Do you have some antiseptic?”
“In the bathroom.”
He marched her into it and fumbled in the medicine cabinet for antiseptic and a bandage.
“Where’s Ada?” he asked as he cleaned the small cut, examined it for shards, and applied the stinging antiseptic.
“Out getting pizza,” she muttered.
He glanced up. He’d never been so close to her, and those silver eyes at point-blank range were frightening. So was the warmth of his lean, powerful body and the smell of his musky cologne.
His eyes searched hers quietly, and he didn’t smile. That wasn’t unusual. She’d only seen him smile at Ada or his mother. He was reserved to the point of inhibition most of the time. A hard man. Cold…
Something wild and frightening dilated her eyes as she met that long, lingering look, and her heart jumped. Her lips parted as she tore her gaze down to the small hand that was visibly trembling in his big ones.
“Nervous, Katriane?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m nervous,” she bit off, deciding that a lie would only amuse him. If granite could be amused.
“How long did it take Ada to talk you into this visit?” he asked.
She drew in a heavy breath. “All of a half hour,” she said gruffly. “And I still think it’s a horrible mistake.” She looked up at him defiantly. “I don’t want to spoil Christmas for her by fighting with you.”
His chin lifted as he studied her. “Then you’ll just have to be nice to me, won’t you?” he baited. “No snide remarks, no deliberate taunts…”
“Look who’s talking about snide remarks!” she returned. “You’re the one who does all the attacking!”
“You give as good as you get, don’t you?” he asked.
Her lower lip jutted. “It’s Christmas.”
“Yes, I know.” He studied her. “I like presents.”
“Is anyone going to give you one?” she asked incredulously.
“Ada,” he reminded her.
“Poor demented soul, she loves you,” she said, eyeing him.
“Women do, from time to time,” he returned.
“Ah, the advantages of wealth,” she muttered.
“Do you think I have to pay for it?” he asked with a cold smile. “I suppose a woman who sells it expects everyone to…”
Her hand lifted again, but he caught it this time, holding it so that she had to either stand on her tiptoes or have her shoulder dislocated.
“Let go!” she panted. “You’re hurting!”
“Then stop trying to hit me. Peace on earth, remember?” he reminded her, oddly calm.
“I’d like to leave you in pieces,” she mumbled, glaring up at him.
His eyes wandered from her wild, waving red-gold hair down past her full breasts to her small waist, flaring hips and long legs. “You’ve gained a little weight, haven’t you?” he asked. “As voluptuous as ever. I suppose that appeals to some men.”
“Ooooh!” she burst out, infuriated, struggling.
He let her go all at once and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, watching her with amusement as he lit it. “What’s the matter? Disappointed because you don’t appeal to me?”
“God forbid!”
He shook his head. “You’ll have to do better than this if you want to keep a truce with me for the next few days. I can’t tolerate hysterical women.”
She closed her eyes, willing him to disappear. It didn’t work. When she opened them, he was still there. She put away the antiseptic and bandages and went back into the living room, walking stiffly, to clean the debris of the shattered ball from the beige carpet.
“Don’t cut yourself,” he cautioned, dropping lazily into an armchair with the ashtray he’d found.
“On what, the ball or you?” she asked coldly.
He only laughed, softly, menacingly; and she fumbled with pieces of the ball while he watched her in that catlike, unblinking way of his.
“I thought Ada told me you’d stopped smoking,” she remarked when she was finished.
“I did. I only do it now when I’m nervous.” He took another long draw, his eyes mocking. “You give me the jitters, honey, didn’t you know?”
“Me and the cobalt bomb, maybe,” she scoffed. She threw away the debris and ran an irritated hand through her hair. “Do you want me to show you to your room, like a good hostess?” she asked.
“You’d show me to the elevator and press the Down button,” he said. “I’ll wait for my sister and a warmer welcome.”
It was Christmas, and he’d lost his mother, and she hated the surge of sympathy she felt. But knowing he’d toss it right back in her face kept her quiet. She went to the window and stared down at the busy street. “Ada, hurry,” she wanted to scream.
“I saw your book advertised on television the other day,” he remarked.
She turned around, arms folded defensively over her breasts. “Did you? Imagine, you watching television.”
He didn’t take her up on that. He crushed out his half-finished cigarette. “It sold out at the local bookstore.”
“I’m sure you bought all the copies—to keep your good neighbors from being exposed to it,” she chided.
His eyebrows arched. “In fact, I did buy one copy. To read.”
She went red from head to toe. The thought of Egan Winthrop reading Harvest of Passion made her want to pull a blanket over her head. It was a spicy book with sensuous love scenes, and the way he was looking her over made it obvious what he thought of the book and its author.
“I like historical fiction,” he remarked. “Despite having to wade through the obligatory sex to get to it.”
She flushed even more and turned away, too tongue-tied to answer him.
“How do you manage to stay on your feet with all that exhaustive research you obviously do?”
She whirled, her eyes blazing. “What do you mean by that?” she burst out.
He laughed softly, predatorily. “You know damned good and well what I mean. How many men does it take?”
The door opened just in time to spare his ears. Ada walked in and her face glowed with joy as she saw her brother. She tossed the pizza onto a chair and
