LITMIR.BIZ

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tilted her head as she visualized the town. “There’s a video store at Main and Church.”

      He jammed his hands in his pockets with an oath. “Used to be a restaurant. Your place used to be a hardware store.”

      “I guess even small towns have their changes.”

      “Yeah.” He couldn’t have said why it annoyed him. “Like Italian?”

      “Yes. But the closest Italian place is across the river, into West Virginia. We can just meet at Ed’s.”

      “No. Italian. I’ll come by about six-thirty.” Needing to gauge his time, he pulled a watch from his pocket. “Yeah, I can do six-thirty.”

      “That’s a nice one.” Without thinking, she crossed over, took his wrist gingerly in two fingers to get a better look at the pocket watch. “Hmm…American Watch Company, mid-1800s.” Already appraising, she turned the watch over to study the case. “Sterling, good condition. I’ll give you seventy-five for it.”

      “I paid ninety.”

      She laughed and shook back her hair. “Then you got a hell of a bargain. It’s worth a hundred and fifty.” Her gaze danced up to his. “You don’t look like the pocket-watch type.”

      “Wear one on your wrist on the job, they end up smashed.” He wanted to touch her. She looked so neat and tidy that the idea of mussing her up was enormously appealing. “Damn shame my hands are filthy.”

      Alerted, she released his wrist, brushed one hand against the other. “So’s your face. But you’re still pretty.” After shifting her briefcase strap more comfortably on her shoulder, she stepped back. “Six-thirty, then. Don’t forget the files.”

      She’d changed three times before she caught herself. A business dinner, Regan thought as she dropped down on the padded stool of her vanity, was a business dinner. Her appearance was certainly important, but it was secondary.

      She bit her lip and wondered if she should have gone with the little black dress, after all.

      No, no, no. Annoyed with herself, she snatched up her brush. Simplicity was best. The restaurant in West Virginia was casual, family-style. The purpose was professional. The blazer, slacks and silk blouse in forest green were right. There was no harm in jazzing it up with the moonstone lapel pin. But maybe the earrings were wrong. She could go with plain gold hoops instead of the more dramatic dangles.

      The hell with it. She dropped her brush, then tugged on her suede ankle boots. She would not fall into the trap of thinking of this as a date. She didn’t want to date Rafe MacKade. Just now, with her business showing real promise, she didn’t want to date anyone.

      A relationship, if indeed she decided to cultivate one, was three years down the road. Minimum. She would never make the mistake her mother had and depend on someone else for emotional and financial support. First, she would make certain she was solvent, solid and secure. And then, if and when she chose, she would think about sharing her life.

      No one was going to tell her if she could work or not. She would never have to cajole an extra few dollars out of a man to buy a new dress. Maybe it suited her parents to live that way—and they’d certainly always seemed happy enough. But that wasn’t the life Regan Bishop wanted.

      It was just too damned bad that Rafe was so dangerously attractive. And, she noted when she heard the knock on the door, prompt.

      Confident again after the quick pep talk, she walked out of the bedroom, through the small, cozily furnished living room, and opened the door.

      And, oh, she thought one last time, it was really too bad.

      He flashed that grin at her, and those wonderful green eyes swept down, then up. “Looking good.” Before she could think to avoid it, his mouth brushed hers.

      “I’ll get my coat,” she began, then stopped, the door still open to the wind. “What are those?”

      “These?” He jostled the bags he carried. “These are dinner. Where’s your kitchen?”

      “I—” He was already in, kicking the door behind him. “I thought we were going out.”

      “No, I said we were having Italian.” He took quick stock of the room. Lady chairs, gleaming tables, pretty little knickknacks and fresh flowers. All female, he mused. And the portrait of a gloomy-faced cow above the sofa added wit. “Nice place.”

      “Are you telling me you’re cooking me dinner?”

      “It’s the quickest way, without physical contact, to get a woman into bed. The kitchen through there?”

      When she’d managed to close her mouth, she followed him into the galley-style kitchen off the dining el. “Doesn’t that depend on how well you cook?”

      Appreciating her response, he smiled as he began pulling ingredients out of the bags. “You’ll have to tell me. Got a skillet?”

      “Yes, I have a skillet.” She took a large cast-iron pan from its cupboard, then lips pursed, tapped it against her palm.

      “You conk me with it, you’ll miss out on my ziti with tomato and basil.”

      “Ziti?” After running her tongue around her teeth, she set the skillet on a burner. “I’ll wait until after I eat.” She got out a second pot for the pasta and handed it to him.

      Once he’d added water and set it to boil, she watched him wash greens for a salad.

      “Where’d you learn to cook?”

      “We all cook. Chef’s knife? My mother didn’t believe there was women’s work and men’s work. Thanks,” he added and began chopping with a quick, negligent flair that had Regan lifting her brows. “There was just work,” he continued.

      “Ziti doesn’t sound like farm food.”

      “She had an Italian grandmother. Can you stand a little closer?”

      “Hmm?”

      “You smell good. I like to smell you.”

      Ignoring that, and the little twist in her stomach, she picked up the wine he’d brought along. “Why don’t I open this?”

      “Why don’t you?”

      After she’d set it on the counter to breathe, she scooted behind him to reach the cupboard to get a salad bowl. When he asked for music, she slipped back into the living room and put Count Basie on low. Why, she wondered, did a man look so sexy with his sleeves rolled up, grating carrots into a salad?

      “Don’t open that olive oil,” she told him. “I have some.”

      “Extra virgin?”

      “Of course.” She tapped a long-spouted copper pitcher on the counter.

      “Count Basie, your own olive oil.” His eyes met hers, laughed. “Want to get married?”

      “Sure. I’ve got time on Saturday.” Amused that he didn’t have such a quick comeback for that, she reached overhead for wineglasses.

      “I was planning on working Saturday.” Watching her, he set the salad aside.

      “That’s what they all say.”

      Lord, she was one terrific piece of work. He moved closer as she poured the wine. “Tell me you like watching baseball on TV on hot summer nights, and we’ve got a deal.”

      “Sorry. I hate sports.”

      He moved closer still, and with a wineglass in either hand, she moved back. “It’s a good thing I found this flaw now, before we had five or six kids and a dog.”

      “You’re a lucky guy.” Heart jittering, she backed up again.

      “I like this,” he murmured, and traced a finger over the little mole beside her mouth. Inching closer, he

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