Free Swan's Grace by Linda Francis Lee Page A

resumed her designs. "There are flowers and candy. Trinkets and baubles. Not to mention invitations by the dozens."
    "What's the occasion?"
    A smile tilted her lips as she glanced at him. "My homecoming. Word has gotten out that the prodigal daughter has returned."
    He stood from the chair and reached for the pen. Their fingers touched, and she felt it intensely—his long and strong, hers smaller, with short, rounded nails so she could press the strings of the cello.
    He took the pen from her hand and set it aside. "I'd hardly call you a prodigal."
    She sat back, her teeth catching the corner of her lower lip, cradling the fingers he had touched. "What would you call me?"
    He came around and stood between her and the desk, leaning back against the edge. She felt her pulse skitter, and without being obvious, she pressed farther away. But he only looked at her for a long time, really looked, and her discomfort grew.
    A strange tenderness softened his obsidian eyes. "I'd call you complicated."
    She made a scoffing sound, too loudly. "I'm a simple girl, nothing more."
    Pushing up, she tried to move away. But when she stood, the chair didn't slide back, and she found herself so close to Grayson that if she shifted so much as an inch they would touch.
    His dark eyes glowed like embers. "You are many things, Sophie, but simple is not one of them."
    She started to protest, but he cut her off as he brushed the tips of his fingers down her arm. Just barely.
    He was too close, she felt too much. Crossing her arms on her chest, she tried to pull free. But he held her there.
    "I make you nervous," he said quietly. "Tell me why."
    "You make me nervous?" Despite the truth of his words, pride got the better of her and she pulled her shoulders back. "I don't think so."
    He chuckled, and his lips tilted in a way that made her want to reach out and trace the fullness.
    "All right, if you won't tell me why I make you nervous, then tell me who all these gifts are from. Childhood friends? Your father's acquaintances?"
    "They're from admirers."
    Instantly the glowing embers of his eyes sparked with fire. Any tenderness was gone, only irritation remained.
Good
.
    "Admirers? You have admirers? Already?"
    "Yes," she stated, using the word like armor. "It would appear I have scads of them." And she did, amazingly enough. Men who as boys wouldn't give her the time of day. "Do you want to know who has paid calls?"
    "No, I do not." His voice was tight. "You have no business being courted."
    "Oh, really," she mused, planting her hands on her hips. "Why ever not?"
    He stared at her, that same, strange war she had seen in his eyes that first night raging within him. With a sudden shudder she dropped her hands to her sides and wondered if he already knew about her performances. Was that why he touched her as he did? Boldly, much too forward.
    She could tell he was on the verge of saying something very serious, and her palms began to tingle. What would it be? A reprimand? A lecture?
    "Sophie, you've been here nearly a week and it's long past time we talked."
    He was as solemn as she had ever seen him, that dark possessiveness resurging.
    Her breath grew short, though she couldn't say why. Her chest felt much too tight, and suddenly she didn't like the look in his eyes. With all her heart she wished she hadn't started down this path of teasing about admirers.
    He took her hand and his voice gentled. "We've known each other for a very long time." He smiled, his full, wonderful lips tilting with fond amusement. "In fact, other than my brothers and parents, I've known no one longer. So I would like to be frank."
    Her heart began to pound. "You could try to be Frank, but I'll have a hard time thinking of you as anyone but Grayson." She searched for a smile, tried to laugh.
    "No more jokes, Sophie. We need to discuss the reason why your father asked you to come home."
    Sound swirled in her mind, a low buzzing, like the rush of wind whispering through willows.