Locking her apartment door behind her, Juliana went down the stairs, her long skirt rustling as it trailed behind her.
Her voice was low and clear as she entered the front parlor. “Good evening.”
The fire she’d made earlier was blazing briskly in the fireplace, the flames sparking and popping as they consumed the dry wood behind the safety screen.
Two of her guests tonight were newlyweds, and they sat together on the couch, oblivious to everyone else in the room. Her other two guests, the elderly Mrs. Bowers and her slightly younger companion, Miss May, sat by the window, playing backgammon.
They both smiled congenially up at her.
“You look lovely tonight, dear,” Mrs. Bowers said.
“I’ll second that,” came a voice from behind her.
“Mr. Donovan,” Juliana said coolly, nodding her head in greeting and in gracious acknowledgement of his compliment as she turned to look back at him.
She couldn’t keep her eyes from widening when she saw him.
Gone were the worn-out, greasy clothes, the ragged, reckless, windblown look.
Webster Donovan was wearing a tuxedo, looking every inch—and, sweet heavens, there were so many inches of him—the perfect, upperclass gentleman. His black jacket and pants had been tailored to his body like a second skin, and he wore them with such a familiarity that Juliana knew he was no stranger to formal clothes. He wore a black bow tie and cummerbund, and a crisp, white shirt. With his cheeks smooth, obviously freshly shaved, and his unruly hair slicked back from his handsome face, he looked sophisticated, debonair. So why was she reminded of a panther about to strike?
He was leaning against the door frame, one long, powerful leg crossed in front of the other at the ankle. His crystal-blue eyes continued to sweep her body and face appreciatively, lingering just a moment too long on her low neckline, on the tops of her breasts, before returning to meet her gaze.
Juliana felt her cheeks flush, and inwardly she cursed her pale complexion. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he rattled her. Taking a deep breath, she made quick introductions all around. “Shall we go into the dining room?” she then asked. “Mr. Donovan, if you would please escort Mrs. Bowers and Miss May?”
She smiled at him sweetly, knowing that the two older ladies would keep him occupied with their stories and questions until well after the meal. Anderson one, Donovan zero.
But Webster merely inclined his head in acquiescence to her request, and with a slightly mocking smile aimed at Juliana, he offered the ladies his arms.
I’m not even going to wonder what his smile means, Juliana told herself. He only did it to make me wonder.
But in the kitchen, there was no time to wonder about anything, except the best way to get the food out of the oven and onto the table.
The sumptuous meal passed quickly enough. And Webster Donovan behaved himself quite nicely, Juliana decided. She watched him as he entertained the entire table with his stories of being a reporter on the presidential campaign trail.
Unlike many people who could tell a good tale, Mr. Donovan was also a good listener. He paid close attention, with genuine interest in his eyes, as Mrs. Bowers talked about her life as a young bride during the Second World War. He even got Miss May to give him more than her normal monosyllabic answers as he gently asked about her beloved bird-watching trips.
The newlyweds were lost in each other, and Webster even knew enough to let them remain distant. Mr. Donovan, Juliana quickly corrected herself. She couldn’t start thinking of him as Webster. That was far too dangerous.
He glanced across the table at her, as if he knew she was thinking about him. Trapped for a moment, she stared back into his eyes—eyes that nearly pierced her with their determination, eyes that didn’t bother to hide his desire for her.
Juliana quickly turned away. It would be too easy to be drawn in by this man, much too easy. But smooth-talking, sophisticated, handsome men who thought they were God’s gift to women just weren’t her style. Except suddenly she had a very vivid picture of Webster Donovan standing in her kitchen, his deep-blue eyes soft and vulnerable, his face confused, all of that hard edge gone. She wondered for a moment if that had been an illusion or an act. Or was that man she’d seen for one brief moment in her kitchen hidden somewhere under the slick, smooth facade?
She was not going to find out. She just had to keep her distance, be polite, and make sure there was always an elderly guest or two around when he was in the room.
