wasn’t gone long. Returning with a small plastic box, she opened it and laid it on the bar. He could see that it held a thermometer, single dose packs of pain reliever, fever reducer and antibacterial cream, alcohol pads, tweezers, a small pair of scissors and adhesive bandages in assorted sizes. “You seem to be well equipped for emergencies.”
She had already taken his foot in her hands again. “I like to be prepared. This will probably sting when I remove the glass.”
“I can take it.” Braced for her touch this time, he didn’t even flinch when she eased the glass from his foot. He was somewhat surprised by the gentleness of her touch. Based on his past experiences with her, he might have expected her to be a bit rougher with him. Even when she cleaned the bleeding wound with an alcohol pad, she took such care that he hardly noticed the unavoidable burning. “You’re quite good at this.”
Reaching for the medicated cream and bandages, she sounded distracted when she answered. “I have some experience. My former fiancé was into rodeo. Fancied himself a cowboy. I was always patching him up after…”
She stopped in midsentence, as if she’d caught herself saying something inappropriate. When she spoke again, it was a brusque, “There. That should keep you from bleeding all over this pretty rug. The cut wasn’t very deep. I don’t think it will give you any problems.”
He waited until she had turned to close the first-aid kit before asking very casually, “Fiancé?”
“Ex-fiancé.” She closed the plastic box with a snap. “And, no, I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Fine.”
“Fine. Can you walk on that foot?”
He stood, paying little attention to the twinge of discomfort. His concentration was focused, instead, on Grace’s flustered expression. “No problem. You’ve patched me up quite nicely.”
“Yes, well, don’t expect me to make a habit of it. I just felt bad because I was the one who broke the glass.”
He nodded, amused by her gruffly self-conscious tone. Grace was cute when she was embarrassed, though he knew better than to say so aloud. A remark like that could earn him a few more injuries—intentional on her part next time. But it seemed he liked to live dangerously. “I don’t suppose you’d like to kiss and make it better?”
She lifted an eyebrow and gave him a cool once-over. “Did you just suggest that I kiss your foot?”
He chuckled. “Darling, you can kiss any part of me you’d like.”
Keeping her chin high, she seemed to make an effort to reply nonchalantly. “Save it for the tabloids, Falcon.”
He was grinning again when she closed her bedroom door behind her with suspicious speed.
Cute, he thought. Grace Pennington was definitely cute. Even if she was very likely to drop-kick him if he told her so.
“High profile” was definitely the term to describe the lunch Bryan treated Grace to just after noon on Saturday. He’d selected a trendy restaurant known for hosting celebrities who wanted to be seen while pretending to be incognito. The owner/chef hosted his own television program and was almost as famous as the majority of his patrons. The most successful gossip columnists had their own regular tables where they could eavesdrop in undisturbed silence.
Bryan played to his audience shamelessly, treating Grace to such solicitous attention that she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d started spouting sonnets. He kept an arm around her as he escorted her to their cozy little table, sat very close to her, rarely looked away from her. She tried to play her part as convincingly, looking back at him with what she hoped would be perceived as an adoring gaze, but mostly she just felt self-conscious and silly.
“You’re doing fine,” Bryan murmured at one point during the meal, as if sensing her doubts. He covered her hand on the table with his own, giving a bracing squeeze. “I doubt that anyone here knows how much you would love to pour your ice water over my head.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “I must be a better actor than I thought.”
Bryan was even better. Toying with her fingers with the ease of someone intimately familiar with her body, he murmured, “Darling, I imagine you’re very good at anything you put your mind to.”
She hated herself for blushing at the unmistakable innuendo in his tone—and for the shivery little sensations that seemed to be running from her palm, where his thumb was making slow, lazy circles, all the way to the pit of her stomach.
He was entirely too good at this. If she wasn’t careful, she could start believing that he found her very attractive.
She tugged her hand from his, annoyed to realize that it wasn’t quite steady when she reached for her water glass. “I think it would be better if—”
“Mr. Falcon. What a nice surprise to run in to you today.”
The man who had stopped by their table, interrupting Grace’s words, was tall, slender and very fashionably dressed. His bleached, moussed and sprayed hair swept back from a face tanned in a salon, tucked in a plastic surgeon’s office, and accented with vivid-blue contact lenses and pearly white dental caps. It took Grace only a moment to put a name to that striking face; she had seen him a few times on the entertainment channel, where he regularly dished celebrity tidbits and dissed their choice of clothing.
Bryan flashed one of his famous smiles, and Grace couldn’t help noticing that he needed no artificial enhancements to make him gorgeous. Nature had taken care of that quite adequately, from his silky black hair to those naturally blue eyes in a face that had made many a red-blooded woman go weak in the knees. Grace’s own knees showed a distressing tendency to fail around him—and she didn’t even like him very much. Or so she regularly reminded herself.
After exchanging a few meaningless pleasantries with the other man, Bryan turned to Grace. “I don’t believe you two have met. Grace Pennington, this is Terence Bishop.”
“Yes, of course. I’ve seen you on television,” she said, extending a hand.
His fingers were cold, his grip a bit weak—or maybe that was only in comparison to Bryan’s warm, firm touch. He seemed pleased that she had recognized him. “It’s delightful to meet you, Ms. Pennington. Are you enjoying your visit to our city?”
“Yes, very much, thank you.”
She could see him cataloging her simple hairstyle and the conservative cut of her emerald-green blouse and oatmeal linen slacks. He’d also noted the rhythm of her Southern accent. “You’re from Arkansas, aren’t you?” he asked as if he found it hard to believe that anyone would actually choose to live in such a place.
“Little Rock,” she confirmed with a determinedly pleasant nod. “Have you been there?”
“Oh, goodness no.” He appeared to be amused by the very idea. “I seem to always be flying from one coast to the other, with very few stops in between.”
“Then you’ve missed a great many fascinating places,” Bryan inserted smoothly. “I grew up in Little Rock, you know, and I still maintain a home there, though I don’t get to spend as much time there as I would like now.”
Bishop’s
