Angel of Smoky Hollow. Barbara McMahon

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      “We’ve got a fine media room, with a DVD player and CD players. Plus a VCR for old recordings. Or you can check them out and take them home with you. I know Webb Francis has a player.”

      “I’m just visiting.”

      “Well, with Webb Francis and Kirk vouching for you, I reckon you can get a temporary library card. Want to look now?”

      “We’ll stop back by on the way home. Pick her out a couple if you would, Mary Margaret. She wants to hear mountain music.”

      Mary Margaret laughed. “Well, she came to the right place for that. Come on in any time. I’m here most days.”

      Angelica agreed and turned to follow Kirk when he headed out.

      “No regular hours?” she asked once the door closed behind them.

      “She’s here most of the time. If she’s not, folks just go in and help themselves, leaving her a note on which books they borrowed.”

      Angelica didn’t use the public library much in New York, but she couldn’t imagine it operating the same way.

      Kirk turned down one of the side streets and walked swiftly.

      “Are we in a hurry?” she asked, catching her breath as she tried to keep up.

      He stopped and looked at her. “Want to show you around like Webb Francis asked. Then you’re on your own.”

      “I can manage now. I’ll talk with the librarian and get her recommendations. You’re off the hook.”

      He looked up at the canopy of trees overhead, then down the road. “Not yet. I said I’d take you around and I will.”

      “I absolve you of all obligations. Face it, it’s a chore and I don’t want to be a burden.”

      “I said I’d do it.”

      She didn’t move when he stepped forward. Turning, he waited.

      “I can start at the library. Listen to the CDs. Talk to Mary Margaret and find out more about the festival, where to find music, what to look for. I don’t need a guide. For heaven’s sake, I’ve toured Europe.”

      Not that that meant much. She had visited London, Paris and Moscow and never saw much except between the hotel and concert hall. She had never visited her own nation’s capital, much less seen more of the USA.

      Primitive, that’s what she thought when she thought of Appalachia. A land where people kept to old ways and poverty had a stronghold. She hadn’t realized how pretty it was. Or how much she’d like the people she’d meet. They were genuine and honest, and friendly as could be.

      “Come on, I don’t have all day,” he said, reaching out to take her arm.

      She felt the touch like a live wire and jerked away. Feeling stupid with her reaction, she tried to cover it.

      “It’s hot just like you said. I hadn’t expected it to be this warm.” What startled her was her own reaction. Taking a deep breath she tried to quell her roiling senses. She’d been touched before. She had had her share of crushes while growing up. She was a grown woman, not to be flustered by an impersonal touch, no matter how dynamic the man was. She would not start believing he was special. He was her reluctant guide to getting acquainted with Smoky Hollow, nothing more. Yet he continued to stare at her, as if waiting for more words. Heat washed through her at the intensity. She wanted to forget about the music, sit down with him and learn all she could about Kirk Devon.

      She had to stop thinking like that! It was her own convoluted thought process had her confused. She wasn’t looking for complications—but simplicity. She wanted to study a different kind of music, see if she could recover her passion for playing. Or discover something else that would bring joy to her life. Not get hot and bothered watching a sexy Kentucky man who could barely stand to be around her.

      Stalemate. They stared at each other, neither moving.

      She didn’t know why she found him so appealing. He wore jeans, worn and faded after years of wear. His blue chambray shirt was opened at the throat with its sleeves rolled back. He looked totally different from the successful businessmen she was used to. He probably didn’t even own a suit. He was in his element, she was the fish out of water, yet something attracted her. The awareness of him grew each time they were together. She wanted to touch that throat, feel the heat of his skin against hers. Hear him laugh, learn what he liked and disliked.

      “Coming or not?” he finally asked.

      “I guess. But you don’t have to go out of your way to introduce me around. I can manage.”

      “Be easier in a small town to have someone vouch for you.”

      “Networking.” She nodded.

      He laughed. “Big city girl.” He turned and walked away. After a moment, Angelica hurried to catch up.

      The sooner she got this over, the sooner she’d be on her own.

      It was after lunch when Kirk walked with Angelica back to the cottage. She’d met a half dozen people, including Dottie Ferguson and Paul Cantwell who played with Webb Francis. Each person she met had been friendly and happy to talk with her about the songs she wanted to learn and write down. She had collected phone numbers and jotted down names and addresses and a sketchy map so she could find her way around Smoky Hollow. It was not a large town by any means.

      Kirk was hard to figure out, she mused as he stopped in the road in front of her house. He’d done his duty, actually gone beyond in her opinion, giving her lunch at the local diner. Now he was free of any obligation. She should be relieved. She felt almost cut adrift.

      He reached out and took the small spiral bound notebook she still carried in her hand and wrote his phone number down. “You’re right next door, but it is easier to call sometimes. Let me know if you need anything.”

      “I can manage.”

      His intense gaze was something she wished she could get used to. She was not accustomed to people focusing so intensely on her and it caused a chain reaction inside that threatened her equilibrium. His gaze dropped to her mouth. She wasn’t talking.

      Was he thinking what she suddenly thought about? Kisses, long and drugging and fantastic.

      She groaned softly and looked away before she did something beyond foolish.

      “Thank you.” Hurrying toward the cottage she resisted the urge to look behind her, to watch as he walked away. Once inside, she leaned against the front door, refusing to look though every cell in her body clamored to do just that.

      Pushing away, she went into the kitchen. She’d have something cold to drink then decide what to do next.

      Resisting temptation proved too much. She looked out the side window of the kitchen. She saw nothing but the house next door. He either had already gone inside, or had gone somewhere else.

      Soon thereafter Angelica retraced her steps to the library. Mary Margaret sat with a large pile of СКАЧАТЬ