It wasn’t long after Juliana had poured out cups of coffee and tea that the newlyweds excused themselves.
“Shall we go into the parlor?” Juliana asked then, smiling at Mrs. Bowers and Miss May. “How does a glass of brandy sound?”
The two older ladies exchanged a somewhat mischievous glance, then smiled coyly at Mr. Donovan. “Not tonight, dear,” Mrs. Bowers said. “Eloise and I are tired from our long drive. We thought we’d turn in early.”
“I’d love a glass of brandy,” Webster said, sending a quick wink over to the two smiling ladies.
Sweet heavens, it was a conspiracy, Juliana realized. It must have happened when she was in the kitchen. Webster Donovan now had her other guests working with him in some diabolical plot to get her alone.
Change that score, she thought. Donovan managed to come out on top, not only by handling the dinner guests graciously, but also by using the situation to his advantage. Donovan two, Anderson one. Gritting her teeth, she still managed to smile politely.
“Then I’ll bid you good night, ladies,” she said, her voice calm as usual. She turned to Webster. “If you’ll just give me a moment to clear the table and get the glasses before I join you in the front parlor? Perhaps you wouldn’t mind stoking the fire.”
Poor word choice. Juliana realized it the instant the words were out of her mouth.
He nodded back at her, equally polite, but his eyes said, “I’ll stoke your fire any day, baby.”
She fled into the kitchen. Argh! This man was going to drive her crazy. Six weeks was … sweet heavens! Forty-two days!
It only took a few minutes to clear off the big oak table, but Juliana dawdled, taking her time. Finally she’d done as much as she could. She wasn’t dressed to wash the dishes, and she didn’t want to risk water spots on the fine blue material of her gown.
Slowly she took two brandy snifters down from the cabinet. She almost put one back, then silently berated herself. She wanted to have some brandy, damn it, and it wasn’t fair that this great, huge, oversized, obviously oversexed, way too macho, male person should make her feel uncomfortable in her own house. Double damn it.
Still seething, she carried the two glasses toward the front parlor. But she stopped in the doorway, looking in.
Webster Donovan stood in front of the fireplace, arm outstretched, braced against the mantel, head bent to stare down into the glowing flames. He hadn’t heard her at the door, and his face had a soft, pensive, yearning look.
Juliana almost didn’t go in. This was the kind of man she couldn’t defend herself from. This quiet, thoughtful, uncertain Webster could get right under her skin. Maybe he already had, she thought with an icy shiver of apprehension.
But he looked up then and spotted her standing there. And the edge came back into his eyes.
Juliana smiled, realizing at that moment that he was his own worst enemy. He wanted her—he had made that more than clear—but as long as he played the part of the worldly, sarcastic, overeager lothario, he didn’t stand a chance with her.
“Ooh, a smile,” he said. “Be still my heart.”
She crossed to the heavy oak sideboard and took the bottle of brandy from the cabinet. “Did you get much work done today, Mr. Donovan?” she asked politely, pouring the amber-colored liquid into the snifters. Crossing back toward the fireplace, a glass in each hand, she held one out to him.
Juliana braced herself as he reached to take the glass from her. As she expected, he purposely
let their hands touch. His fingers were warm and solid, and she staunchly ignored the quickening of her pulse.
“I set up my computer,” he said, answering her question, “and I took about a six-hour nap.”
Webster watched as she gracefully sat down in one of the easy chairs that faced the fireplace. She swirled the brandy in her glass, heating it with the warmth of her hand.
Firelight played across her features as she stared into the flames. Her face was accented by wide cheekbones, a firm chin, a small straight nose with a smattering of freckles. Her eyebrows were delicate arches, her lashes long and thick. Her eyes were … blue? They’d been the most wonderful mix of blue, green, and golden brown this morning when he’d held her in his arms.
