Читать книгу A Bride To Honor - Arlene James, Arlene James - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Cassidy chewed the inside of her cheek as she watched the caterers descend on her shop. They busily arranged a portable table covered by a sparkling white Damask tablecloth. She felt worried, thrilled and nervous all at once. Lunch, he’d said. It looked like a feast: fruit salad, an incredibly delicious-smelling beef Bourguignonne, crusty French bread; brie; wine; and for later, a chocolate gateau and whipped cream; all served by a uniformed waiter with a secretive smile. Cassidy smiled nervously in reply.

What could Paul Spencer be thinking? She was his costumer, sister to one of his employees, and nothing more. Yet he was treating her like a date, like someone in whom he was interested romantically. She wondered guiltily if William knew, and if not, should she tell him. Before she could come to any conclusion about that, Paul Spencer rushed into the room, speaking into a small cell phone.

“Yes, Gladys, I understand. Nevertheless, I am turning off the phone now, and I will not turn it on again until—” he checked his wristwatch “—two-oh-five.” With that he punched a button, folded the phone into a palm-sized rectangle and dropped it into his jacket pocket, his gaze searching out Cassidy. When he spotted her, standing across the room beneath an artificial tree outlined with tiny white lights next to a gypsy caravan wagon and a campfire created with colored lights and fake logs, he smiled brightly.

Cassidy stepped forward, dismayed by the thrill she felt at seeing him again. She was making much too much of this, she told herself sternly. Paul Spencer was just a businessman doing what he deemed necessary to secure the service he needed. After all, it was the busy season for her, and she was doing him a favor because of his connection with William. He probably wined and dined all his business associates this way. She was probably the only one who fervently wished that he didn’t. That in mind, she blurted, “You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.”

“No trouble,” he said lightly. Then his gaze fell over the small, portable table carried in by the caterer, and he approached, rubbing his hands together with a smack of approval. “Looks good, and it isn’t just because I’m starved.”

Obviously pleased, the waiter immediately hurried around the table and pulled out a chair, waving Cassidy toward it. Selfconsciously, she stepped over the artificial campfire, knocking only one log out of place. Then she slid into the chair, with only a small bump against the corner of the table, resulting in shaking to the floor only a single salad fork, which the waiter snatched up and polished to cleanliness with a white cloth before carefully and reverently placing it once more next to its neighbor. Cassidy sat red-faced while the waiter performed the same courtesy with the chair for Paul Spencer, but without the slightest mishap. Paul settled himself and smiled across the table at her.

“I half expected to find you outfitted in green guacamole or some such.”

The color of her face intensified. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t wear a costume to lunch.”

“Not even a costume lunch?”

His teasing relaxed her a bit, and she said, “I’ve never heard of a costume lunch.”

“Well, we’ll have to introduce it, make it the next big fad. Ought to be quite a boon for business.” A grin quirked around the corners of his mouth, and Cassidy found herself laughing. “That’s better,” he said, leaning both elbows upon the table while the waiter fluttered about, lifting covers and spooning out portions.

Cassidy felt an acute shyness. No matter what she told herself, it felt as if she was being courted. But what would be the point in that? She had already agreed to help him with his costume. More important, the man was almost engaged to be married. Even if he wasn’t, she couldn’t quite imagine why he’d be interested in her. She was just a costumer and William Penno’s younger, rather plain, sister. That in mind, she fixed her thoughts on business.

“Would you like to see my designs now?” she asked uncertainly, leaning back in her chair to allow the waiter to spread her napkin.

Paul waved a hand. “I’m too hungry to do anything just now but eat—and look at you.”

“Oh.” She resisted the urge to smooth her hair, knowing that it hung straight as a board right to the ends. After a moment she picked up her fork and began to eat her colorful fruit salad.

“Did you have a difficult time with it?” Paul asked, halfway through his salad already. “The design, I mean.”

She put down her fork and dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “No, actually, I didn’t. You’re quite easy to imagine in costume.”

“Is that good?” he asked, sounding hopeful.

She tried to find the words to explain, seeing in her mind’s eye the way she’d pictured him during the course of her research. “Yes. You see, usually I picture characters in my costumes, and then somehow they don’t look quite right on real people. Not to me, anyway.”

“And you think I’ll look the part?”

