Free Sullivan's Woman by Nora Roberts Page A

There was light amusement on his face and male appreciation in his eyes as they roamed over her skin. It was scantily covered in brief shorts and a T-shirt that had shrunk in the basement laundry. His lazy survey brought out a blush before she found her tongue.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œEnjoying the view,” he answered and stepped inside. He closed the door at his back, then lifted a brow. “Don’t you know better than to keep your door unlatched?”
    â€œI’m always losing my key and locking myself out, so I . . .” Cassidy stopped because she realized how ridiculous she sounded. One day, she promised herself, I’ll learn to think before I speak. “There isn’t anything in here worth stealing,” she said.
    Colin shook his head. “How wrong you are. Wear your key around your neck, Cass, but keep your door locked.” Her brain formed an indignant retort, but before she could vocalize it he spoke again. “Who did you think I was when I knocked?”
    â€œA songwriter with a faulty refrigerator. How did you know where I lived?”
    â€œYour address is on your manuscript.” He gestured with the thick envelope before setting it down.
    Cassidy glanced at the familiar bundle with some surprise. She had assumed Colin had forgotten her manuscript as soon as she’d given it to him. Suddenly it occurred to her why she hadn’t asked him before if he had read it, or what he’d thought of it. His criticism would be infinitely harder to bear than an impersonal rejection slip from a faceless editor. Abruptly nervous, she looked up at him. Any critique she was expecting wasn’t forthcoming.
    Colin wandered the room, toying with an arrangement of dried flowers, examining a snapshot in a silver frame, peering out the window at her view of the city.
    â€œCan I get you something?” she asked automatically, then remembered Jeff’s inventory of her refrigerator. She bit her lip. “Coffee,” she added quickly, knowing she could provide it as long as he took it black.
    Colin turned from the window and began to wander again. “You have a proper eye for color, Cass,” he told her. “And an enviable way of making a home from an apartment. I’ve always found them soulless devices, lacking in privacy and character.” He lifted a small mirror framed with seashells. “Fisherman’s Wharf,” he concluded and glanced at her. “It must be a particular haunt of yours.”
    â€œYes, I suppose. I love the city in general and that part of it in particular.” She smiled as she thought of it. “There’s so much life there. The boats are all crammed in beside each other, and I like to imagine where they’ve been or where they’re going.” As soon as the words were spoken Cassidy felt foolish. They sounded romantic when she had been taking great pains to prove to Colin she was not. He smiled at her, and her embarrassment became something more dangerous. “I’ll make coffee,” she said quickly and started to rise.
    â€œNo, don’t bother.” Colin laid a hand on her shoulder to keep her seated, then glanced at her desk. It was cluttered with papers and notes and reference books. “I’m interrupting your work. Intolerable.”
    â€œIt seems to be the popular thing to do tonight.” Cassidy shook off her discomfort and smiled as he continued to pace the room. “It’s all right because I was nearly done; otherwise I suppose I’d behave as rudely as you do when you’re interrupted.” She enjoyed the look he gave her, the ironical lift of his brow, the light tilt of a smile on his mouth.
    â€œAnd how rudely is that?”
    â€œAbominably. Please sit, Colin. These floors are thin, you’ll wear them through.” She gestured to a chair, but he perched on the edge of her desk.
    â€œI finished your book