She turned toward him, and he saw a flash of green and gold in her eyes. “Mr. Donovan, won’t you sit down?” she said. “You’re impossibly tall to start with, and if you insist on standing, my neck won’t survive this conversation.”
Web lowered himself into another easy chair with a smile. “Impossibly tall? I’m only six five. I played college basketball, and I was the runt of the team. Now, those guys were impossibly tall. Tell me, is it Janet?” he asked, out of the blue.
She laughed, and Webster felt a thrill of triumph race through his veins. “Are we starting this game again?” she asked. She had a smile, a real, genuine smile on her lips, not one of those very polite, Victorian half smiles.
“What do you do for fun up here?” he asked. “Jennifer?”
“Me in particular?” she asked, ignoring his second question. “Or do you mean ‘you’ in general?”
“You in particular. Is your name Jane?”
Another laugh, and it was frighteningly musical. Webster had that peculiar tight feeling in his chest again.
“I bake bread,” she said. “I sing in the church choir, I go riding. I own a gelding, he’s stabled about four miles down the road.”
“A gelding?” he said, the firelight making his black hair glisten. His lips curved in a smile. “I would have thought a woman like you would have a stallion.”
Double entendre time again, Juliana thought. Fine, two could play this game. “Stallions can be more trouble than they’re worth, Mr. Donovan,” she said.
She met his eyes steadily, and he laughed.
“Tell me, what else do you like to do?” he said. “Besides ride your horse?”
“I love books,” Juliana said. “My aunt and I are always reading something. We particularly like mysteries, you know, who-dun-its.”
“Well, there you go,” Web said, his teeth flashing in the dim light. “You read books, I write ’em. We’re a perfect match.”
Juliana took a sip of the brandy, feeling it warm her all the way down to her stomach. She raised one eyebrow skeptically. “What exactly are you writing, Mr. Donovan?”
Not Mr. Donovan, Webster, he thought. He wanted to hear her say his name.
“Well, to be perfectly honest,” he said, and she glanced over at him. His slick facade was still carefully in place. His words were only an expression; he had no intention of being perfectly honest at all. “I’m planning to make this second book another contemporary western,” he said. “I haven’t actually started writing yet. I’ve kind of been procastinating, which is why I came out here. I’m trying to break my pattern of fooling around and get going with the work.”
“So you set up your computer, then take a six-hour nap in the middle of the day?”
He laughed, but it was a touch too hearty. “Trust me, that wasn’t procrastination. It was survival. I hadn’t slept in over two days. I get … dangerous when that happens.”
She had noticed.
With a shower of sparks, a log fell out of the confines of the andirons onto the bricks of the hearth.
Webster put his glass down and removed the screen. He knelt down and used the fire iron to wrestle the log back up into the fire. He stayed there on the rug in front of the fire, sitting at Juliana’s feet. “So when do you have a night off?” he asked. “When can I take you out to dinner or dancing or a movie—or anything?”
He could hear her skirt rustle quietly as she shifted position in the chair. “I’m sorry, Mr. Donovan,” she said softly, “but I don’t go out with guests.”
True, none had ever asked her before, since most of her guests were happily married or old enough to be her grandfather. But it seemed like a good policy. It was a good policy. She knew it was.
“Oh, come on,” he said, turning to face her, still sitting on the floor. “I’m just talking about a date. Very harmless.”
She looked back at him steadily. “What’s harmless to you isn’t necessarily harmless to someone else, Mr. Donovan.”
“God, will you please call me Web.”
A curly lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead. He was still on the floor, looking up at her with frustration in his eyes.
It was the first genuine emotion she’d seen in his face since she’d come into the room, and it almost made her change her mind. Almost.
She stood up. “Mr. Donovan,” she said. “I’ve been running this bed and breakfast for nearly five years. I believe I know what’s best, particularly in dealing with a guest who intends to remain for over a month. If that makes you unhappy, you should feel free to check out at any time.”