“Somehow I do.” It was odd, really, but she’d been picturing him in quite a lot of costumes lately, and he’d looked splendid in them all—at least in her mind’s eye. She shook her head.

“I imagine I will, then,” he said, and she was aware of a tingling sense of pleasure at the soft words. He trusted her judgment. It shouldn’t have pleased her so. It should have pleased William, though. The thought of anything she might do actually pleasing her rather uptight brother made her laugh, and Paul Spencer put down his fork, smiling as if he enjoyed the sound. “Why is it you lift my spirits?” he asked, parking his chin on his upraised palm.

“Me?” she heard herself say flirtatiously, and he smiled at her a long moment before picking up his fork again.

It was the most wonderful lunch of her life, and she told him so afterward.

“I wanted to do something special,” he confessed, looking deeply into her eyes. She had the feeling that if Tony hadn’t popped in just then, dressed as Charlie Chaplin, Paul would have kissed her, but then she was probably imagining things. They had a table between them, after all, even if it was a small table. The waiter had disappeared with the remains of their meal. Tony didn’t bother with ceremony.

“Phone call for Mr. Spencer.”

The intent look disappeared from Paul’s face, replaced in swift sequence by irritation, disappointment and, finally, resignation. “I don’t suppose you got a name?”

Tony’s smile was somehow galling. “I didn’t ask. It’s a woman, though, if that helps.”

A muscle ticked in the hollow of Paul’s cheek. He rose to his feet, speaking apologetically to Cassidy. “I’m sorry, but I’d better take it.”

“Take your time,” she said, getting to her own feet as the waiter returned, ostensibly for the table and folding chairs. “I’ll be in the sewing room. Show him in, please, Tony, when he’s ready.”

Tony twitched his glued-on mustache and quickly doffed his bowler. Turning on his heel, he waddled away, feet aimed in opposite directions. Paul followed, the stiffness of his manner implying anger. Cassidy wondered at that, but then it really wasn’t any of her business. Her business was costumes, and she’d best remember it. Sighing, she went off to the sewing room and began pinning her designs onto the bulletin board there for that purpose. Paul joined her in a surprisingly brief time, apparently unruffled.

He made no explanation about the call, but then she expected none. Instead, he looked around thoroughly and then approached the bulletin board, his hands clasped behind his back. He studied the drawings intently, his head turning this way and that. Once in a while he made an inquisitive sound. Otherwise, he betrayed nothing of his thoughts. After some time, he stepped back and looked at her.

“Do you have a favorite?”

The question surprised her. “Er, yes, actually I do. This one.” She pointed to the center design. He stepped forward once more and studied that particular drawing. Then he nodded and stepped back again.

“When can we begin?”

“Begin?”

“Yes, I, um, assume fittings will be required.”

“Of course, but—”

She had been about to say only one or two. He interrupted with an upraised hand. “Will Saturday work for you then, or would you rather not do it on the weekend? I’ll understand, of course. I simply thought... That is, Saturday would be good for me.”

She usually worked half days in the shop Saturdays—mornings. For some reason she said, “Saturday afternoon?”

He smiled, beamed, actually. “Excellent. Would you like to do lunch again?”

“Oh, no!” she said quickly, thinking of the expense he’d gone to. “I mean, that won’t be necessary.” He seemed a bit crestfallen, so she added, “We could have coffee here, though, if you like.”

He smiled again. “All right, I’ll see to it.”

“No, no, let me,” she insisted. “I-it’s just coffee, after all.”

“All right,” he said. “Will three be suitable?”

“Three is fine,” she told him, completely forgetting that she’d promised her mother a visit.

“Three then.” He pointed at the design upon which they’d settled. “Good work. Thank you. I know it’s an imposition for you at this busy time.”

She shook her head. “I’m happy to do it.”

He stepped close, one eyebrow arching, gaze intent on hers, saying conspiratorially, “Perhaps you ought to inform young Charlie then. He seems to think you’re much too busy to be indulging in luncheons and extra work just now.”

Cassidy gasped. Oh, that scamp! She closed her eyes in embarrassment and said shakily, “Young Charlie should learn to mind his own business.” She would have to talk to Tony, again, not that it would do much good.

Paul chuckled. “I’d say he has a crush on you.”

Cassidy rolled her eyes, muttering, “I should crush him.”

“Now, now,” Paul chided gently, his hand curled beneath her chin, tilting it slightly. “A boy’s ego is a tender thing.”

