Sealed With A Kiss. Mae Nunn

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      Sam scooted the chair back and pushed to his feet. “Gotta go. The guys are here.”

      “Those men? I thought you were talking about some of the students.”

      “I know. You assume way too often, Rusty. And you know what they say about people who assume.”

      “Save your clichéd pearls of wisdom for the college boys, Sam.”

      “Thanks, I’ll do that. I value the guidance of a woman who drinks in my every word and memorizes the lines on my face.”

      Tara was mortified. The man must have gone home after her humiliating teenage soliloquy and made notes. All these years she’d prayed he’d forgotten her passionate profession of love. Of the millions of forgetful men in the world, she’d had to fall for one with a razor-sharp memory.

      And Sam wasn’t likely to forget anytime soon. As long as she took the bait, he’d keep setting the trap.

      She considered tossing her glass of ice water in his insolent face. Instead, she took a long drink to cool down the heat that threatened to rise in her throat and cheeks. She stood, picked up her black clutch and turned away.

      His strong hand shot out, grasping her forearm with surprising speed. As if sensing the unnecessary pressure, Sam loosened his grip. She fixed the offending hand with a hot stare and he released his hold.

      “Wait, we need to talk,” he insisted. “This involves structural changes to the building that I think you should know about.”

      He angled his dark head toward the sound of the bikes. “Those guys are my demolition crew. Tomorrow morning their equipment will arrive and we’ll begin knocking out the alley side of the building to accommodate overhead doors. The day after that we’ll take out chunks of the front side and replace it with showroom windows. It’ll be noisy and dusty. I didn’t want to get started without showing you the drawings and explaining it all first. And I need your signature on a couple of permits.”

      The heat creeping up her neck couldn’t be stopped by a barrel of ice water. “When did you start planning this ‘demolition’ as you call it?”

      “About fifteen minutes after the reading of your grandma’s will.”

      “And you’re just now asking for my permission?”

      Sam threw his head back and laughed. Not like you’d laugh out loud at a funny joke. More like you’d laugh with hysterical relief if you won the lottery. The lunch crowd at Ruthie’s had stopped watching the commotion out front and were all staring at Sam when he caught his breath and wiped away the tears of mirth.

      “You still don’t get it, do ya, Rusty? I’m not asking for your permission. Not today. Not ever. I have as much right as you do to make changes to that building and if you want to drop by this afternoon, I’ll give you a preview of the coming attractions. If not, I suggest you work from Sycamore House tomorrow, because it’s going to be dusty when those bricks fall.”

      He retrieved his helmet and headed toward the exit, but he didn’t exactly make a beeline for the door. Instead he worked the crowd as if he were running for office. He smiled and complimented the ladies and glad-handed all the men. If there’d been a baby in the place, he would have kissed it.

      Along with everyone else, Tara found herself mesmerized by the vision of Sam and the other men beyond the plate-glass windows. Then, she caught sight of her reflection in the shiny pane. As Tara’s hands flew to her face, Lacey’s blond reflection joined that of the wretched blue-faced creature in the glass.

      “You have to admit, I did try to get you to go to the ladies’ room.”

      Tara opened her black clutch and withdrew a small canister of pepper spray. She handed it to her friend.

      “In the future, if I ever refuse to follow your instructions, use this.”

      Chapter Four

      By noon the next day, a hole big enough to accommodate a fire engine gaped in the back wall of the Elliott Building. Each time a sledgehammer met with the antique structure, Tara shuddered from the impact, but she was intent on watching the entire operation.

      The hems of her black silk-knit slacks were coated in dust. Fine particles of baked clay clung to the tail of the matching knee-length tunic, a sign of her dogged determination to retrieve as many undamaged bricks as possible. Surely, she reasoned, some quaint and nostalgic collectible could be fashioned and sold at Bridges from the hundreds of otherwise useless blocks.

      “Why don’t you leave that to the crew? They’ll be just as careful and you won’t be picking bugs out or your hair for the rest of the day.”

      Sam removed a leather work glove and touched the top of her head. Waving his fingers in front of her face, he dangled a shriveled granddaddy long-legs.

      She yanked off her own gloves, tossed them on the pile of rubble and brushed frantically at her crown, further dislodging hair from the already beleaguered braid.

      “Oh, I hate spiders!”

      “Don’t get excited.” It was obvious from the chuckle in his voice he was enjoying her discomfort. “The thing’s been dead for ages.”

      “It doesn’t matter. The very idea of a spider touching me makes my flesh crawl.”

      “I know.”

      “That’s right, you sure do.” She looked up into his dark sunglasses and, instead of obsessing over her dirty reflection, she noted the mischievous grin on his face. As a child she’d seen that smile many times, often accompanied by a silly prank.

      “I figured you’d toughen up and get over that.”

      “I thought I might, too. Then I moved to Manhattan into an apartment that had to be the spider capital of the world. And I don’t mean a few here and there that you manage with a can of bug spray. I mean millions of the creepy things spinning webs faster than I could knock them down with a broom.” She shuddered from the memory.

      “You wouldn’t exaggerate, would you?”

      “No.” She swatted at the top of her head again, certain the drop of sweat that slipped down her once-careful part was an errant arachnid. “Working with antiques, you run into all kinds of insects nesting in forgotten corners. I can live with moths and carpenter ants and I don’t mind the odd beetle now and again. But spiders…”

      “I remember when you first came to live with your grandma.” Sam removed his glasses, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “I was eight and my mama told me to be nice to you because you were Miss Elliott’s granddaughter. It took me six years to work up the courage to ask how Miss Elliott came by a grandchild when she’d never been married herself.”

      Tara nodded, understanding the circumstances surrounding the sudden appearance of a three-year-old in spinster Miriam Elliott’s life. As small as she was, even Tara could sense the heads and tongues wagging behind their backs. By the time she’d started school the scandal was old news and most of the whispering had stopped.

      “Anyway, you wouldn’t give me any peace till I came up with a deterrent.”

      “How СКАЧАТЬ