Читать книгу Tall, Dark And Difficult - Patricia Coughlin - Страница 9

All right. So maybe she was a wee bit sensitive—perhaps one might even say a tad irrational—when it came to a certain type of male. The assertive, self-assured, gorgeous-enough-to-arouse-mud type. Which this man definitely was. Even the back of his neck was sexy, she noted when he briefly turned his head. She hated that in a man.

Deranged. That was the word her best friend, Maryann McShane, used to describe Rose’s attitude. As the happily married mother of a beautiful six-month-old daughter, Maryann considered it her duty to maneuver Rose into the same blissful state. She was forever finding another “perfectly nice man” for Rose, and Rose was forever refusing to cooperate. Having been married to one driven and demanding man for five years, she figured she had earned the right to be a little deranged on the subject.

She might not have the whole Mars-Venus thing figured out, but she had learned to steer clear of a certain sort of man. The sort who didn’t know enough to take off his silly sunglasses when he stepped indoors. Not that it was a chronic problem—men who wore mirrored aviator shades usually only ventured into her shop when led on the invisible leash that some silicone-laden blonde had attached to his libido. Since there was nary a breast implant in sight, she couldn’t help wondering what Mr. Mirrors wanted.

As if reading her mind, or her disapproving smirk, he removed the sunglasses and hooked them into the neck of his T-shirt. Rose quickly underscored too damn handsome on his growing list of faults, and cursed herself for responding to the genetically programmed urge to suck in her stomach and wonder if she had remembered to put on lipstick.

Not that it mattered. He slid his gaze over her too quickly to notice she had lips. Clearly, he found her about as fascinating as the rack of vintage beaded purses by her side. Maybe less so.

For Rose, his utter lack of interest came not as an insult—nor as a surprise, for that matter—but as a relief. She’d have liked to save time by informing him straight off that even though the word antiques appeared on the sign out front, she did not deal in rusty bayonets, Civil War memorabilia or vintage auto parts.

She settled for “Good morning,” causing his gaze to settle on her directly for the first time.

“Morning,” he replied.

“May I help you with something, or are you just browsing?”

The standard query caused one corner of his mouth to quirk. It was a very nice mouth, she noted, adding it to the list.

“Browsing?” His cool gaze took in the shelves of sparkling Depression-era glass, baskets overflowing with freshly laundered vintage linens and, occupying center stage, her current pièce de résistance, an old white iron bed, dressed in a faded quilt and generations of loving wear and tear.

“Hardly,” he muttered, with a blend of smug superiority and barely concealed disdain.

Obviously, in spite of his attire, this was no common, garden-variety Neanderthal she was dealing with. This was the King of the Heap, Leader of the Pack, the infamous Number One Combo. She knew the type well. Arrogant and tactless, and, unless she missed her guess, served with a side order of cynicism. There was only one way to deal with a Number One. Ignore him.

“I’m here to see the proprietor,” he announced, before she had the chance. “Miss Rose Davenport.”

The way her name rolled off his tongue was the verbal equivalent of the look he’d just given her shop. Rose folded her arms and her chin came up.

“I’m Rose Davenport.”

That earned her a closer look—and a frown, something that seemed to come to him quite naturally. And fairly regularly, judging from the pattern of lines around his mouth. The man definitely needed to lighten up.

“Do you have a mother, or maybe a grandmother, by that name?”

“Afraid not. It’s me or nothing.”

His eyes, a deep and distracting shade of blue, narrowed with impatience.

“I’m looking for the Rose Davenport who was friends with Devora Fairfield,” he told her emphatically, as if he could get her to produce another Rose Davenport through sheer force of will. She’d wager the technique worked for him more often than not.

“I heard you the first time, and the answer is the same. If you’re looking for Rose Davenport, I’m it.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “You were friends with Devora?”

“I sure was. Did you know Devora?”

“She was my aunt,” he replied. “Great-aunt, actually.”

It was her turn to take a closer look at him. The height…the jaw… Of course. “You’re Hollis.”

“Griffin,” he countered with obvious irritation. “Just ‘Griff’ will do. Devora was the only one I allowed to call me Hollis.”

“Allowed?” Rose couldn’t help arching her tawny brows as she struggled to reconcile the man before her with the spit-and-polished military officer she had encountered only once before, briefly and nearly two years ago.

He shrugged. “Figuratively speaking, that is.”

