just maybe, she looked nothing like Monika beyond the white skin and the long waterfall of dark hair. He had spent a long time thinking about Monika and her treachery, which had ultimately cost his father and his father’s driver their lives.
His hand on the doorjamb was registering a faint tremor. Some things he couldn’t banish.
He’d realized at some time someone would rent the cottage. He’d hoped for a quiet couple. The sudden appearance of the girl had shocked him out of his complacency. He didn’t want her close. The wrong time. The wrong place. A random visit? Fate?
He heard her light footsteps, then she rounded the corner of the dining room, a half-smile on her face as though she expected someone. A friend? Her eyes—a beautiful iridescent green—at first radiant, suddenly flooded with something he interpreted instantly as panic. He knew all about panic. He couldn’t be fooled.
How very damned odd! Why should she look so shaken? He wasn’t that formidable, was he? Although he’d been told many times he was.
He damned nearly gave his real name—he was only trying to project reassurance. But he didn’t move an inch from the door, all at once wanting to release her from her high tension. He hadn’t considered she would have that effect on him. He had no wish to frighten her, and frighten her he had.
“Evan Thompson. I live next door,” he gestured with his hand. “The colonial.” In the space of about a minute she haunted his eyes.
“Laura…Graham.” She responded so hesitantly it immediately spun into his mind that it wasn’t her real name any more than his was Thompson.
Laura, in turn, realized within the space of a second that this was the fascinating “loner” Harriet had told her about.
“I’m sorry if I startled you.” He was aware his apology was overly clipped and formal. But he couldn’t seem to stop looking at her. The long dark hair, the white skin, the delicate bone structure and petite stature. Otherwise she was nothing like Monika.
Monika had had gold unwinking eyes, like a cat’s. Monika had never looked frightened—even when the game was up and she’d been surrounded by the comrades of the patriots she’d betrayed. Men about to pass instant judgement and there had been no way he could have stopped them.
Laura said nothing for a moment, aware she was under intense scrutiny. “I wasn’t expecting a man at my door,” she explained.
He answered dryly. “I’ll go if you prefer.”
“Oh, no!” She half raised a hand, let it drop. “I’m sorry. I must sound flustered.”
“One wonders why. I’m not that frightening, am I?”
She studied him, thinking Harriet’s description had been excellent. Late thirties. Exceptionally handsome in a dark, brooding way. Deep resonant voice. Thick dark hair. Brilliant dark eyes. Heavy sculptured head. A big man, strongly built.
She sensed he was somehow hostile to women. To her? That didn’t make sense.
Grooves ran from his nose to his mouth, bracketing it and drawing attention to its chiselled perfection. A sensuous mouth. A contradiction.
“Not at all!” She tried hard to suppress her agitation, knowing colour was running beneath her skin. “I thought it was someone else. Someone who knows I’m here, inspecting the house.”
“You like it?”
“I do.”
He regarded her lovely face, clear of that early expression of panic. “May I ask if you intend to rent it?”
“I don’t think I could if I had to get your approval,” She read his mind.
“On the contrary, I don’t care who moves in as long as they’re quiet. May I enquire too if you’ll be on your own?” He couldn’t keep the sardonic note out of his voice.
She stared back at him, trying to formulate an answer. He was formidable, but not threatening. Experienced. Tough. But never the sort of man to lift his hand in anger to a woman. Such a thing would only rouse in him revulsion. All this she saw even as she registered he would be very difficult to know. Very complex.
“It’s not a crime, is it?”
“It is if you play pop music very loudly.” Unexpectedly he smiled, sunlight from behind storm clouds.”
“I don’t know much about pop music at all,” she confessed, lulled by that smile. “I’m a classically trained pianist without a piano. I expect you’ll be grateful for that.”
“Not at all. I grew up in a house of music. My mother is a cellist.”
“Would I know of her?” she asked with genuine interest.
“Could be.” He looked away.
“I thought I might have a career as a pianist,” she found herself confiding.
“So what happened?”
“It didn’t work out.” She too changed the subject. “I’m a friend of Sarah Dempsey, by the way.” She said it as though Sarah’s name could offer safety and acceptance.
“She’s a very beautiful woman and a fine doctor. The town counts itself lucky to have her. I’ve met Dr Dempsey, most notably at her engagement party. I know her fiancé Kyall McQueen better. All in all they’re an extraordinary couple. You and Sarah were at school together? No, what made me say that? You’d be some years younger…”
“It’s not how old you are, it’s how old you feel,” she found herself saying dangerously.
“Really? And how do you feel, Miss Graham?”
“As though I’m being quietly interrogated.” She met the darkness of his eyes.
“‘Quietly’ and ‘interrogated’ are mutually exclusive.”
“You sound as if you know. Have you been in the Forces at some time? Secret Intelligence Service?” She was only half joking. Undeniably he had that sort of presence. Even standing perfectly still he give the impression he was at high alert, ready, engines running.
“I wonder how you ever thought that?” he answered smoothly, though her observation had thrown him.
“Am I right or wrong?”
“You couldn’t be more wrong.” He grimaced. “I’m a humble wood worker.”
“You surely don’t think yourself humble?” What was the matter with her? She was breaking all the rules.
“All right, then, you tell me?”
“I think you’re a casualty of battle.” My God had she said that?
He raised a large, sculpted hand. “Miss Graham, you’ve blown my cover.”
“Sometimes an emotional response can be quite unconnected to appearance or reason.”
“I
