[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

still call it off," she said after she'd served up the delicious cherry flan Mrs.
McDougal had provided for dessert.
He put down his fork with cold deliberation, and she knew with a shiver that she'd
finally given him the opening he was waiting for. His eyes glittered like shards of
metal.
"Isn't it a little late for that?" he asked curtly. "The word's out, in case you've
forgotten. Vinnie wailing all over me on the phone, Nick making cute remarks, Mrs.
McDougal sighing like cupid on Valentine's Day . . . My God, if I'd had any idea what
I was letting myself in for. . . ."
"I'll go right now," Abby said soothingly. "I'll call Miss Nichols and Nick myself.
Everything will work out fine." She put down her napkin and left the table. It was
almost a relief. The way he was acting, even having to face Robert Dalton wouldn't
be a fraction of the strain.
She'd just opened the top drawer of her bureau to start taking out neatly folded
tops and blouses when he paused in the doorway.
"Abby . . ." he began hesitantly.
"It's all right, really," she assured him. "It's probably for the best. I can get a job
with the wire services and ask for an assignment to Central America
"You're breaking my heart," he growled.
She glared at him. "A lot you'd care if I got shot down in the streets," she
muttered.
"It would depend on how much of my correspondence you'd answered," he replied
matter-of-factly.
She wanted to throw something at him. The only problem was that she wasn't quite
sure how he'd retaliate.
"Calm down, Abby," he chuckled.
She tossed back her long hair impatiently. "Calm down! How can I? You make me
feel as welcome as a typhoid carrier. I realize that I'm in your way, and I'm sorry,
but this was your idea, not mine."
"I know." He moved into the room, taking the blouse out of her hands. He tossed it
lightly on top of the chest of drawers and caught her by the shoulders to study
her.
"I've lived alone most of my life since I came out of the service," he said quietly.
"Adjusting to another person is never easy. You might remember that from your
marriage."
"I didn't have to adjust to Gene," she said bitterly. "He was never at home."
He paused. "Other women?"
"Yes. Other women."
His fingers tightened before he let her go and moved away. "Come and drink some
coffee with me. Then you'll have to amuse yourself. I've got some phone calls to
make."
"I don't expect to be entertained," she murmured as they walked back to the living
room. "I'm used to being alone, too. I have a manuscript I work on in the evenings."
"The one about the man with the cruel mouth and the 'wise, patient hands'?" he
asked, tongue in cheek.
She hated the ruby blush that highlighted her high cheekbones. "Fie on you,
counselor," she grumbled. "One of these days, I'm going to sell that book, and you'll
be laughing through your teeth."
He chuckled deeply. "I hope you can write to music. I rarely watch anything on
television except the evening news."
"Neither do I," she admitted. She glanced at him nervously. "There's one show on
this week that I've just got to watch, though," she said hesitantly. "I'll turn it
down very low . . ."
He looked irritated. "Well, which one? A soap opera, no doubt."
She glared at him. "No, it isn't. It's a special on public television about a dig in
Egypt . . ."
"In the Valley of the Kings?" he asked sharply. "The one about the site that had to
be moved because of the Aswan Dam?"
She felt shocked. "Why, yes."
"I've seen it once, but I'll gladly sit through it again with you." He moved to the
record player, his eyes puzzled. "Is that a fluke, or do you like archaeology?"
"I'm nuts about it," she admitted. "I read every book I can find on the subject. I
subscribe to magazines about it, I watch all the specials."
"So do I," he admitted with a slow smile. "When you're not writing the Great
American Novel, dig into my bookshelves," he nodded toward the bookcase that
lined the walls. "I've got some excellent volumes with pages of color photos, all on
Egypt, Greece, Mexico, Peru . . ."
"I'll never get any writing done," she wailed, her eyes greedy on the titles as she
walked down the row of subjects. "Oh, how wonderful . . . !"
"Do you like Rachmaninoff?" he murmured as he started the cassette player and
the rich strains filled the room.
"The Second Piano Concerto? I love it," she murmured, her already buried in a thick
text on the Inca civilization.
He laughed softly as he went toward his study in what would have been a third
bedroom before its bed was replaced by a desk. "I think we'll get along all right,"
he murmured.
The next evening they had supper with McCallum's mother and brother, and if
she'd expected them to be shocked, she was in for a surprise.
"I've seen it coming for months," Mandy said with a quiet smile, her dark hair and
gray eyes leaving no doubt about which of his parents McCallum favored the most.
She was a tall woman, but slender, and the blue dress she was wearing flattered
her. "I wasn't even surprised when Nicky told me."
"Neither was I," Nicky grinned, glancing from McCallum's taciturn face to Abby's
smiling one. Nicky was as different from his brother as midnight from dawn. He had
light brown hair and blue eyes, and he was half Greyson McCallum's size.
"A likely story," Mandy teased. "Who was it who went around the house for ten
minutes laughing about the irony of it? Didn't you also mention something about
beauty and the . . ." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

zanotowane.pl

doc.pisz.pl

pdf.pisz.pl

qus.htw.pl