Free Behind the Shadows by Patricia; Potter

he’d just stepped off the pages of Gentlemen’s Quarterly .
    Suddenly he smoothed back a wayward curl from her face. Her skin burned from his touch and she stepped back.
    Dammit. She wanted to go with him, and not just because she wanted to learn more about the Westerfields. She needed to relax, but then she knew she couldn’t relax with him. Despite his current easy manner, she suspected it was a facade hiding a ruthless interior.
    But before those deep green eyes, she was helpless. “Give me a minute,” she said.
    â€œI’ll give you as long as you need.”
    She slipped in the nearest restroom. Cold water on her face. A dab of lipstick. A quick comb of her hair. She refused to do anything else.
    He was not a date. She wanted to know more about the Westerfields, and she suspected he wanted to know more about her interest in them. Who, she wondered, was going to get the best of the bargain?
    Max was used to sleek, well-coiffed women who frequented the circles in which he moved. He’d liked several, but not enough to take the relationship to marriage. He was a workaholic, had always been a workaholic—even as a kid—and he knew that trait did not enhance a marriage. Neither did the rest of his background.
    So he didn’t understand now why he was disconcerted by a newspaper reporter with straight dark hair and bangs and gray blue eyes. True, the hair was more mahogany than brown, and the shade of her eyes was appealing, but she was curvy rather than sleek and her movements more impatient than graceful.
    When he’d opened the door to the hospital room after being frustrated for a good part of the day, she’d rubbed her eyes. He realized he’d awakened her from a nap, and she looked tousled and sleepy, just like a woman leaving bed. Then his eyes turned to the older woman on the hospital bed. Her eyes were closed, but her pallor had a waxy look. A number of IV tubes ran in and out of veins. She hardly made a dent in the bed.
    He’d learned from the private investigator that her mother was awaiting a kidney transplant. Medical records were supposedly protected but a good investigator had ways. He knew some of them himself. He’d never balked at breaking rules.
    He turned his attention back to Kira Douglas. He’d rarely been turned down by a woman, and he wondered if that wasn’t part of the attraction. Then he reminded himself it wasn’t the woman he was interested in, but information.
    When she went in the restroom, he’d prepared himself for a wait, but she apparently meant a moment when she said a moment. She was back out nearly as soon as she went in. A touch of lipstick. A quick comb. A curl around her face was damp. She’d obviously splashed water on it.
    Vitality was back in her steps.
    â€œI’ll meet you at the restaurant,” she said.
    He realized she wanted to keep her distance. Or felt she might want to make a quick getaway from the restaurant.
    â€œAll right,” he agreed, afraid she might sprint away if he didn’t. “Do we need reservations?”
    â€œNot at this time.”
    â€œCan I order you something if I get there first?”
    â€œA glass of the house Chianti.”
    They walked together to the hospital entrance. She stopped to get a paper in the newsstand, and he went ahead. He didn’t want to appear to be stalking her. She clearly wanted space. From him.
    He’d discovered the restaurant online. He’d conducted a quick search of restaurants in the area of the hospital and settled on Lucchesi’s as a possibility. He was good at reading people and suspected that after an evening in a hospital room, she would prefer something informal.
    Besides, he liked Italian food. And he particularly liked small, family-owned Italian restaurants. There had been one near an early foster home. The proprietor saw him looking in one winter day when he hadn’t wanted to go back to a crowded home and