Cassidy burst out laughing. Only a man such as Paul Spencer could so adeptly put the matter into perspective. A boy, indeed, especially when compared with the man standing before her. “Maybe a good spanking, then.”

Those blue-gray eyes darkened to the color of smoke. “Let’s not encourage him,” he said huskily, and again Cassidy sensed that he wanted to kiss her. For a moment she could neither breathe nor move, but then it passed, and he stepped away, his smile gone wry and tight, his hand falling to his side. “I have to go,” he said.

She smiled to cover her disappointment. “You’ll have to press the buzzer on Saturday. I lock the doors at noon.”

“We’ll be alone then?”

She had to swallow before she could answer. “Yes, alone.” To her relief, her voice sounded nearly normal.

He smiled, softly this time, privately. “Saturday, then.”

“Saturday.”

She found herself smiling when he’d gone. She might be just a costumer, but he liked her, William Penno’s sister or no, and it was terribly mutual. All too mutual. And it could come to nothing. He was as good as engaged to be married. Her smile faded to wistfulness. Then it occurred to her that she should have something ready for him to try on when Saturday came around—and she hadn’t taken a single measurement! Well, she’d just have to do it on Saturday, which meant this thing was going to require a bit longer than it might have—and she didn’t really mind, despite her full schedule. It was foolish, she knew. But when, she thought with a sigh, had she ever done the sensible thing? She should start, she knew, and she would...as soon as Paul Spencer was out of her life, which he would be all too soon.

The blustery, wet day was enough reason to stay indoors and cancel previous commitments, but Paul reminded himself that this was important. He told himself sternly it wasn’t just that he wanted to see her. All right, she was interesting—a costumer, for heaven’s sake!—and possessed of a quirky sense of humor. She was gentle, as well, and shy, almost painfully so at times, and pretty, in an unconscious, wholesome way that intrigued him. She seemed utterly without artifice, in itself a good joke, considering her occupation, which was what brought him out on a day like this—her occupation, that was.

Doggedly determined to keep this meeting brief, to the point and all business, he shook his hands free of his coat pockets and reached toward the buzzer. As if with a will of their own, however, his hands detoured to his head and smoothed back his dark hair. It had a tendency to wave and stick out in wet weather, and he was suddenly aware of an intense desire to look his best. When he realized what he was thinking, he burst out laughing. So much for “business”! He shook his head, wondering what it was about Cassidy Penno that made him feel like a boy with his first crush? His finger at last moved to ring the doorbell.

Several long moments went by before the shade in the window lifted and Cassidy Penno smiled out at him. The door opened, and she stepped back to let him in, quickly closing and locking the door again behind him.

. “Hello,” she said, reaching for the coat he was shrugging out of.

“Hi.” He handed it over and watched as she carried it to the coat tree, standing between the counter and the door. The overhead lights were off, and the cloudy illumination let in by the big front windows was soft and misty, picking up the golden highlights in her thick hair, which she wore twisted up in back with long tendrils left to frame her face. She looked warm and welcoming in a pale yellow sweater set worn with black, slim-fitting jeans and brown half boots. Paul felt a lurch in his chest, and at the sight of her pale pink lipstick, his mouth went dry. Who was he kidding? This woman drew him like a magnet.

The old rage filled him, useless, impotent, and she sensed it at once, her sweet face going slack and troubled. “Is something wrong?”

He forced a grim smile and shook his head. “No.” His hands were shaking and cold. Rubbing them together, he thought of the coffee she’d promised him, and his mood lightened slightly. “I could use a hot drink.”

She stepped back and swept him an elegant bow, one arm swinging out in invitation. “This way, good sir.”

He laughed at her antics, feeling warmed just by her manner. He followed her through the darkened shop into the sewing room, smiling at the fanciful decorations along the way. Her mind seemed to teem with ideas and visions, which she obviously translated into actuality. He realized suddenly that he envied her that.

She had set up a table for them in one corner of the room. It was draped with what looked like an old paisley shawl trimmed with gold fringe and accented with a bouquet of decoratively folded lace handkerchiefs and old, silver teaspoons. In addition to a ceramic pot suspended over the flame of a tiny candle, she had placed on the table a pair of antique-looking cups and saucers, mismatched dessert plates, a creamer, sugar bowl and an intricately cut-crystal platter with a selection of mouth-watering pastries. Not a thing on the table matched another, and yet it all worked together with charming originality. Obviously she had gone to some trouble to indulge her creative bent in his honor, and he felt unaccountably touched.