Webster Donovan stood up, too. “Whoa, baby, relax—”
“I do not appreciate being called ‘baby,’ ” Juliana said.
He ran his fingers through his hair with impatience. “If you told me your name, I wouldn’t have to call you baby.”
“I repeat, I prefer Miss Anderson.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t. Look, I know your name starts with a J.”
She stared at him, startled. “How do you know that?”
“I looked through your mail,” he said with a shrug. He didn’t even have the decency to blush.
“Are you always rude and offensive, Mr. Donovan,” Juliana said, her eyes flashing, “or is there something about me that brings this out in you?”
He took a step toward her. “Oh, come on—”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your distance,” she said, backing away.
Webster was caught off guard. “Whoa!” he said. “Wait a minute! It’s not like I’m going to attack you or anything.”
“No? You did this morning.” Even as Juliana said it, she realized that it wasn’t quite fair. He hadn’t attacked her, but sweet heavens, she was mad at him.
Webster’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need to attack women, Miss Anderson,” he said angrily. “They usually just fall into my arms, the way you did this morning.”
Oh boy, Webster thought. He’d made her angry now. If the lightning bolts that just shot out of her eyes had been real, he’d be a dead man.
“You are such a jerk,” she said, the Victorian woman replaced by a late-twentieth-century righteous feminist.
Spinning on her heels, she swept toward the parlor door with great dignity and left the room.
* * *
Juliana stormed up to her apartment, locking the door tightly behind her. She wouldn’t put it past him to follow her, the rude, arrogant … man!
She quickly changed out of her gown, hanging it carefully in the closet. Rummaging through her dresser drawers, she pulled out a running bra and a pair of bike shorts. She dressed, then slipped her feet into her running shoes.
With the exception of her tiny kitchen and the bathroom, her apartment was one vast, opened-up, modern-looking room. Because it was the third floor, the ceiling was at all kinds of angles and there were all sorts of nooks and crannies.
Her big bed was tucked into a cozy alcove at one side of the room. She had a comfortable couch, her entertainment center set up in another corner. But now she went to a third area, where she kept her workout equipment.
She had an exercise bike, a stairmaster, and a rowing machine. She climbed onto the exercise bike, set it for level eight, and took out her frustrations.
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Chapter Four
Webster Donovan was still in a bad mood.
He wasn’t writing.
He was trying, practically chaining himself to his computer, but nothing would come out. Nothing worth saving, anyway.
He’d spent the past two days locked in his room. Juliana hadn’t even had a chance to go in and clean up. He was always there. Sitting at his computer. Not writing.
Tuesday morning, he was the only guest in the house. At nine o’clock, Juliana got tired of waiting for him to come down for breakfast, so she took a tray of food upstairs to his room. She put her ear to the door, and she could hear the sound of his computer keyboard clacking.
She knocked softly, and he came to the door almost immediately.
He wore only a pair of baggy sweatpants. No shirt, no shoes. His body was long and lean, and still carried the darkness of his summertime tan. His shoulders were broad and rock solid, his chest was powerful, and his stomach a washboard of well-defined muscles.
A wild jumble of curls fell over his forehead, as if he’d run his hands through his hair over and over. The laughter lines in his face were deepened from fatigue, and his eyes were rimmed with red.
He stared at her blankly.
“I brought your breakfast up,” she said, suddenly embarrassed, not by his half-nakedness, but because she had bothered him. “I’m sorry I interrupted your writing.”
Webster shook his head tiredly, a rueful smile touching the edges of his mouth. “No, I was only writing a letter to my agent.”
He had to ask his agent to contact his publisher to extend the due date of this second book. He couldn’t finish it in time. How could he finish it when he couldn’t even start it?
Juliana held out the tray, then took a step backwards after he took it from her.
“I’m going into town,” she said. “Is there anything I can pick up for you?”
He carried the tray into the other room, and she was forced to follow him. She tried not to look at his smooth, bare back or at the way his sweat pants rode low on his slim hips.
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