“Success can be the best revenge.”
She scowled. “I despise hypocrisy. The same people who were whispering about him now pretend they believed he was innocent all along.”
Shifting a bit uncomfortably in his chair, Mac prompted, “So that’s when all the gossip about the McBrides began?”
She shrugged. “There were a few other incidents, but that was the most dramatic. The other stuff has been generally exaggerated.”
“And I thought nothing exciting ever happened around here.”
“We’ve had our share of scandal. But personally, I prefer a quieter, more peaceful existence. If I’d wanted excitement, I’d have moved to a big city instead of settling down here to be close to my family.”
Thinking of some of the “excitement” he’d seen as a vice cop, Mac decided she’d made the right choice.
Sharon nodded toward his glass. “Would you like some more wine?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
“I had a couple of thoughts about the renovation project this afternoon—specifically, the little front parlor. Would it be possible to change the doorway to an arch to match the shape of the fanlights in the entryway and dining room?”
He would have liked to ask a few more questions about the McBrides, but there was really no way to pursue it now without arousing Sharon’s suspicions. “Actually, that’s something I’ve already discussed with the builder,” he said, going along with her for now.
He hadn’t forgotten his main purpose in being here this evening. He would find a way to learn more about the McBrides later.
BY CONVINCING HERSELF this was a business dinner, Sharon was able to relax considerably during the remainder of the meal. It was easier to talk about decorating with Mac than to make social small talk. She was still annoyed with herself for babbling on about the McBrides the way she had. She’d let her irritation with the local gossips and her natural inclination to defend her friends carry her away.
Mac had probably been bored by the whole conversation about people he hardly even knew. In all likelihood he considered her as big a gossip as the others he’d encountered around here.
Better, she thought, to stick to business.
Her awkwardness with Mac could be attributed to the fact that it had been a long time since she’d spent an evening with any man other than Jerry, who tended to dominate conversations with talk about himself. An evening with Jerry was usually entertaining—and never made her as nervous and self-conscious as this supposedly simple dinner with Mac. Maybe because Jerry didn’t have Mac’s habit of studying her across the table as if everything she said or did was inherently interesting.
Seeing that Mac’s plate was empty, she asked, “Would you like coffee and dessert? I made a strawberry cake. It’s sort of my specialty.”
A decidedly odd look crossed his face. “Um…thanks, but strawberries make me break out in hives.”
Of course they did. There seemed to be some force at work to cause as many awkward moments as possible between the two of them. “Something else, then? I have ice cream or…”
“Just coffee, thanks. Dinner was so good I’ve eaten too much already.”
“Why don’t we have our coffee in the living room. I have a few sketches I’d like to show you in there.”
His grin was a brief flash of white, both wicked and disturbing. “Are you offering to show me your etchings?”
“Behave yourself,” she said sternly, not sure whether she was talking to him or to her own suddenly activated hormones.
“Yes, ma’am.” He stood when she did and reached to move her chair out of the way for her. “Can I help you clear away the dishes first?”
She couldn’t help smiling. Mac had the kind of old-fashioned manners that she’d been trying to teach Brad—with only partially satisfying results. “Are your parents still living?” she asked impulsively.
He seemed to go still for a moment. And then he replaced her chair without looking at her. “I was raised by my mother. She died three years ago.”
Something in his voice told Sharon he hadn’t quite recovered from the loss. Her tone was gentle when she asked, “Was she the one who taught you to be such a gentleman?”
Though the question appeared to disconcert him a bit, he nodded. “My mother was a real stickler for manners. ‘Stand up when a lady stands, Miguel.’ ‘Take your hat off indoors, Miguel.’ ‘Say please and thank you, Miguel.”’
Intrigued by this fleeting glimpse into his past, she cocked her head. “Miguel? That’s your first name?”
He gave her a funny little bow. “Miguel Luis Cordero.”