“This is lovely,” he said, lightly stroking the rim of one cup.

She had the grace to blush. “Thank you. The, um, coffee’s flavored. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he said, surprised to find that it was so. Normally he hated the pretentiousness of flavored coffees, but nothing about this particular woman was pretentious in the least, just the opposite, in fact. He indicated the pot. “May I?”

“Of course. Help yourself.”

The aroma of amaretto seemed to fill the small room as he poured a steady stream of hot black coffee into one of the cups on the table. He moved the spout over the second cup and looked up in question. Smiling, she nodded, and he poured a cup for her.

“Take anything with that?”

“Just a touch of milk.”

He tilted the tiny milk pitcher over the cup and let a few drops trickle in, then stirred the brew to a rich brown before passing cup and saucer to her.

Reaching for a puffy chocolate muffin, he looked around for a chair. She had placed one at a slight angle, facing away from the drawing board to which it obviously belonged. She herself was hovering over a stool on rollers next to her sewing machine. He placed the muffin on a plate and handed it to her. She flashed him a smile of surprise. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” Choosing a sticky bun for himself, he pulled the chair close and sat down. The coffee tasted surprisingly rich and only faintly flavored. “Excellent,” he said, placing the cup on the saucer and picking up the sticky bun. To his surprise he was ravenous, and he ate half the bun in one bite, polishing it off with the next. Swigging coffee, he looked over the serving platter again, torn between a strawberry tart and a little cake frosted with smooth white icing and decorated with a plump raspberry. He went for the tart, laughing when strawberry filling oozed out as he set his teeth into it. Cassidy laughed, too, and set aside her own goodies to come to his rescue with one of those absurdly delicate handkerchiefs. He wouldn’t let her touch him with it, shaking his head and twisting aside as he licked the fingers that held the tart.

“You’re going to get it all over you,” she scolded playfully.

He grinned at her. “I’m a big boy. I can play with strawberry goo if I want to, one of the privileges of adulthood.”

She laughed at that, too. “You may be grown-up, but you look like a little boy caught with his fingers in the jam jar.”

He couldn’t help himself. Dropping the tart to his plate, he reached out with his sticky hand and wiped strawberry “goo” onto the tip of her nose, chin, and cheek. Her mouth dropped open, and she danced back out of his reach before suddenly doubling over with laughter. Setting aside both plate and saucer, he went after her, catching her easily in one arm as she squealed and tried to defend herself with the handkerchief.

“This, Miss Penno,” he teased, “is how little boys play with jam!”

Laughing and struggling, she twisted her body against him. Playfulness fled before a very adult surge of lightning-hot desire, and he found himself looking down into her upturned face, marveling, as she grew still, at how attuned she seemed to be to his every thought and mood. He pushed away the knowledge that he had no right to secure this young woman’s affections and very deliberately wiped his sticky fingers across her mouth before lowering his head for surely the sweetest kiss he’d ever known. Her arms slid around his waist, holding him lightly as he forced her head back, licking and tasting and finally swirling his tongue around the inside of her mouth.

Gradually she pulled away and cleaned her face with the handkerchief. He saw in the bleakness of her moss green eyes that she knew what a foolish, pointless thing he had just done. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, retreating to his chair.

“It’s all right,” she said softly, offering him another hanky.

He took it this time, smiling wryly. “No, it isn’t.”

She sighed. “Whatever you say.”

He retrieved the cup and saucer, but had lost his appetite for the pastry. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I usually have better sense—and manners.”

“You’re probably just feeling trapped,” she said offhandedly, wavering between her own disappointment and compassion for his obvious misery.

“You know don’t you? I suppose William told you everything.”

She shrugged. “He told me that your grandfather set up his will so that you have to marry a certain woman.”

“Betina,” he said bitterly.

“Betina of the Halloween costume party,” Cassidy reminded him gently.

