Free Mail-Order Millionaire by Carol Grace Page B

falling forward against her pale cheek. He put the palm of his hand on the cushion next to him. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable here?”
    She smiled. “Knowing that old couch, I doubt it. Besides, I’m on my way up to bed.” As if to prove it, she stood up again, one hand on the railing, the other wrapped around her wineglass.
    He wished he could think of something to say, something to keep her there talking, sipping wine and listening to the wood hiss as the sap oozed out of it. But he had never been much good at making small talk.
    “I was surprised you came tonight. I didn’t know you liked parties.”
    “I don’t usually. But I thought this would be an interesting cultural experience.”
    Reflected light from the fire danced in her dark eyes. “I hope you weren’t disappointed.”
    He stretched his long legs and stood, then moved deliberately toward her. He put his hand over hers on the banister and looked down at her. “I learned a lot. More than I expected.”
    He cupped her chin with his hand and she stared up into his eyes, now pools of dark blue. She swallowed hard and tried to look away but couldn’t. If she didn’t do something soon she’d be back in his arms again, his strength making her feel warm and protected. And if he kissed her she just might, because it was late and she was feeling the effects of the wine, she just might kiss him back.
    “There’s something I have to explain to you, Max,” she said, unable to hide the slight tremor in her voice.
    He traced his thumb up the side of her cheek to her temple. “Yes?” he asked, his slow drawl stretching the word out into extra syllables.
    She took a deep breath. “It’s nothing personal, but I’m really not interested in men at this time.” There, she’d said it.
    “Really?” His mouth was so close she could feel his warm breath against her lips. If he got any closer he’d make a liar out of her and she couldn’t have that happen, she just couldn’t. She had her future to think about and the future of this farm. Right now she should be in bed resting up for a full day’s work tomorrow and instead she was drinking and flirting with danger in the form of a tall, handsome weatherman.
    “Yes, really,” she said, backing her way up the steps. “But someday when I’ve got the farm in order and I make a go of it on my own, well then maybe...”
    “You could give me a call.”
    She took another backward step up and away from him. “Yes, sure.” There, what was so hard about that? He understood. She stood looking down at him, trying to read the expression in his eyes.
    “I’ll be looking forward to it,” he said with a gleam in his eye.
    She hurried up the remaining stairs. Deep in the depths of her feather bed, she pondered his easy acceptance of her refusal. Maybe he was relieved to know she wasn’t available. Anyway, she felt sure he’d be gone before her alarm went off. She tried to fall asleep, knowing she had work to do the next day, but the images kept running through her mind. His face by firelight, the smell of the wood smoke and the touch of his hand on hers. The feel of fresh snow on her face and the taste of his kiss on her lips. Why couldn’t she put him out of her mind? Why did all thoughts of the party center around Max? Was it because he was the only guest who was still there? She felt like a love-starved teenager, tossing in her old bed under the eaves.
    She stared at the window at the frost forming around the edges of the panes. She wasn’t a teenager, but she must be starved for love. It was the only explanation for this restless yearning she felt. Starved for love or just hungry, it didn’t matter. She was going to have to get along without love for a while. For a long while. Until the farm was paying for itself. Until she could quit her job and devote full-time to it. Until she was self-sufficient and independent. Then she could think about love.
    Until then she had to think maple syrup. Maybe if she