It was a rather terse acknowledgment of the fact that no one had ever “allowed” Devora Fairfield to do anything. The spirited spinster, whom Rose had been honored to call her friend, had invariably done and said precisely as she deemed right and proper and damn well pleased. Rose couldn’t decide if it was annoyance or grudging affection that hovered in Hollis Griffin’s voice when he spoke of his aunt, and it really didn’t matter.

It had been no secret that Devora loved her nephew as if he were a child of her body and not simply her heart, and that was good enough for Rose. She immediately erased the mental list she’d been compiling. For Devora’s sake alone, she was prepared to befriend Hollis Griffin in the manner that came most naturally to her—utterly and enthusiastically.

“Okay, ‘Griff’ it is.” Smiling warmly, she stepped closer to offer her right hand, and for the first time noticed the cane in his.

“You probably don’t remember me,” she went on, concealing her surprise. “We met at Devora’s funeral service.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” He slipped the cane under his arm with an ease that suggested he’d had it a while, and shook her hand.

“That’s all right, I didn’t recognize you, either, without your uniform.”

That seemed to irk him as much as being called Hollis had.

“I’m retired from the Air Force,” he explained curtly.

“I see,” said Rose, though she didn’t.

Devora always sent her nephew a “care package” of goodies on his birthday, and Rose recalled that he was almost exactly five years older than she was, which would make him a few months shy of forty. A bit young for retirement. Especially since, according to his aunt, the man lived to fly; the more high risk the mission, the better. Devora worried about the danger inherent in his work, but she had also sung his praises at every opportunity. Rose’s understanding was that Griffin wasn’t merely a pilot, but an aviation junkie, as skilled working on a jet’s engine as he was at its controls. She added his early retirement to the cane and came up with a half-dozen questions she was smart enough not to ask.

“It would be a wonder if you remember anyone you met that day,” she continued in an instinctive attempt to put him at ease. “All of Wickford was there, plus Devora’s old friends from as far away as Florida. I hope you know how beloved your aunt was around here, and how very much she is missed.”

Especially by me, thought Rose with the same twinge of wistfulness that always accompanied thoughts of the woman who had understood her better than her own family ever had.

“Devora certainly had her good points,” he agreed. This time there was no mistaking the affection in his tone, or the look of impatience that quickly followed as he added, “And her quirks.”

“Ah, but the quirks were the best thing about Devora,” she countered with a chuckle. “Who else do you know who kept a working butter churn in the kitchen?”

“Who, indeed?”

“I’ll never forget the first time she invited me for tea. I walked into that beautiful house and felt…” Swept up in the memory, she searched for words to fully capture and share it. “Like…oh, like Alice stepping through the looking glass.”

“I can understand that,” he countered. “The Mad Hatter would feel right at home there.”

“So did I. No, that’s wrong. Home is too ordinary a word. It was more like wonderland, each room more full of treasure than the last.”

“And you like all that ju—treasure?” he enquired in a cautious tone.

“Like it?” She sighed. “I love it. And the furniture…don’t get me started.”

“Didn’t plan to.”

“That yellow brocade settee in the hall,” she continued, her expression dreamy.

“The low one with the spiky arms? Have you ever tried actually sitting on that thing?”

“Once,” she told him, grinning. “I felt like a princess. But my absolute favorite piece is the hand-carved cherry-wood cabinet in the sitting room…the one with all the Bavarian china and the ivory figurines. The first time I saw it, I just stared in absolute, dumbstruck wonder.”

He nodded. “I’ve stared that way at a lot of Devora’s stuff.”

“She had an amazing eye. Did you know the glass sides of that cabinet are a J-curve?”

“I had no idea. Is that good?”

“Good and bad. Good because it’s so rare and because it’s refractive quality is so much greater than a standard curve. Bad because it’s so rare and costs a fortune to replace should it be broken.”

“Sort of like ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t.’ Which is something I definitely understand.”

“I’m glad.”

“You are?”

“Very. When we found out that Devora had left the house to her ‘hotshot nephew from California,’ as you were sometimes referred to, some folks around here, including me,” she confessed with a rueful smile, “were worried you would sell to an outside developer. Do you have any idea how much a house that size, with that much water frontage and a view that would make a sailor weep, is worth on today’s market?”

“Some,” he murmured.

“What am I saying? Of course you know what it’s worth. But much more important, you obviously understand that the true value of a person’s home cannot be measured in dollars and cents. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have kept it in the family, and Wickford would have one more commercial enterprise to contend with.”

“Pardon me for saying so, but isn’t this a commercial enterprise?” He indicated the shop.