He smiled in spite of everything. She had such a way about her, this tall, slender, angelic woman. Meeting her had been the bright spot in the dark sky of his future, the oasis in the desert that had become his life, but that’s all she could be, momentary, transitory, just a short stop along his way. She was right, of course, about him feeling trapped, and no doubt that had colored and intensified his every response to this woman. It wasn’t fair, not to her and not to him and not to the marriage that he was obligated to try to build with Betina, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t enjoy his moments with Cassidy Penno. He had a right to that much, didn’t he? So long as he didn’t step over the line again. Mentally he drew that line boldly for himself: They could laugh together, talk together, work together, but there it stopped. He would not kiss her or touch her in a “romantic” fashion again. That gave him something to look forward to in the coming weeks but at the same time protected them both. His smile broadened. He drank his coffee and watched her drink hers.

Finally she set her cup aside. “We’d better get to work,” she said, reaching for a blue plastic measuring tape, which she draped about her neck. Next she found a sheet of paper with a silhouette of the human body and lined brackets representing different measurements printed on it. She fixed the paper to a clip board and slid a pencil behind one ear, then positioned her stool in the center of the floor and motioned for him to stand before her. He did as she indicated, spreading his blue-jeaned legs slightly.

She wrapped the tape around his waist and snapped it apart again instantly before snatching the pencil from behind her ear and scribbling a notation on the paper. She measured his hips, legs, arms and shoulders in the same manner. “Man, you’re good at this,” he said, chuckling.

“Part of the job,” she replied, then clamped the pencil between her teeth. “Wif oo ahms.”

He laughed. “What?”

She took the pencil out of her mouth. “Lift your arms.”

“Ah.” He lifted his arms, and she wrapped the tape around his upper chest, pulling it tight in the center, her body moving close to his. The tape parted and slid free, but before she stepped back, he let his arms drop around her. She froze, and then she simply dropped down to the floor.

“Almost through,” she said, as if he had not just tried to hold her.

Disappointment, relief, embarrassment and frustration percolated through him all at the same time. He ground his teeth. Obviously she had more sense and wisdom that he did. Just as obviously he couldn’t trust himself with her. He waited for her to finish, but seconds ticked by and she made no move. When finally he looked down, it was to find her head bowed, her hands and the tape on the floor. Before he could say anything, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and brought up the tape. As her hands rose slowly toward his groin, he realized in a flash that she had yet to take his inseam. In an instant he was hard as stone.

Catching her hands in his, he sank down with her on the floor. Placing her hands on his shoulders, he took her into his arms. Unresisting, she leaned forward awkwardly and laid her head on his shoulder. He placed his cheek against the top of her head and closed his eyes.

For a long while, he simply held her. The sudden rush of desire gradually faded, leaving in its place an odd sort of contentment tinged with sadness. He sighed and kissed the top of her head, saying, “I have no right to this. I can’t change anything. The business is at stake, and my whole family’s depending on me.”

“I know,” she whispered.

He ran his hands over her back, feeling the sharp little bumps that defined her delicate spine. Her breasts felt surprisingly heavy against his chest, given her small frame. He closed his eyes again, imagining her long, slender body lying alongside his. He could almost feel the jut of her hipbones, the softness of her flat belly, the firmness of the little mound at the apex of her thighs, her long legs tangling with his. “I wish I’d met you a long time ago,” he said.

She lifted her head. “Before the affair, you mean.”

He winced, loosening his embrace. “Will didn’t leave anything out, did he?” He smiled at himself, at the irony of this whole thing, and teased gently, “I’ll have to speak to him about that mouth of his.”

She gasped and pulled away. “Oh, no, don’t! He’ll never understand. Please, Paul, don’t—”

“Hey! It was a joke. I’m actually glad that he told you everything.” His smile twisted wryly. “I’m not sure I could have. I think the temptation not to would have been too great.”

He saw a spark of pleasure in her soft green eyes before she bowed her head again. Her fingers picked at the tape. “You just think that now. Probably if you didn’t have this thing hanging over your head, you wouldn’t even notice me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” she insisted quietly. “It’s all right. I’m used to it. I’m just not the sort men notice.”

He laid his hand against the side of her throat and neck, feeling her pulse quicken. “What about Charlie Chaplin?”

She made a face. “Tony’s not interested in me,” she said firmly. “He just thinks that because I’m a virgin I must be frustrated enough to eventually give in if he keeps at me.”

