Not bad," he decided.
"I'm overwhelmed by your flattery.
The Lawrence cottage's about three quarters of a mile up on the left. You can't miss the turnoff unless you're hiking through a storm in the middle of the night with only a flashlight."
Gennie swallowed a chuckle. Don't let him have any redeeming qualities, she pleaded. Let me remember him as a rude, nasty man who just happens to be fatally sexy. "I'll keep that in mind."
"And I wouldn't mention that you'd spent the night at Windy Point Station," he added easily as he slipped the toolbox back into place. "I have a reputation to protect."
This time she bit her lip to hold back a smile. "Oh?"
"Yeah." Grant turned back, leaning against the truck a moment as he looked at her again. "The villagers think I'm odd. I'd slip a couple notches if they found out I hadn't just shoved you back outside and locked the door."
This time she did smile-but only a little. "You have my word,no one will hear from me what a Good Samaritan you are. If anyone should happen to ask, I'll tell them you're rude, disagreeable and generally nasty."
"I'd appreciate it.
I-I have to go," she began, then bit her lip as she realized she was stuttering again-a habit she seemed to have developed in the past twenty-four hours.Forgetting her sketch pad, she stepped off the rock and prepared to make an undignified dash for her car. In the next instant she was whirled around.
His face was set, his breathing unsteady. "I was wrong." His voice filled her head, emptying it of everything else. "I have a great deal of trouble resisting you.
Don't you know that the less you tell someone, the more they want to know? You're better off to make something up than to say nothing at all."
"I'm the youngest of twelve children of two South African missionaries," he said with such ease,she very nearly believed him. "When I was six,I wandered into the jungle and was taken in by a pride of lions.I still have a pechant for zebra meat.Then when I was eightteen,I was captured by hunters and sold to a circus.For five years I was the star of the sideshow."
"The Lion Boy," Gennie put in.
"Naturally.One night during a storm the tent caught fire.In the confusion I escaped.Living off the land, I wandered the country-stealing a few chickens now and again.Eventually an old hermit took me in after I'd saved him from a grizzly."
"With your bare hands," Gennie added.
"I'm telling the story," he reminded her. "He taught me to read and write. On his deathbead he told me where he'd buried his life savings-a quarter million in gold bullion. After giving him the Viking funeral he'd requested, I had to decide whether to be a stockbroker or go back to the wilderness."
"So you decided against Wall Street, came here, and began to collect stamps."
"That's about it."
"Well," Gennie said after a moment. "With a boring story like that, I can see why you keep it to yourself."
"You asked," Grant pointed out.
"You might have made something up."
"No imagination."
She laughed then and leaned her head on his shoulder. "No,I can see you have a very literal mind.
Truce," she decided and held out a hand. When he only stared at her,she gave a quick huff and swallowed another morsel of pride. "Please."
Trapped by the single word,he took the offered hand. "All right." When she would have drawn her hand away, he tightened his grip. "Why?"
"I don't know," Gennie told him with fresh impatience. "Just a wild urge to see if I can get along with an ogre." At the ironic lift of his brow, she sighed. "All right,that was just a quick slip.I take it back.
You gonna have dinner with her and everything?"
Grant lifted a brow but managed to keep his composure. Everything, he reminded himself, meant different things to different people. At the moment it conjured up rather provocative images in his brain. "Things are presently unsettled," he murmured, using one of Macintosh's stock phrases. Catching himself, he grinned. "Yeah, we're going to have dinner." And something, he added as he strolled out after Gennie.
"What was all that about?" she demanded.
"Man talk."
"Oh,I beg your pardon."
The way she said it-very antebellum and disdainful-made him laugh and pull her into his arms to kiss her in full view of all of Windy Point.As the embrace lingered on,Grant caught the muffled crash from inside Fairfield's. "Poor Will," he murmured. "I know just how he feels." Humor flashed into his eyes again. "I better start around in the boat if we're going to have dinner...and everything."
Confused by his uncharacteristic lightheartedness, Gennie gave him a long stare. "All right," she said after a moment. "I'll meet you there.
Her nerves gathered together so quickly, Gennie nearly dropped the five pounds of briquettes on the ground. When she'd finished being exasperated with herself, she laughed and poured a neat pile of charcoal into the barbecue pit. So this was the coolly sophisticated Genvieve Grandeau, she thought wryly;established member of the art world and genteel New Orleans society,about to drop five pounds of charcoal on her toes because a rude man was going to have dinner with her. How the mighty have fallen.
Nora RobertsI'd better light the charcoal," Gennie said after a moment.
"I didn't ask before," Grant began as they started down the pier. "But do you know how to cook on one of those things?"
"My dear Mr. Campbell," Gennie said in a fluid drawl, "you appear to have several misconceptions about southern women.I can cook on a hot rock."
"And wash shirts in a fast stream."
"Every bit as well as you could," Gennie tossed back. "You might have some advantage on me in mechanical areas, but I'd say we're about even otherwise."
"A strike for the women's movement."
Gennie narrowed her eyes. "Are you about to say something snide and unintelligent?
It was foolish to feel like a girl getting ready for a date. Gennie told herself that as she unlocked the door to the cottage.She'd told herself the same thing as she'd driven away from town...as she'd turned down the quiet lane.
It was a spur of the moment cookout-two adults,a steak,and a bottle of burgundy that may or may not have been worth the price. A person would have to look hard to find any romance in charcoal, lighter fluid and some freshly picked greens from a patch in the backyard. Not for the first time, Gennie thought it a pity her imagination was so expansive.
It had undoubtedly been imagination that had brought on that rush of feeling in the churhcyard. A little unexpected tenderness, a soft breeze and she heard bells. Silly.
Gennie set the bags on the kitchen counter and wished she'd bought candles. Candlelight would make even that tidy,practical little kitchen seem romantic.And if she had a radio, there could be music...
You did study art there?" Gennie persisted.
Grant watched the smoke rise and the haze of heat that rippled the air. "Why?"
"Because it's obvious from that wicked little caricature you drew of me that you have talent, and that you've had training. What are you doing with it?"
"With what?"
Gennie drew her brows together in frustration. "The talent and the training. I'd have heard of you if you were painting."
"I'm not," he said simply.
"Then what are you doing?"
"What I want. Weren't you going to make a salad?"
"Damn it, Grant-"
"All right, don't get testy.I'll make it.
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