And here is another look at Bret and Kit. He’s winning but it’s slow! Remember, some lucky reader will win this, an autographed paperback copy so tell me if you like it!! GM
Excerpt: Bret just rescued Kit when her loaner car (Beemer is in the shop) broke down and a low-rider full of rowdy Latino youths accosted her. He drives her home.
…
Kit stood stock-still, at the edge of the foyer. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself. “I was so terrified–it scared me right out of my migraine. If you hadn’t come along…” She looked up at him, a muddle of emotions coloring her expressive eyes.
Bret wanted to take her in his arms and hug her shivers away, but he didn’t. “We all make mistakes sometimes, let our pride overrule common sense, maybe get in over our heads. Lord knows, I’ve done it often enough. Let’s just forget it, okay? Where’s that coffee maker?”
Her gaze flew upward to his, as if she’d been startled out of some deep private thought. “Coffee. Oh, yes. In the kitchen.”
She had several kinds of coffee, each in its own little tin, with labels and descriptions. After selecting one, she carefully measured grounds into the machine, got a pot of water from the bottle in a stand at the counter-side, and poured it in slowly, each action as precise as if she conducted a one-of-a-kind scientific experiment.
Bret watched, fascinated. Her serious expression and great care both touched and amused him. He whistled. “Wow, I’m not a gourmet. I just drink the stuff. How did you manage the engine oil I brewed at the cabin?”
She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes and then a quirky smile twitched across her lips. “With difficulty, but I simply had to have caffeine. When you’re a junky, you can’t be too particular. It’s my only vice.”
Before the intensity of their locked gazes grew too strong, she turned away, carefully taking two footed mugs from the cupboard. She looked intently at the coffee machine, her head bowed. The hair parted and slid forward on either side of her neck. Bret found himself mesmerized by that thin, pale column, smooth as marble, carved in a sequence of gentle knobs over each vertebra. He caught himself just short of bending forward to kiss each one. The mood she was in, she’d probably jump out of her skin.
When she lifted the glass carafe to pour coffee into the two mugs, her hand shook, not hard, but enough to make the dark stream ripple and twist. After putting back the carafe, she took up the mugs and turned, looking at him again.
He managed to reach past and pull out the chair for her.
“You didn’t have to do that. I’m the hostess.”
“Yeah, but I’m the rescuing knight, remember?” He wanted to put her at ease, to make her relax. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he felt he needed to–it wasn’t right for a person to be ill-at-ease in her own home. Not that this slick, cool little apartment was much of a home, but she had nothing else, at least for now.
“You’re very good at it, too.” She smiled, that smile he’d only seen a time or two, which transformed her face from ordinary prettiness to astounding beauty. His heart stumbled and then charged onward. “But then, I’ve been giving you a lot of practice, haven’t I?” She wrinkled her nose slightly as her mobile–kissable–lips shifted into a rueful grin.
“It’s difficult to stay in control of everything when the environment is so unfamiliar. There are a lot of things here you’ve never had to deal with before. You’ll catch on, though. I expect you’re a quick study.”
“I try to be. But I may not be here long enough to really get acclimated. I’ve got to get back to Boston as soon as my investments reach a level where I can buy out my half-brother. And that’s got to be soon, or there won’t be enough left of Daddy’s company to salvage. Sometimes it makes me so mad. Why did he have to leave everything to Sam, knowing how he was? But because I was a girl, he wouldn’t let me take charge.”
She paused, her eyes going wide, as if she was startled at her own outburst. “You aren’t interested in all that. Tell me about your studies, the classes you teach. I’m sure it must be quite fascinating to study ancient peoples.”
She shifted so smoothly, from a person with passion and feeling to a correct and polite robot. Disappointment speared through him. She had so much potential to be a real person, but she corked her real self up and hid behind the heaviest of veneers.
He found himself wondering what sort of upbringing would create a person so determined to be cool and contained, to restrain and restrict every trace of feeling. The picture that came to mind was not pleasant. Somebody needed to break her out of that self-imposed prison. Somebody like him. His mother always said, “Everything happens for a reason.” Steeped in old-world mysticism, she saw portents and omens in each commonplace action or coincidence, purpose behind the most random of events. He could almost hear what she’d say now.
“Fate has put you in this poor child’s path, Bret. You’ve a mission here, a quest to accomplish. And maybe a nice girl to marry when it’s all over.”
Wait just a damn minute! Marriage was not high on his agenda. But if and when, it wasn’t going to be a DAR princess with dollar signs in her eyes. Still, releasing the wild child hidden inside Kit Poindexter might be reward enough. She posed a challenge he couldn’t ignore. In the long run, he’d be doing her a favor. Bret smiled. “On second thought, let’s go out to the living room. Those chairs look more comfortable.”
Kit looked startled, but rose from the table. “Yes, I’m sure they are. It’s rather bourgeois to sit in the kitchen, anyway.” She led the way to the living room. When she chose to sit on the sofa, Bret could hardly keep from grinning. Good. He sat there, too, but not too close–yet.
“So you’re in the anthropology department at the university?” Her polite, impersonal tone grated, but he let it slide.
“Right…associate professor. I started teaching the basics, of course, but now I’ve got my choice, mostly graduate courses. Serious students who want to delve into the mysteries of the past, learn from the prehistoric peoples and the pre-contact civilizations of Mesoamerica in particular.”
She nodded, her eyes going glassy, just as he expected, lulled into complacency by his scholarly language. He continued for a few more minutes, using every ten-dollar word he could throw into a dissertation about an esoteric field. She nodded often and made small correct sounds of interest, which from her expression were false. As he talked, he eased closer. She didn’t seem to notice.
When he paused, she spoke. “I bought a pot the other day. Maybe you can tell me if it’s genuine or a good reproduction.”
“Sure. Let’s see it. For your sake, I hope it’s not genuine because it’s illegal to sell authentic artifacts. I’d have to find where you got it and take it as evidence.” Her mouth went into an “O” of dismay, just as he knew it would. She jumped up, then moved across the room to take a little black pot from a shelf. She extended it to him.
“Sit down. I’ll have to study it a moment.” She sank down at his side, now almost shoulder to shoulder. They bent together over the pot.
“Modern Hopi or Tewa work. Most all the potters up in northwestern New Mexico are doing this style now. Black on black is quite a fad among the Southwestern decorators. But this is nicely done, a good piece of work. Probably Carol Loloma-Tewa.” He squinted at the mark on the bottom and nodded. “Yep, it’s hers. It’ll be a nice souvenir when you’re back in Boston.”
She was looking at him with almost the same worshipful attention so many of the coeds displayed. When he set the pot aside, she didn’t draw away, and when he slipped an arm around her shoulders, she stiffened for only an instant. Her lips were as sweet and soft as he remembered them. She smelled clean and floral, while the skin of her arms felt like warm silk. Her mouth held the taste of coffee, an exotic, spicy kind from one of those neat tins in her kitchen. Classy, all the way.
The little black dress she wore covered a bit more than her bra and panties, but not so much he couldn’t feel growing excitement course through her body. While the kiss grew hotter, she twined her arms around his neck, twisting to fit more closely against him. He bet she wasn’t thinking about bottom lines or investment strategy now.
No wisecracks this time, McClintock. The less you say, the better. Then he stopped thinking about his strategy to better enjoy the moment. Another glimpse inside Kit Poindexter was too precious to waste.
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