“Oh, I don’t know. I could always try again later.”
Claire looked up, her hands suddenly still, her heart suddenly stumbling, to realize that he was only half joking, as well. Oh, ithadbeen a long time. She didn’t know what to say, what to do. How to laugh off the fact that at the same moment she could think of nothing she wanted more, yetwanted less.
Just the invitation in those soft green eyes sent unexpected chills through her. She wanted to lift her hand to hisface. She wanted to stroke his cheek and trace his crow’s-feetand feel the tickle of his mustache.
She wanted to say yes. Dear God, she wanted to say yes.
She didn’t know how.
“I don’t know,” she finally said. “I’ll, uh, have to thinkabout it.”
Tony just nodded. He couldn’t seem to look away fromher hair, and Claire saw that his hands were restless againsthis knees. Uncertain, she realized in real surprise. As out ofpractice with the steps of this dance as her. She thought itwas a silly reason to feel her heart stumble. Her heart stumbled anyway, and she found she had to look away so hedidn’t seem quite so close.
This was all too complicated, she thought as she focusedon her work. Especially when she’d spent the early-morninghours vacillating between tears and anxiety. It was too sudden. Until this man had turned to greet her in the slantingafternoon light of her tearoom, she hadn’t wasted her wishesfor a man in her life again. It was too improbable, when she thought about what waited for the two of them in the dark.
“I thought you might like to check the rooms with me,” he said, the easy posture of his body belied by his rubbingat the old scar across his temple with the heel of his hand. “Tell me what you want done.”
Relieved, Claire turned her attention to her plants. Soothed herself with the feel of the velvety petals of thepansies. Warm, dark earth and green leaves. Color, scent,order. Beauty brought to a world that was too often ugly. Order in a life that seemed too often to ricochet from onecrisis to another.
Tony Riordan was a crisis. Claire had known that themoment he’d identified himself. She certainly knew it now.But here with the sun beating down on them and the rich wine of flower petals beneath her fingertips, she couldn’treally believe it.
She didn’t want to believe it.
She could smell him, soap and sweat and male musk.Enticing smells. Unnerving smells that conjured up needslike dark smoke where she’d had nothing but sterile emptiness for so long. She could hear him, no matter how still hekept. She could see him out of the corner of her eye, wellhoned and hard and strong, an imposing presence in anywoman’s life. A gentle heart, with eyes the color of old painand new hope.
She remembered him, deep in the night when he’dwrapped those arms around her and held her against him.And she wanted him to hold her again. She wanted him tosoothe her, to stir her, to turn her around so she didn’t knowwhat to expect next. She wanted from him what she hadn’tallowed herself from any man since Sam, and she knewbetter.
God, she knew better.
“Claire?”
“One more plant,” she said, stabbing the ground deepwith her sharp trowel.
“Okay.” He didn’t move. Didn’t seem to feel the need toretreat as Claire did. Forearms resting on bent legs, he justwatched her work. “Where’s Jessie? I wanted to tell her thatGina’s coming after all.”
Claire wanted to look up to answer him. She wanted to getanother fill of those crystalline eyes. She kept her attentionon the ground. “Finishing her exams. She’ll be home for lunch.”
He nodded. “I think she and Gina’d get along great. Theycan compare notes about how tough it is to keep an eye ontheir parents.”
This time Claire did face him. “Gina does that, too?”
Tony rolled his eyes. “Ever since I’ve been divorced.”
“How long?”
“Six years. You?”
Claire sighed. “Well, it’s a toss-up whether I’m divorcedor widowed. My husband Sam died about a week before thepapers were finalized. Eleven years and counting.”
“I’m sorry.”
She faced him, wanting suddenly to tell him. To talk tosomeone who might understand. No one else did. No oneelse knew why Sam had driven into that bridge abutmentbut Claire.
“Yeah,” she said simply. “So am I.”
“He was a vet, too?”
Claire fought to keep still. She focused on her plants instead of the old recriminations just the question incited. She battled the terrifying urge to tell Tony everything, when shehadn’t ever told anyone.