“I suppose it is, if you want to get technical. I prefer to think of it as a labor of love.” She grinned unabashedly. “Besides, as a New Englander born and bred, I have a geographical obligation to be cantankerous and irrational when it comes to outsiders.”

“Let me guess,” he said dryly. “Outsiders would be anyone whose local roots don’t stretch back for at least three generations?”

“Exactly. But since your roots are impeccable, things couldn’t have worked out better.” A sudden thought caused her mouth to pucker. “You are planning to live in the house, aren’t you? I mean, that is why you’re here?”

Those dangerously blue eyes met hers, and Rose got the distinct impression that Hollis Griffin didn’t like being asked personal questions. Not that the question struck her as overly personal—but then, she warmed up to strangers quickly enough to turn a chance encounter in a dentist’s waiting room into a lifelong friendship. She had a hunch that Griff took a while longer to thaw.

“My long-range plans aren’t firm yet,” he said finally, “but I sold my condo in California and last week I moved everything I own into Devora’s place.”

“Last week?” she echoed, surprised. “I never even noticed.”

“No reason you should have. It wasn’t much of a move. Just a couple of suitcases and a TV.” He shrugged. “I got rid of everything else.”

“That’s great,” she told him.

He gave her a puzzled look. “It is?”

“Sure. There’s nothing as exciting as a completely fresh start—new town, new neighbors… Speaking of which, I live in that little cottage just beyond your yard. Weathered gray shingles, white shutters.”

“Pink door?”

“Actually, the color is Sun-Kissed Rose—but yes, that’s me. At this time of year the trees and shrubbery provide a buffer, but come fall we’ll have a clear view of each other.”

He said nothing.

“Apparently no one else noticed your arrival, either, or the news would have spread like wildfire. You know what they say about small towns.”

“Yes, unfortunately. I tend to keep to myself.”

“You can try, but be warned, Fairfield House is as much a local treasure as Devora was. Folks are bound to be curious about its new owner.” Her smile was meant to be reassuring. “Look on the bright side—we’re nosy but friendly. If there’s anything I can do to help you get settled, just give a shout. I know nearly everyone in Wickford, along with their hidden talents and who has what available to rent or borrow. Whatever you might need—butcher, baker, candlesticks and caviar for twelve,” she said, ticking the items off on her fingers, “or just someone to haul away trash—I can hook you up.”

He gave a faint, undecipherable smile. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Probably because you’ve seen me in action,” she countered with the ease of a woman who has taken a good hard look at herself and decided to play the hand she was dealt rather than waste time trying to turn three of a kind into a royal flush. “After all, I’ve been standing here talking your ear off without giving you a chance to tell me why you were looking for me in the first place.”

Her expectant silence was met with another of those cool, shuttered stares.

“I…” He hesitated. “My aunt mentioned you once, and I thought that as long as I was back in town, it would be…uh, interesting to look up some of her old friends and say hello.”

He was lonely, she realized. Lonely and looking for some way to connect through the only person he had known in town, Devora. Rose’s heart went out to him as if he were a stray kitten, huddled on her doorstep in the middle of a storm. If she could have picked him up in her arms and cuddled him, she would have. However, since practically speaking he resembled a tomcat more than a kitten, she quelled the impulse and instead offered him her brightest, most encouraging smile.

“How sweet of you.”

He blushed, which struck her as sweeter still.

“I’m very glad you dropped in,” she told him. Then, with laughter in her voice, she added, “Though from your initial reaction, I suspect I wasn’t quite the sort of ‘old’ friend of Devora’s you expected to find.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’ve been just one surprise after another, Miss Davenport.”

“Rose.”

“Rose.”

“I know what I’m going to do,” she said suddenly.

“What?” He looked vaguely uneasy.

“I’m going to throw a party in honor of your arrival.”

Now he really looked uneasy. Shy, thought Rose, surprised a second time. Shyness didn’t fit with his outward appearance. Or with her first impression of him, she realized, ashamed of herself. Maryann was right. She was so gun-shy around certain men that she never gave them a chance. She would work on it, she decided, and she would begin by making up for her rush to judgment by heralding Hollis Griffin’s move to town in style.

“A party is…out of the question,” he said.

“Nonsense, it’s the least I can do for Devora’s favorite nephew.”

“I was her only nephew.”

“All the more reason to make you feel welcome.”

“I don’t want you to go to any trouble on my account.”

“It’s no trouble,” she assured him. “You’re actually doing me a favor by providing me with an excuse to throw a party between the Fourth of July and Labor Day, a period with a notable dearth of occasions to celebrate.”

“I am not an occasion.”

