic salt and ground pink peppercorns. She sliced a crusty round loaf, poured a little saucer of virgin olive oil, sprinkled in cracked black pepper. Her long, slender fingers and oval nails captured his gaze and held it prisoner.

      At her request, he poured the wine. She laid place mats and napkins on the bar and they ate sitting side by side.

      Rain suddenly spattered the windows, creating a disturbingly cozy atmosphere. Through the sauce’s heady fragrance he caught a whiff of some faint, flowery scent. Lilies? It tightened every muscle in his body. He concentrated on his meal.

      Regina was aware of his need for silence. He was caught in a situation that perplexed and confused him. Maybe because he was actually enjoying it, she mused. As if enjoyment was forbidden, or at least foreign to him. What had caused him to close himself up to such a degree? Touching the wineglass to her lips, she gave him a sidelong glance as she wracked her brain for details about this fascinating man. There weren’t many. Mid-thirties, childless,

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