Free Handful of Dreams by Heather Graham Page B

always had to be wary because the calm would cease and the wind would rail once again.
    She started, chills racing instantly down her spine, when a tap sounded at the door. She didn’t answer, and it came more insistently.
    “Miss Anderson, are you all right?”
    There was a touch of anxiety to his voice, and impatience. If she didn’t answer, he would probably knock the door down.
    “I’m fine!” she rasped out quickly.
    There was a slight pause, then, “Sorry I disturbed you. I was concerned.”
    She heard a soft tread of footsteps as he moved away, and she wondered irritably why her heart continued to pound with such a nervous fervor.
    He meant nothing to her. Nothing. He was dangerously presumptuous, concerned for her life, perhaps, but little more. She’d learned the hard way that he didn’t intend to tolerate her temper, yet he was adept at igniting it with ease. She knew exactly what he thought of her and she hated him for it.
    And she was still nervous around him. Amazed that when he chose to be pleasant, he could be arrestingly so. Attractive and compelling; a little too beguiling by candlelight.
    Ah, and why not? He was Peter’s son. With his father’s dark Gaelic looks and crystal-blue eyes. Sharp as a tack, young, a handsome man. He was a disturbing presence, and he would have been no matter when or how she had met him. If he were to enter a crowded room, he would be noticed right away.
    She should just stay locked in here all day, she thought, but even as she did so, she rolled off the bed. It was impossible to lie there any longer. She was too restless, too confined. If the rain stopped at all, she was going to get outside.
    Susan dressed in jeans and a red cardigan and came down the stairs. David was in the parlor, clad in a mackintosh, straightening a new supply of logs by the fire. Apparently he’d been out in the shed to bring in more wood.
    He gazed up at her entrance, his eyes roaming lightly over her, a slight smile curving his lips.
    “Good morning, Miss Anderson.”
    “It’s not really, is it?”
    He chuckled softly, dusting off his hands and standing. “No, it’s not. The radio says this is some kind of major squall. There’s no chance of it breaking before tomorrow.”
    “Wonderful,” Susan murmured, her lashes falling over her eyes.
    David Lane shed the mackintosh. He was wearing black, form-fitting jeans and an old blue football jersey. “Don’t sound so bleak, Miss Anderson. It’s possible for us to spend the day being polite to one another.”
    “Mr. Lane, I was never rude,” she said in bitter reminder.
    He shrugged, apparently believing that he could dispute her but didn’t intend to bother. “There’s coffee in the kitchen on the camp stove. And a plate of pancakes if you’re interested. They might be a little rubbery now; they were made a long time ago.”
    She couldn’t help but frown curiously. “You made pancakes on a camp stove?”
    “Mmm.”
    “You cook?”
    He grinned at her in return. “Obviously, Miss Anderson. I’ve been on my own quite some time now, and one tends to become fairly proficient that way.” He plopped down on the sofa with a book. Susan walked on by behind him, holding her breath a little when she was right behind his dark head.
    “Bring me some coffee when you finish and are on your way back through, will you?”
    Like hell, she thought, but then she released her breath, and at the sink, her fingers tightly gripped the edge of the counter. Now she was getting ridiculous. He’d had the consideration to make the coffee and breakfast. It would be rather childish to refuse to do something so simple in return.
    She hadn’t touched much at dinner last night, so she wasn’t terribly surprised to be ravenous. And his pancakes were delicious. It was a little irritating that he had managed them so well on a small stove, but Susan tried to shrug off all her nasty feelings. After all, she had gone out of her way to reverse his knife thrusts