A virgin. Paul gulped. Heaven help him. When had he last met one of those? When had he even wanted to? What an utter fool he’d been, what a complete and total ninny to waste his time on experienced, sophisticated women when all this sweetness languished here. He’d played games when he might have had honesty and simplicity. He deserved just what he was getting. He deserved manipulative, scheming Betina. And Cassidy Penno deserved someone free to love and treasure her as the prize she was. He said, “Promise me you won’t throw yourself away on the likes of that little imposter.”

Her eyes grew round and then she burst out laughing. “On Tony Abatto?” she said. “I’d rather join an order of nuns!”

He chuckled. “Don’t do that, either.”

She sobered and told him solemnly, “Can’t. I’m not Catholic.”

They both erupted at that, laughing until their sides ached. Finally he got to his feet. When she started to do likewise, he pointed a finger at her. “You stay right there. Give me that measuring tape.” Her gaze questioning but trusting, she did as he said. He pulled the tape through his fingers to the end, then placed the end at the place where his groin met his thigh. Pointing at the floor, he asked, “What does that say?”

She read the number, reached for the clip board and scribbled on it, muttering, “It says that you have very long legs.”

“So do you,” he said, imagining those legs wrapping around him. He cleared his throat, turning off the vision and said, “Okay, what’s next?”

She took the tape from him and got up from the floor. “Fabric. We have to pick out fabric.”

“All right,” he said, caught up again in forbidden fantasies. He shook his head and belatedly added, “But, uh, not today. I, um, I have to get out of here. Go, I mean. I have to go.” He glanced at his watch, trying to make it sound reasonable. “How about, um, Monday?”

She nodded, then said, “Listen, we don’t have to drag this out if you don’t want to. I can pick out the fabric and sew everything up, and we’ll just do a single fitting, if you want.”

He didn’t want. He wanted every moment with her, but maybe she was too smart to let him have it. He shrugged, surprised by how much it cost him. “Whatever you think best.”

She looked away, pretending to be busy with the clipboard and pencil. “Oh, well, I usually prefer for the client to pick out the fabrics.”

“Is that what you want,” he asked carefully, “for me to pick out the fabrics?”

She turned her head one way and then another, looking at the figure on the paper, and then she dropped the clipboard and lifted her gaze to his. “Yes.”

A giddy smile split his face. “Monday, then?”

She smiled, too. “Monday.”

“What time?”

She bit her lip. “I close about six.”

“Six,” he repeated. They should have dinner. He wanted to have dinner with her, but he knew it would be stupid, beyond stupid, even risky, potentially devastating. He took a deep breath. “Would you like to have dinner with me afterward?” So much for being sensible. “I’ll behave myself, I promise. Well, I’ll try.”

She gave him a slow, shy smile. “It would have to be someplace public, and maybe you wouldn’t want to be seen—”

“I know just the place,” he interrupted quickly. “It’s nothing fancy, but the barbecue is great. You like barbecue?”

“I love it.”

“Great! Okay, it’s settled then. Monday at six; fabric first, then barbecue. I’ll look forward to it.”

“Me, too.” They stood a moment, sharing the anticipation, before she said, “I’ll walk you out.”

He was careful not to touch her as they wound their way through the darkened shop again. At the front door she took his coat down and handed it to him. He slung it on and waited, telling himself that he simply could not give in to the impulse to kiss her goodbye. She slid open the dead bolt and turned the lock, depressed the thumb tab at the top of the curved handle and pulled open the door. The rain had ceased, but a chilly breeze gusted, blowing discarded paper and crisp leaves along the curb. He stepped out into dreary afternoon and turned back to face her.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

She merely smiled and slowly closed the door. He turned and poked his hands into his pockets, inhaling deeply, breathing in and holding these last moments of freedom. He knew what he had to do and what it would cost him, but he also had Monday and perhaps a time or two after that. It would be difficult, even dangerous, and no doubt in the end he’d wind up with a broken heart, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t take every moment she’d give him. She deserved better, he knew, but he was cad enough to let her settle, in this case, for just what he could give back: some smiles, laughter, a little careful flirtation, the bittersweet knowledge that someone wanted her even if he couldn’t have her. He wouldn’t let it go beyond that. He would protect her from more, knowing that one day a man more deserving than he would gratefully receive all the treasure she had to give. He hated that unknown man already, but at the same time he wanted him for her.

God, who’d have thought straitlaced, uptight old Will could have a kid sister like Cassidy? He shook his head and strolled away in the direction of his car, content for that moment just to be amazed at the small ironies of life.