His Virgin Wife: The Wedding in White / Caught in the Crossfire / The Virgin's Secret Marriage. Diana Palmer

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      “I don’t eat things I can’t put ketchup on,” he replied.

      “That lets out ice cream.”

      He tossed her a grin. “It’s good on vanilla.”

      “Yuck!”

      “Where’s your sense of adventure?” he taunted. “You have to experience new things to become well rounded.”

      “I’m not eating ketchup on ice cream, whether it rounds people out or not.”

      “Suit yourself.” He put fish and chips onto the plates, fished out two napkins and put silverware at two places on the small kitchen table.

      “I gather we’re eating in here,” she murmured dryly.

      “If we eat in the living room, you’ll want to watch television,” he pointed out. “And if you can find a movie you like, the studying will be over.”

      “Spoilsport.”

      “I want you to graduate. You’ve worked too hard, too long to slack off at the eleventh hour.”

      “I guess you know all about genetics?” she sighed, seating herself while the coffee finished dripping.

      “I breed cattle,” he reminded her. “Of course I do.”

      She grimaced. “I love biology. You’d think I’d be good at it.”

      “You’re good with children,” he said, smiling gently at her. “That’s what matters the most.”

      She shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.” She studied his lean, dark face with its striking black eye patch. “Are you still half buried in Internet college courses?”

      “Yes. It’s forensic archaeology this semester. Bones,” he clarified. His eye twinkled. “Want to hear all about it?”

      “Not over fish and chips,” she said distastefully.

      “Squeamish, are you?”

      “Only when I’m eating,” she replied. She glanced at the coffeemaker, noted that the brewing cycle was over and got up to fill two thick white mugs with black coffee. She put his in front of him and seated herself. Neither of them took cream or sugar, so there was no sense in putting them on the table.

      “How’s Viv?” she asked as they started on the fish.

      “Fuming. Lover boy went home without asking her for another date.” He gave her a curious look. “She thought he might have phoned you.”

      “Not a chance,” she said easily. “Besides, he’s not my type.”

      “What is? The Markham man?” That was pure venom in his deep voice.

      “Dave is nice.”

      “Nice.” He finished a bite of fish and washed it down with coffee. “Am I nice?” he persisted.

      She met his teasing glance and made a face at him. “You and a den of rattlesnakes.”

      “That’s what I thought.” He munched on a chip, leaning back in his chair to give her a long, steady scrutiny. “You’re the only woman I know who improves without makeup.”

      “It’s too much work when I’m home alone. I wasn’t expecting company,” she added.

      He smiled. “I noticed. How old is that blouse?”

      “Three years,” she said with a sigh, noting the faded pattern. “But it’s comfortable.”

      His gaze lingered on it just a little too long, narrow and vaguely disturbing.

      “I am wearing a bra!” she blurted.

      His eyebrows lifted. “Are you really?” he asked in mock surprise.

      “Don’t stare.”

      He only smiled and finished his fish, oblivious to her glare.

      “Tell me about blood groups,” he said when they were on their second cup of coffee.

      She did, naming them and describing which groups were compatible and which weren’t.

      “Not bad,” he said when she was through. “Now, let’s discuss recessive genes.”

      She hadn’t realized just how much material she’d already absorbed until she started answering questions on those topics. It was only when they came to the formulae for the various combinations and the descriptions of genetic populations and gene pools that she foundered.

      They went into the living room. She handed him the book. He stretched out on the sofa, slipping off his boots so that he could sprawl while she curled up in the big armchair across from him.

      He read the descriptions to her, made her recite them, then formulated questions to prompt the right answers. She couldn’t remember being drilled so competently on a subject before.

      Then he took her lab report and had her point out the various circulation patterns of blood through the body of a lab rat the class had dissected. He drew her onto the floor with him and put the book in front of them, so that she could see the diagram and label the various organs as well as the major arteries and veins.

      “How does he do this on the exams?” he asked. “Does he lay out a diagram and have you fill in the spaces?”

      “No. He usually just sticks a pin in the organ or vein or artery he wants us to identify.”

      “Barbarian,” he muttered.

      She grinned. “That’s what we call him when he isn’t listening,” she admitted. “Actually, we have a much more thorough course of study in biology than most of the surrounding colleges, because most of our students go on to medical school or into nursing. Biology is a real headache here, but none of our students ever have to take remedial courses later on.”

      “That says a lot for the quality of teaching.”

      She smiled. “So it does.”

      He went over the anatomy schematic with her until she knew the answers without prompting. But it was ten o’clock when she started to yawn.

      “You’re tired,” he said. “You need a good night’s sleep, so you can feel up to the exam in the morning.”

      “Thanks for helping me.”

      He shrugged. “What are neighbors for?” he asked with a chuckle. “How about a cup of hot chocolate before I go home?”

      “I’ll make it.”

      He stretched lazily on the carpet. “I was hoping you’d offer. I can’t make it unless I have something you just stir into hot milk. As СКАЧАТЬ