Page 63 of Dangerous Lover

Smart boy, Deaver thought.But not smart enough.

He let himself out quietly and got back into his rental Tahoe.

Time to check out Caroline Lake.

The bad thingabout not having any customers is that it gives one way too much time to think.

Caroline walked around in a daze after Jenna left, absently straightening books and dusting shelves.

Finding out a man you were dating—or whatever it was they were doing—was rich wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Especially when he was filthy rich, as Jack apparently was. Fifteen million dollars. She could hardly get her mind around the thought. And she found it impossible to square it with Jack Prescott.

Rich men were vain, they liked the good life, they somehow felt they were blessed and better than others. Like Sanders, for example. Caroline tried to imagine Sanders dressed in tattered jeans, ancient boots, a leather jacket in the dead of winter.

Impossible.

Rich men hired other people to do their scut work for them. Caroline could hardly imagine a rich man wrestling with her boiler, making all the repairs that Jack had made, shoveling her drive. A rich man would have automatically picked up the phone and hired someone to shovel snow instead of taking a couple of hours to do a dirty, exhausting job.

She tried to imagine Sanders shoveling snow and snorted. Caroline entertained herself with an image of Sanders, in his Calvin Klein winterwear and cashmere-lined gloves, shoveling snow, ruining his manicure. The image was so enticing she actually smiled at Sanders as he walked into the bookshop, thinking him a figment of her imagination.

He clasped his glove-clad hands together and beamed when he saw her smile. “Caroline, my dear, how good to see you!” He clasped her shoulders and bent down to kiss her. She averted her face at the last minute and he bussed her cheek instead of her mouth.

Oh my God, itwasSanders—in the flesh!

The last time she’d seen him had been for a disastrous nightcap at Greenbriar after a very nice dinner in October. The dinner had been so nice, and she’d been so grateful for the respite, that she’d asked him in for a whiskey only to have him behave badly towards Toby.

“What are you doing here?” she asked bluntly.

He took off his jacket and gloves leisurely, looking around the bookshop. Caroline had no idea what he thought of First Page. Sanders liked sleek and modern, which First Page certainly was not. He turned and focused his gaze on her. “Ithought I’d stop by and see you. I haven’t had a chance to offer my condolences for the death of your brother yet.”

Uh huh. He’d obviously beenamazinglybusy the past two months not to be able to drop in or pick up the phone or pen a note.

But Caroline had been brought up by her parents to be polite. She often thought of it as a handicap.

“Thanks Sanders.” She drummed up another smile for him. “That’s very thoughtful of you. I appreciate it.”

He nodded, clearly unable to process her ironic tone. He looked around again, then back at her, waiting.

Caroline suppressed a sigh. She couldn’t even plead that she was busy. The shop was deserted, as was the street outside. It was entirely possible that the whole city was deserted, everyone in it just staying home.

“Do please sit down, Sanders. Can I make you a cup of tea?” Maybe he’d been passing by and wanted something warm. Maybe if she offered him tea, he’d leave. Caroline didn’t think he’d stopped by for a book. In all the years she’d known him, she’d never known him to read a book. He read reviews, so he could sound knowledgeable, but he’d never read the actual book, that she could tell.

He gave her an alarmingly warm smile, and placed his hand over hers. “I’d love a cup of tea, thanks.”

Thank God for her little secondhand microwave oven in the office. In three minutes, she was back with two mugs of vanilla tea, berating herself for her unkindness.

It wasn’t Sanders’ fault he was an ass. And his visit did break the monotony of an endless afternoon in her emptyshop, waiting for Jack to come pick her up. And it did distract her from endless speculation about Jack’s money and where it came from.

So she leaned forward with genuine warmth to hand him the cup and was startled when he grabbed her other hand and kissed it. He held it for a long moment between his hands.

“Uh, Sanders?”

“Yes, darling?” He smiled at her.

“I need my hand back, so I can drink my tea. Please.”

“Of course.” He released her hand and sat back, sipping, completely at ease. “So… how was your Christmas?”

Don’t blush, Caroline told herself furiously and managed by dint of sheer will power to keep her color down. Oh God, she couldn’t possibly tell Sanders what her Christmas had been like. Even if she wanted to confide in him—which she most certainly did not—she had no idea if Jack wanted to trumpet their affair, or whatever it was they were having, from the rooftops. Telling Sanders was the equivalent of taking out an ad in the local newspaper.

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