Uncaring that my voice shook, I said weakly, “I have to hang up the phone.Please?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, but I could feel the heat of his gaze on my face for another minute before he finally uncoupled his fingers from my hair and stepped aside.After returning the receiver to its wall cradle, I quickly scooped up the mugs from the table and set to washing them in the sink.
Peter propped a lean hip against the counterand crossed his ankles.“Cooper said that your sister wouldn’t be bothering you on the phone if it weren’t for me.Is it true?”
I continued to wash the mugs, soaping and rinsing a second, then a third time.
“They’re clean,” he said.
I ignored him.
“Is it true?”he asked.“What does your sister have against me?”
“Nothing,” I blurted out.“She thinks you’re the cat’s meow.”
He frowned.“Have I ever met her?”
“You’d have remembered if you had.”Hands dripping into the sink, I drilled him with a sharp look.“Samantha is gorgeous.So is my sister-inlaw, who also thinks you’re terrific.You see, their definition of terrific is wealthy and goodlooking.Be grateful it’s not mine.If it were, you’d be fighting me off.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad,” he said, just about the time I realized I’d asked for it.The next thing I realized was that honesty couldn’t hurt.Peter should know exactly where he stood.
“Samantha told me that I should go after you.She said that I’d be passing up a golden opportunity if I didn’t seduce you, since I have you here in my clutches for the weekend.And she wasn’t going to stop with the weekend.She had it all planned that I’d have you hooked by the time Monday rolled around.She thinks we need new blood in the family.”I snorted.“You’d think we were vampires.”
Peter didn’t look particularly perturbed.“Is she a matchmaker?”
“No, she’s a golddigger.She has her eye on your wallet.I’m not sure who’s worse—she or Helaine.”
“Helaine?”
“My sister-in-law.She has her eye on your crotch.”
Peter cracked a crooked grin.“You Madigan women certainly know what you want.”
“And what we don’t.I don’t want your wallet, and I don’t want—” I darted a quick look at his fly.“All I want from you is the best possible legal defense for Cooper Drake.Do you think you can give me that?”I demanded in as imperious a tone as I could muster.
“I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.”
“Can you give it to me without all the other—” the word momentarily eluded me “—garbage?”
He shrugged.“Sure.”
“Say it with conviction.”
“Sure,” he said in a more forceful voice.
I wasn’t sure I believed him, but the fact was that I couldn’t stand there wondering.If I was to guarantee my safety with Peter Hathaway under my roof for the night, I was going to have to wear him out somehow before then.
The day was waning.I had to get to it.
3
In theory, it was a great idea.Peter wanted me to show him around, so I’d show him around—starting with an extra-long, brisk hike through the late-afternoon wind, the salt-laden air and the bracken.That would take the starch out of his pretty city shirt collar, I calculated.I felt smug in anticipation.
In practice, something went wrong.As soon as I suggested we walk into town, Peter retrieved his suitcase from the car and disappeared into the second of the two upstairs bedrooms, the spare one, the one I’d pointed him to when he’d said something about changing his shoes.When he trotted back down the stairs less than five minutes later, he’d removed the shirt I’d hoped to take the starch from.In fact, I was the one who felt unstarched.Not only had he removed the shirt, sweater, slacks and loafers that had given him a semblance of urbanity, but he’d replaced them with clothes that might well have come from Down East Army and Navy ten years before.
His sneakers had been run long and hard.Above them were a pair of basic Levi’s that hadbeen blue many washings ago but were faded now, and the fading was real.It was uneven, more so in spots that saw the most friction—the knees, the thighs and, oh Lord, the fly.Above the jeans was a faded maroon sweatshirt, beneath the sweatshirt a gray turtleneck jersey.Hooked on a finger over his shoulder was a venerable sherpa-lined jacket.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d looked dirty, but he didn’t.He just looked comfortable.He looked as much at ease in my kind of clothes as he did in his.I wasn’t sure how it could be, given the number of hours he surely had to devote to his career to be as successful as he was, but he looked as though he spent a good part of his life in those jeans.They fit him like a well-worn glove, conforming snugly to his rangy frame, yet allowing for the movement that was uniquely his.
