A Memorable Man. Joan Hohl

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СКАЧАТЬ shook his head. “I don’t understand any of this,” he confessed. “Who is that man?”

      “A reenactor,” she answered, her smile reflecting the laughter lightening her incredible eyes. “This time, his name is Mr. White, and he’s playing the role of a very important figure of the period.”

      Adam’s pragmatic mind latched onto two of her words. “This time?” He eyed her warily, as if steeling himself for a sudden flight of fancy. “What do you mean by ‘this time’?”

      “Oh, he’s been here before.”

      Uh-huh. A wave of regret washed over Adam. The ladies apparently knew whereof they spoke, he thought in abject dejection. Then, gazing at her laughing, beautiful face, another thought sent his spirits soaring on the wings of hope. Perhaps, forewarned and halfway expecting the odd, he had misconstrued her remark. Maybe, just possibly, she had meant that the older gentlemen had done this work before, and at that time had enacted a completely different type of role.

      “I see,” he said, not quite truthfully. “And... er, have you also done this before?”

      “Several times.” Her smile shifted from secret delight to soft compassion. “But, of course, you don’t remember.”

      Oh, hell, not again. Adam suppressed a groan, and raked his mind for an intelligent or even merely adequate response, hating the sensation of being way out of his depth. But before he could come up with anything, another, younger voice came into the confusing mix.

      “Good afternoon, Mistress Dase.”

      Turning to the source of the call, Adam observed a young boy loping along on the far side of the street. The bright-faced boy sported a wide grin; his lanky frame was clad in the period clothes of a reenactor.

      “Good afternoon, Master Robert,” she called, grinning back.

      Watching the boy, Adam’s mind homed in on one point in particular about the intriguing woman.

      “You’re name is Daze?”

      “Hmm,” she murmured, turning to face him.

      “Like...in a daze?”

      “No.” She shook her head. “D-A-S-E.” She spelled the name aloud.

      “Oh.” He frowned, thinking she was as forthcoming as the proverbial clam. “And do you have a first name?”

      “Of course. Do you?”

      Nudged into remembering common courtesy, he extended his hand. “Adam,” he said. “Adam Grainger.”

      “How do you do, Adam Grainger,” she returned in tones of deceptive formality, sliding her hand into his.

      The touch of her palm against his, the slight friction of skin on skin, caused an electrifying sensation inside Adam unlike anything he had ever before experienced and way out of proportion to the minimal contact. The thought burst in his mind of what effect he might feel should he touch her lips, her breasts, her...

      “Sunshine.” Her one spoken word scattered his erotically galloping thoughts.

      Adam blinked, then frowned. “What?”

      “My given name,” she explained.

      “Sunshine?” He shook his head—an action he seemed to be repeating frequently since encountering her. “Sunshine Dase?” he asked in patent disbelief. “You’re kidding?”

      “Nope.” Now she shook her head. “That’s it.” She grinned. “My parents were repressed flowerchildren wannabes. But most folks call me Sunny.”

      Sunny Dase. Oh, Lord. Adam felt torn between a desire to laugh and an urge to groan. “I can’t imagine what kind of teasing you must have endured growing up,” he murmured in understanding and commiseration.

      “It was a challenge,” she said, shrugging. “But, as you can see, I survived.”

      “Very nicely,” he commended, skimming a glance over her caped form, feeling his body clench in the process. Nice barely described her appearance, but... Adam wondered if perhaps the trials and tribulations of her former years had been a contributing factor in her strange behavior.

      “Thank you, kind sir,” she responded, dipping into another quick curtsy. “Actually, I’ve grown to like the name,” she confided. “It’s different.”

      “It is that,” he agreed, drolly.

      Sunny laughed. And when Sunny laughed like that, easy and spontaneously, the sound literally stole the breath from Adam’s body. He had to see her again.

      The realization brought sharp awareness of time and place. The late autumn sun was swimming on the horizon, casting a soft golden glow on the surroundings, in the highlights streaking her hair, on her lovely face.

      Adam was struck by a sudden overwhelming need to taste the ripe fullness of her lips.

      “What are you so deep in thought about?” Sunny’s green gaze knowingly probed his eyes, as if reading his mind, discerning his intentions.

      Adam had never before met a woman—anyone—with such expressive eyes. The perception in those green depths danced along his nervous system.

      Naturally, he couldn’t reveal to her what he had been thinking, the desire heating his blood. An eerie intuition telling him she knew the truth of his thoughts, he blurted out, “I was contemplating my chances of success at convincing you to have dinner with me this evening.”

      “Excellent.”

      Her prompt response stopped his mental process cold. “Huh?” he said, sounding like a dullard, in all likelihood, because he felt extremely dull and slow-witted. Adam didn’t appreciate the feeling. He betrayed himself by stiffening.

      Her soft smile smoothed his ruffled feathers. “Your chances of having me accept your invitation to have dinner with you are excellent,” she explained.

      Astounded by the feelings of elation her acceptance gave him, Adam stared at her a long moment, assimilating the glittering facets of the sensation.

      “Where?”

      He frowned. “Where what?”

      Her laughing eyes mocked him. “Where do you want me to meet you for dinner?” she said precisely.

      “Oh. Oh.” Adam felt like an idiot, or worse, an awkward hormonally confused teenager. “You don’t have to meet me. I’ll come for you. If you’ll give me directions to...”

      “Where are you staying?” she interrupted him to ask, the expression in her eyes softening.

      “The Patrick Henry.” Adam indicated the upper end of Duke of Gloucester Street with a flick of his hand. “It’s across from the restored area, right along Route 60.”

      “I know where it is.” Her expression grew pensive. “Look,” she went on after a thoughtful moment, “I’m located close by, right on the fringes of the area. Depending on where you want СКАЧАТЬ