Page 44 of Guilty as Sin
She opened her mouth, shut it again, and finally said, “Sure. Thanks.”
He headed out of the kitchen and up the compact stairway, framed by a turned wooden railing done in the same cottage-charming style as everything else. The landing housed a cleverly designed laundry cupboard, its accordion-style doors standing open, the washing machine churning.
She’d started her washing instead of putting on makeup. Interesting. Possibly discouraging also. Her priority hadn’t been him, then.
When did she tell you it was?He picked up the pink bag, which was heavier than he’d imagined, looked inside, then looked more carefully and saw the butt of a micro-compact revolver, tucked into an interior pocket.
Crikey.
He brought the bag down, set it on the counter beside her, watched her hunt for the phone, and said, “Do me a favor. Don’t pull your weapon out by accident. We don’t need any more dramas tonight.”
He saw her barely concealed start, and then the moment she forced her shoulders to relax before she said, her tone surely lighter than what she was feeling, “That’s what I get for letting somebody be chivalrous. Never works out. Pretty nosy of you to look, don’t you think?”
“I told you,” he said, picking up his sandwich again. “No fair fights.”
“The one with the most information wins?”
“That’s the idea. But that wasn’t the weapon you had in the holster today.”
“No. That’s in my bedside table now. This is my purse gun. Smaller.”
ItwasMontana, and the States weren’t Australia. Maybe that explained it. Or maybe not. She had her phone in her hand now, was frowning over it.
“What?” he asked.
She turned it around. The screen read,Get out.
Another bubble below it.You’ll be sorry.
And a third.Last warning.
The hair was rising at the back of his neck. He said, “Right. The purse gun’s a good idea, assuming you know how to use it. I’m guessing the answer is yes. You may want to think about window shades.”
“Iknow.”It was an explosion of breath. “I hate it. In fact—do you mind sitting on the couch?”
“Sure.” He didn’t mind, no. Not a bit of it.
She put her phone back into her purse, but when she’d put the plates in the dishwasher and headed toward the living room, she took the purse with her.
He sat down with his mug of tea, eyed the purse she’d set on the floor beside the couch, and said, “Didn’t mean to get you jumpy again.”
“I shouldn’t have relaxed that much,” she said. “You were right. About the shades, too.”
“Except,” he said, “that I’ve got this one. We’re covered. So to speak.” He pulled back the edge of the plaid flannel shirt he was wearing loose over a T-shirt and revealed the shoulder holster.
Once again, he got exactly zero shock. She said, “A well-dressed man has an outfit for every occasion.”
“Be Prepared. Boy Scout motto, or so I hear. How’s the leg?”
“Oh, you know.” She shrugged. “It’s there.”
“Mm. No pain pills? No glass of wine?”
“I’m more of a beer girl, and anyway, I’m past the painkiller stage. You’re right. Crutches are dangerous.”
He was turned toward her, looking into those eyes. Not what you’d expect from a fluffy blonde. Almond-shaped, brown, and expressive. But then, she wasn’t nearly as fluffy as he’d thought, even if she was lying back against the couch cushions, her left leg drawn up under her, her pink sweater looking as sweet and soft as the skin of that bare shoulder. A single table lamp with a pink stained-glass shade sat in the center of a pool of warm light that softened the rose velvets and moss greens of the room even more and cast a glow over the dark wicker of a cushioned rocker.
It was a room where a woman could curl up on the couch in front of a fire, and where a man could hold her.
