LITMIR.BIZ

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“They’re what set a good business apart from its competitors.”

      “That’s how I feel,” she said in surprise.

      “Then you’ve got a decent shot at making something out of your business.” He looked down at the box spring. “Ready?”

      A little while later, the bed now set up in the next room, Kelly sat down and flopped back on it.

      Frowning, he braced his hands on his waist. “What are you doing?”

      “Taking a break,” she responded.

      She surveyed him. He looked none the worse for this afternoon’s exertions. In fact, he might as well have just come in from a stroll.

      He looked at his watch. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before you need to get back to the shop. We can hang those two picture frames you wanted in the bathroom.”

      “Don’t you ever stop?” she asked in exasperation. “Erica accuses me of being all work and no play, but I seem like a slacker next to you.”

      “Just trying to work off some edginess.”

      “What are you edgy about?” she asked curiously.

      His face shuttered. “Nothing.”

      It clearly wasn’t nothing.

      “I’ve been jogging,” he elaborated, “but I’m not getting the workout I’m used to back home.”

      “Let me guess. You normally rise at five in the morning to get on the elliptical trainer.”

      “And let me guess, you don’t. Instead, you’re having tea out of a mismatched cup and saucer.”

      She shook her head and smiled. “Tea’s at four in the afternoon,” she corrected. “Civilized.”

      Civilized, she thought, was what Ryan barely seemed, despite generations of money and breeding in the Sperling family tree. He emanated raw masculinity and barely leashed power.

      He eyed her and she belatedly realized how she must look lying before him. She was wearing a sheer emerald green blouse over a snug-fitting beige tank, and had paired them with pedal pushers.

      They didn’t like each other, she reminded herself. They had just unexpectedly been thrown together this month, and had reached a de facto truce so they could be civil to each other.

      His gaze trailed over her. “Yeah, well, don’t worry. You’re none the worse for not hitting the gym at five. Everything looks good.”

      Men, she thought, suddenly indignant. He was willing to look down at her, literally and figuratively, but that didn’t prevent him from enjoying the view.

      “How can you know me so well and yet think so little of me?” she blurted.

      He didn’t respond, but the look on his face was one of sexual awareness blended with irritation and it spoke of his inner battle.

      All at once, she’d had enough. Enough of his scorn, enough of his disdain, enough of his attitude altogether. She’d spent a lifetime feeling answerable for her mother’s actions and she’d had enough.

      She patted the bed beside her. “Take a break.”

      He looked from her to the bed, his eyes narrowing.

      She almost smiled, feeling a touch reckless—and strangely empowered.

      “No, thanks,” he said roughly. “Let’s get a move on.”

      She arched a brow. “Does it bother you if I lie here?”

      “In a word, yes.”

      His hand closed around her ankle, and he pulled her toward him.

      She gasped and sat up, lowering her feet to the floor as she reached the edge of the bed.

      “That’s better,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

      She stood up and watched as his gaze went to the cleavage revealed by her V-neck blouse.

      When his gaze finally came back to hers, time seemed to slow.

      She searched his face. His expression was forbidding, but desire was nevertheless stamped on every feature. He wanted to kiss her.

      Her lips parted and she felt a tingling awareness all over.

      “You don’t even like me,” she said.

      “Yeah, but right now, it’s hard to care,” he responded.

      “This is a bad idea.”

      “I’ve had worse,” he muttered.

      “You’re going to kiss me.”

      “Are you going to object?” he asked, bending toward her.

      Her eyes fluttered closed and she sighed as his lips touched hers. His mouth was warm and soft as it moved over hers, shaping and stroking.

      Her arms stole up to his neck and his came around her, so that they fit together snugly.

      This, she thought, was what she’d wondered about ever since he’d walked into her shop, but the real thing was even better than she’d imagined.

      She opened to him, allowing him to take the kiss deeper.

      Within moments, liquid desire pooled between her legs and her breasts grew heavy and sensitive.

      Her hand ran through his hair, anchoring him, as the heat they generated took them ever higher.

      She moaned and shifted, and it seemed to fuel his response and need.

      Abruptly, however, he lifted his head and he pushed her away.

      “Damn it,” he said harshly, his eyes glittering.

      She felt off balance, but his reaction soon sunk in.

      “Damn it,” he repeated, running a hand through his hair, as if unable to believe his own stupidity. “You’re the daughter of my father’s former mistress. My father was sleeping with your mother while mine was dying!”

      His words stung, dredging up feelings of being cheap and unclean—guilt by association with Brenda Hartley.

      Her chin came up. “And that sums it up, doesn’t it?”

      “Those are the facts that you and I can’t change,” he countered.

      “Except you’re attracted despite yourself, aren’t you, Ryan?” she tossed out. “And you hate yourself for feeling that way.”

      She turned then, grabbed her purse and bolted from the room.

      When she made it down to the lower level of the house, she could hear Ryan’s footsteps upstairs.

      “Kelly!”

      Without heeding his attempt to catch up with her, she yanked open the lodge’s front door and walked rapidly to her car.

      Moments later, as she pulled out of the drive with a spray of gravel, she let the humiliation sink in.

      She would not be that vulnerable to Ryan Sperling again, she vowed.

      She, of all people, should have known better.

      Five

      That night, Ryan nursed a beer at the bar of the White Fir Tavern. As he took a swig of his drink, he looked around him morosely.

      The White Fir was your typical rustic roadside bar, except it claimed to have been in existence since 1930. A steady trickle of upscale tourists through its doors lent it some pretension. The wood surface of the bar was so dark and beer stained, it was practically black. An unused pool table stood to one side, along with a fifties-style jukebox.

      The place was about half-full, and between the steady drone of conversation and the

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