The Return Of Rafe MacKade: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down. Нора Робертс
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Автор: Нора Робертс
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежные любовные романы
isbn: 9781408979334
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“When you know what you want, there’s no point in wasting time. So how about dinner?”
She looked back, narrowed her eyes. “Dinner?”
“Tonight. We can go over your files.” He tapped a finger against them, left a smudge of soot. “Save time.”
“Oh.” Still frowning, she combed her fingers through her hair. “I suppose.”
“How’s seven? We’ll go to the Lamplighter.”
“The where?”
“The Lamplighter. The little place off of Main, at Church Street.”
She tilted her head as she visualized the town. “There’s a video store at Main and Church.”
He jammed his hands in his pockets with an oath. “Used to be a restaurant. Your place used to be a hardware store.”
“I guess even small towns have their changes.”
“Yeah.” He couldn’t have said why it annoyed him. “Like Italian?”
“Yes. But the closest Italian place is across the river, into West Virginia. We can just meet at Ed’s.”
“No. Italian. I’ll come by about six-thirty.” Needing to gauge his time, he pulled a watch from his pocket. “Yeah, I can do six-thirty.”
“That’s a nice one.” Without thinking, she crossed over, took his wrist gingerly in two fingers to get a better look at the pocket watch. “Hmm…American Watch Company, mid-1800s.” Already appraising, she turned the watch over to study the case. “Sterling, good condition. I’ll give you seventy-five for it.”
“I paid ninety.”
She laughed and shook back her hair. “Then you got a hell of a bargain. It’s worth a hundred and fifty.” Her gaze danced up to his. “You don’t look like the pocket-watch type.”
“Wear one on your wrist on the job, they end up smashed.” He wanted to touch her. She looked so neat and tidy that the idea of mussing her up was enormously appealing. “Damn shame my hands are filthy.”
Alerted, she released his wrist, brushed one hand against the other. “So’s your face. But you’re still pretty.” After shifting her briefcase strap more comfortably on her shoulder, she stepped back. “Six-thirty, then. Don’t forget the files.”
She’d changed three times before she caught herself. A business dinner, Regan thought as she dropped down on the padded stool of her vanity, was a business dinner. Her appearance was certainly important, but it was secondary.
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