mind. Maybe it came from being pregnant...or dating a spy. A spy who had disappeared. That would do it.
A copper teapot perched on a burner, and he grabbed it by the handle and filled it with water from the tap. A couple of mugs dangled from a wooden tree. He plucked them off, reading the words printed on the white one aloud, “Number one runner.”
He figured Nina for the runner, since she looked like someone in good shape, despite the pregnancy, not that a woman couldn’t be pregnant and in good shape, but he hoped she wasn’t out there running marathons. He banged one of the mugs on the counter with a little too much force. Hell, what did he know?
He claimed the plain, red mug with the chip on the handle for himself. Then he swung open the cupboard to the left of the range and took out the box of chamomile tea. He’d rather have a snifter of cognac to warm up, but he didn’t figure Nina would have any booze on hand.
By the time the kettle whistled, Nina had returned, wedging a shoulder against the refrigerator, hugging a shapeless, red sweater around her body.
She wrinkled her nose. “You don’t look too comfortable in the kitchen.”
“Really?” He swung a tea bag in the air, wrapping the string around his finger. “I thought I was doing a bang-up job in here.”
“Find everything okay?” She had scooped her shoulder-length, dark hair back into its ponytail, and the tilt of her head sent it swinging behind her.
“I did.” He held up the runner’s mug. “Is this you?”
Shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans, she lifted her shoulder to her ears. “I ran cross-country in college.”
“Impressive. Here in Washington?”
“Oregon.”
“A runner’s paradise—even more impressive.” He poured the bubbling water over the tea bags in the cups, and the rising steam gave a much-needed homey touch to the dilapidated kitchen.
She joined him at the counter to take her mug, her shoulder brushing against his, the fuzzy softness of her sweater tickling his arm through his T-shirt. Her pale, stiff fingers curled around the handle of the mug.
What she really needed was a warm bath, but if he suggested that, she’d probably haul out that shotgun again.
“Does that fireplace in the other room work?”
“Yes, and I even have a cord of wood that my neighbor delivered—the same neighbor who owns that boat you borrowed.” She tapped his mug with her fingernail. “Do you want some sugar or milk for that?”
Since he never drank tea, he didn’t have a clue. “I, uh, take it black.”
She wrapped her hands around the cup, closed her eyes and sniffed the steam floating up from the mug. Her long lashes created dark crescents on her cheeks, and her full lips curved into a slight smile.
He caught his breath at the simple beauty of her expression and then shook his head. Put him in the presence of a pregnant woman and his thoughts went haywire. Nina wasn’t Maggie, and the baby she was carrying was Simon Skinner’s, not his.
“Let’s get this fire started.” And he didn’t mean the one that had been doing a slow burn in his belly ever since he locked his gaze onto Nina Moore.
She skirted past him, her pale cheeks sporting two red spots, as if she could read his mind.
He followed her into the great room, which must’ve functioned as a sitting room and gathering place for guests—when there were guests.
She gestured toward the big stone fireplace that took up half the wall. “I’ve already used it once, so I know it works, unlike the boat.”
“Speaking of the boat.” He swept aside the curtain at the front window and peered outside. “Looks like they’re bringing it in, so at least they saved it from sinking.”
“I’ll look at it later.” Nina collapsed into a recliner, facing the fireplace and folding her hands around her cup.
She looked as if she needed warming up, and even though he had a few impure thoughts about how he could do that, he placed his mug on the table beside her and crouched in front of the fireplace and got to work.
“Did I ever say thank you?”
“For?” He cupped his hand around the orange flicker as it raced across the edge of the newspaper crumpled beneath the logs.
“For rescuing me out there on the bay. Even though I wasn’t in imminent danger of drowning, the water was freezing cold and...”
He held his breath. Would she mention her pregnancy now?
She coughed. “And I could’ve been floating out there for a while before another boat came along.”
He let out his breath and prodded a log into place before rising to his feet and retrieving his tasteless tea.
He eased into a love seat at right angles to Nina’s chair and the fire, crackling to life. “There was that other boat. They were probably on their way to save you when they saw me. I’m glad I could get to you faster.”
She stretched her long legs in front of her, crossing her legs at the ankles. She’d gotten rid of her sodden sneakers, her feet now encased in a pair of soft red socks that matched her sweater. Her coloring played well against the red, her blue eyes a contrast to her dark hair, giving her an exotic look.
Simon Skinner had been a redhead. The baby could be an interesting combination of Mom and Dad.
Then the truth punched him in the gut. If her ex-fiancé and the father of her baby was dead, she had a right to know. They had only Max Duvall’s word for that now, but once they received confirmation, he’d convince Jack Coburn that they had to tell Nina.
He didn’t like it when people kept the truth from him, and he wouldn’t be a party to doing that to someone else.
Of course, he was in the wrong line of work for those sentiments.
The fire danced higher, creating a wall of warmth, and Nina held her hands out toward it, wiggling her fingers.
“Are you warming up?”
“Slowly but surely.” She pointed to his cup, still brimming with pale gold liquid. “You’re not drinking your tea.”
“I’m not the one who wound up treading water in the sound for ten minutes.”
“True, but you did give up your flannel and had to cross the bay in nothing but a flimsy T-shirt.” Her gaze flicked over his chest, and he resisted the urge to flex.
That glance alone did more to heat him up than ten cups of chamomile could.
She snapped her fingers as if to break the spell between them. “I hung up your shirt in the bathroom, but maybe it would dry faster in front of this fire.”
She scooted forward on her chair and he held up his hand. “I’ll get it. Tell me where.”
