She eyed him suspiciously. “You’re teasing me,
aren’t you?”
“No.” His voice was flat, hard. “I see people look away
quickly. It makes them uncomfortable. They wonder
what happened, but they don’t really want to know.”
Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “I want to know.”
He nodded. “That makes you…unusual.”
They seemed unable to look away from each other.
His eyes searched hers with an intensity that shook her.
Sounding a little breathless, she managed, “The scar
just gives you that brooding, Heathcliff look.”
“Don’t say that.” He sounded disgusted, the electricity abruptly broken.
“It was, um, meant to be a compliment.”
“I detested Wuthering Heights. ”
Actually she wasn’t crazy about Bronte’s classic,
either, although there was something about being forced
to analyze theme and characters endlessly for an
English class that could ruin the best of books.
“Heathcliff does epitomize the romantic hero, you
know,” she pointed out.
“The guy was rude and self-pitying. Am I that bad?”
He sounded so appalled that she had to laugh.
“I was just trying to say that a scar doesn’t make you
any less attractive to women. In fact—” she tilted her
head “—it makes you look just a little dangerous.”
“Attractive, huh?”
Darn it, her pulse began to bounce again.
“You know you are.”
“It’s been a long time…” He stopped, obviously
wishing the words unsaid.
Was he admitting that he hadn’t made love to a
woman since he was wounded? Maybe, since before he
went to Iraq?
Fiona asked the only thing she could think to. “Did
you have a girlfriend before you left?”
“I was seeing someone, but we were drifting apart
even before I shipped out.”
“Oh. I, um, haven’t actually dated more than casually
in a long time, either.” Oh God. Why did she tell him
that? Maybe he wasn’t interested. If she saw boredom
cross his face…
He didn’t look bored. His voice was low, a little
rough. “Why?”
“Well, I’ve been busy. Working full-time and going
to grad school at the same time is a challenge.”
He waited.
“Okay, I guess I just haven’t met anyone who interested me enough to bother. Which is not what I tell guys calling to ask me for a second date!”
He smiled. Really smiled. “Break their hearts, do you?”
“Oh, that’s me. A femme fatale.”
“I think—” again his voice had roughened “—you
could be.”
They were flirting, she realized, not just dancing
around the possibility, as they’d been practically since
she stumbled over the lodge doorstep yesterday. Her
heart was pounding, her cheeks felt warm, and despite
all common sense she wanted to be snowbound here
until she found out if this attraction to him meant
anything.
Suddenly a giggle escaped her, as irresistible as a
hiccup.
His eyes narrowed. “What?”
“I suddenly realized I’m having this intense conversation with a man who’s holding a basket of sanitary napkins.”
He looked down. “Uh, yeah. Here. You take them.”
He all but shoved the basket into her hands.
Another bubble of laughter in her throat, she said,
“Feel manlier now?”
He was getting better at the whole smiling thing.
This one was positively rakish. “Hey, you kissed me
because of those pads.”
“I can be bribed,” she said with as much dignity as
she could summon.
“And with so little.”
She laughed. “I’ll take these upstairs.”
“You do that.”
Fiona backed up a step or two. “And see whether
Amy has reappeared.”
“Good idea.”
“The boys are probably getting hungry again.”
With resignation, John said, “Undoubtedly. I’ll see
what I can find.”
“Okay.” Even so, it was all she could do to make
herself turn away. Pushing through the swinging door,
she felt a little flutter of alarm along with plenty of