Free Starlight by Debbie Macomber Page B

ask for a Smith and Currens.”
    “I did?” she asked blankly. “I didn’t even realize it.”
    “Don’t worry. Blind men rarely drink anything stronger than coffee,” he remarked.
    Waving her hands excitedly, Karen marched to his chair and sat on the ottoman. “There, you did it again.” Her voice was high-spirited. “I was trying to explain to Dad about your ability to listen.”
    “I don’t have any unusual listening ability,” he contradicted her.
    “Of course you do,” she said dramatically. “Do you remember when I bumped into you on the balcony the night of the party?”
    “I’m unlikely to forget it.” He smiled rakishly.
    “You knew right away I didn’t have my coat because my voice trembled.”
    Rand straightened, his posture suddenly defensive and stiff. “In case you weren’t aware of it, nature often compensates for the lack of one sense by enhancing another. I’ve been told my hearing is extraordinary.”
    “Honestly, Rand.” She shifted irritably. “That’s what Dad said. One would think you of all people would know the difference between hearing and listening.”
    A frown creased his brow. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
    Exasperated, Karen expelled her breath unevenly. “Okay. The other day in your office you apologized for being on the phone so long. I told you I didn’t mind, but immediately you detected there was something wrong—”
    “My dear Karen, it was obvious you were upset; your voice was low and tight—”
    “But that’s it,” she interrupted. “I’ve used that same tone of voice a hundred times, and no one has ever guessed my feelings. You did because you
listen
. I mean really
listen
. That’s so rare, Rand. It’s probably the most appealing thing about you.”
    “You mean my dashing good looks don’t faze you?” he teased.
    “Well, not entirely.” Her long, thick lashes fluttered downward in a disconcerted movement. “The other day, I invited Dad to dinner. He gets home earlier than me, so I asked him to come to my apartment, take the casserole from the fridge at five o’clock, and put it in a three-fifty-degree oven. Dad put it in at five hundred degrees at three-thirty. Needless to say, we went out for hamburgers. If I’d given you the sameinstructions, I have no doubt they would’ve been followed explicitly.”
    Again, he dismissed her theory. “People misunderstand one another all the time. My ability to hear or listen or whatever,” he said a little impatiently, “is a figment of your imagination.”
    Karen studied him, the tiny crow’s-feet that appeared at the corners of his eyes, the salting of gray hairs at his temple. The deep-colored eyes stared back at her, but how much he could see, Karen could only guess.
    “All right, Randall Prescott”—she gave in graciously—“you’re right. The whole thing is a wild, unreasonable assumption.” She should have known better. With his defensive attitude, it was unlikely he’d admit to anything that set him apart or made him different.
    “Did you say something about coffee?” he reminded her gently.
    “Oh, sorry.” She apologized quickly and stood, returning to the kitchen.
    Both cups were full and steaming when she returned and sat opposite Rand.
    “By the way, have you come up with a name for the cat?”
    “Yes,” she told him uncertainly, “but I’m not sure you’ll like it.”
    He arched a curious brow. “Well?”
    “Everyone knows a cat is supposed to have nine lives, but did you also know there are said to be nine heavens, nine regions of hell, nine heads of the hydra, nine muses, nine crosses, nine orders of angels, nine worthies … and …”
    “A cat-o’-nine tails,” Rand injected smoothly.
    “Right”—she laughed nervously—“and seeing how there are so many nines in the world and all, I thought I’d name her Number Nine.” She shifted in an anxious movement. “What do you think?”
    “My birthday is October ninth.”
    “See, all