a writer? You’re a famous author?”
His brilliant gaze told her she was way off beam. “Let’s get this whole thing cleared up. I’m a wood worker.”
She was afraid she had overstepped the mark. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry, Evan. I was just having—fun.”
“Hey!” He watched her face, saw it lose colour. That really bothered him. “I’m sorry too if I sounded a bit stern. Who hurt you, Laura?” he questioned, looking like a man who would listen. “If I don’t ask I’ll never know.”
Her eyes clouded. “Why do you want to know?”
“There’s something very endearing about you,” he said with simple truth. “Witness the way you’ve cajoled reclusive me to take you out for coffee and sandwiches. Just between the two of us I want to know enough to be on the look-out for your boyfriend, should he decide to try to track you down. Do you think he will?”
Her whole body tensed. “No, no. Everything’s okay.”
“Of course. That’s why you just trembled. I promise you I’ll keep an eye out, and you don’t have to put me on the payroll. Maybe you can invite me in for dinner some time. Can you cook?”
She smiled. Shook her head. “I thought I could. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Your self-esteem has taken a battering.”
“Why do you say that.”
“It couldn’t be clearer if it were front page news on today’s Courier Mail.”
“There you go again.” She paused in her inspection of a sofa to look across at him. “You’re a reporter. An overseas correspondent. There’s something else in your background, I think.”
“Please tell me,” he invited, deliberately using a casual tone. He continued down the aisle, thinking she was way too perceptive.
“This might be a bad time for it as you’re helping me choose my furniture.”
“Fire away.” He touched his fingers to the surface of a smallish circular table. Good red cedar. “I won’t hold it against you.”
“All right.” A curious thrill raced down Laura’s spine. “I know we only met today. And I’ve never seen you before in my life. Yet the more I look at you the more I’m convinced I know your face from somewhere. Have you ever worn a beard?”
“Good grief, Laura.” He rolled out a leather armchair on castors.
“Tell the truth.”
“Every man has a beard from time to time, even if it’s only the weekend growth.”
“I mean a full beard and moustache.”
“My dear, that would take years,” he drawled.
“All right. It’s just that I keep seeing you with a beard. Very impressive. Very formidable. As though no one could hide from you. The cover of a book, maybe?”
He exchanged a droll look with her. “You’re not even warm.” Which was far from the truth. He had put out a book on his trip to Antarctica—but the photograph had been on the back cover, beard and all. “But I’ll guarantee to give progress reports.”
“Just a woman’s curiosity.” She settled in the rich burgundy armchair he had rolled out for her attention.
“And here I was thinking you a mere babe,” he gently mocked.
“I know.” It was true she didn’t carry her scars on her face, otherwise she would look awful.
He couldn’t help smiling at the picture she made, curled up in the oversized but very comfortable chair.
“But very bright. When you’re older and more sure of yourself you’ll be positively dangerous.” He turned to look around him. “We’ve walked all the aisles. What do you think?”
“The armchair, definitely,” she decided. “It’s very cosy. I liked the circular table you were looking at. Good wood. Is it red cedar?”
“It is. It’ll come up nicely.”
“You mean you’re going to work on it?” she asked, sliding her long hair back behind her ear.
“When I have the time. What else?”
“The most expensive thing will be the new bedroom suite,” she said. “We can use the cedar table for when I invite you in. I’m not fussed on the chairs. They’re too—functional. Clean lines.” Her smile was strained.
“You and the boyfriend got to discussing furnishings?” Instantly he picked up on her wavelength.
“How do you know I’m not married?” She looked straight at him, loving his attention and the dazzling complexity of it, but somehow hoping he would guess her secret.
“I don’t know,” he replied, studying her with his brilliant dark eyes. “You’d say, wouldn’t you? Then again I can’t remember when I last met a young woman who somehow struck me as being such an innocent abroad.”
“I’m not. Maybe I’m playing at a character.”
He didn’t speak for a few moments, considering what she’d just said. “I don’t think so. I think you’re a young woman who’s been cherished all your life and now you find yourself in a situation you can’t handle. Yet you’re someone who wants desperately to stand on your own two feet. You’re even prepared to take a risk to do it. Is the boyfriend someone who wants to dominate you?”
“Very much so.” She couldn’t keep the quiver out of her voice.
“Then it’s clear you can’t be happy together. Probably that’s why you’re comfortable with me. You are, aren’t you?”
She flushed. “Yes.”
He nodded. “You’re drawn to older men. No doubt because you deeply loved your father.”
“Yes, again. Isn’t it a mercy that as well as being comfortable—which you’re not, strictly—you’re charming, obliging, with a good sense of humour, and investigative enough to be interesting? Shall I go on? You shouldn’t be worried I’ll take advantage of your kindness. I half hope we’ll be friends?”
“Why half hope?” He lifted a quizzical brow.
“I can’t expect more.”
“You can as far as I’m concerned. The decision has been made. I’m big brother. You’re Laura next door. We’re well on our way towards becoming good friends. To put the whole thing simply, we’ve bonded. Both of us are living defensively and so forth. As for chairs—I have two at home that will do you nicely.”
“Did you make them?” She looked up at him with open delight.
“I did.”
“Then