“Of course not, but your arrival in Wickford is. It’s also all the excuse I need. Ask anyone—I am a party planner extraordinaire.”

“I’m sure you are. But as luck would have it, I am a lousy guest of honor.”

“Let me worry about that,” she ordered, thinking he was probably right. For all his professional skills and accomplishments, he was not very good at making friends. Not if his guarded, taciturn demeanor with her was any indication. No wonder he tended to “keep to himself,” as he put it. Well, Devora wouldn’t have let that happen, and neither would Rose.

She folded her arms and grinned at him. “It’s settled. We’ll work out the details later,” she added as she caught sight of the delivery truck pulling up outside. “Right now, you’ll have to excuse me.”

She moved toward the door.

“No.”

The adamancy in his tone caused Rose to glance over her shoulder as she opened the door.

He smiled stiffly. “That is, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll hang around and—” He cleared his throat. “Browse a little, after all.”

“Fine. Good morning, Charlie,” she said to the deliveryman, whose uniform of brown shirt and shorts revealed a pair of great masculine legs. Charlie was young and adorable. Too young and adorable to be seriously interesting to a grown woman, but he had great legs just the same. Rose shipped and received packages daily, and the mild flirtation that enlivened her dealings with Charlie had more to do with keeping skills sharp than real attraction on either side.

“Am I ever glad to see you,” she said, eyeing his push cart loaded with boxes.

“Me? Or my boxes of chintz?”

“My boxes of chintz,” she corrected, trailing along like an overeager puppy in her attempt to read the return address labels as he moved past her. “Is it really? Are you sure?”

“Yep.” He parked the cart and began lifting the boxes onto the counter for her. “Unless you’re expecting another delivery from…” He squinted at the return address. “Biddley-on-Kenn. Hell, no wonder they call it Merry Olde England—they all live in circus towns.”

She gave a small whoop of excitement. “It is my chintz. Charlie, you’re wonderful.”

“You don’t know how wonderful. The schedule had me coming by here late this afternoon, but I switched my entire route around for you.”

“Can I help it if I’m irresistible?”

“Actually, I figured since you’ve been harassing me about this stuff daily—”

“I have not harassed you,” she admonished, her fingers itching to tear open the boxes and get at the fine bone china that a British dealer had sworn on the Magna Carta would be there three weeks ago. Some pieces were earmarked for specific customers; others were for the shop; a precious two were destined for her personal collection.

“You don’t call chasing my truck down the street ‘harassment’?”

“Charlie, you wish I’d chase you,” she retorted absently.

The deliveryman grinned. “You bet I do. I wouldn’t be hard to catch, I promise you that, Rosie.”

Jerk, thought Griff, surreptitiously monitoring the interplay.

Rose Davenport had thrown him a curve at first, but the longer he spent in her presence, the easier it was to understand why, in spite of the vast difference in age, she and Devora had hit it off. As Devora might have put it, “Water seeks its own level.” Beneath those smoldering green eyes and that just-begging-to-be-kissed mouth of hers, Rose Davenport definitely harbored the same streak of insanity that had afflicted his great-aunt.

A flaky, clutter-collecting, overly friendly junk addict if he’d ever seen one. Her shop might not be quite as over-stuffed and smothering as Devora’s place, but she hadn’t been at it as long. Give her time, and she’d give Devora some real competition.

Peering at the shopkeeper over a vase the color of moldy roses, he tried to imagine her thirty years older, wearing white gloves and a blouse buttoned high at the neck, instead of that pale yellow dress that hung nearly to her ankles. By all rights the dress should have made her appear dowdy, and concealed the fact that she had a slim waist, perfectly rounded hips and very nice, very long legs. It didn’t. Taking advantage of her preoccupation with the delivery guy, Griff gave the dress his complete attention and decided it was because of the way the material molded itself to her body. Every distracting inch of it.

A sundress. He was no expert on women’s clothing, but he’d removed enough of it over the years to learn the basics, and he was pretty sure that was the name for what she was wearing. Whatever it was called, it was screwing up his attempt to picture Rose Davenport with a brooch at her throat.

The woman had a sexy throat. He’d give her that much. Her shoulders weren’t bad, either. Smooth and suntanned, and the crisscrossed straps of her dress presented a clear-cut invitation for a man to slide his fingers underneath and slowly, slowly peel them down. An invitation he’d bet wasn’t lost on the deliveryman with the salivating grin any more than it was lost on Griff.

His head ached, his leg was throbbing, and being trapped with so much old stuff was making him feel weird. Light-headed, he thought furiously. It was the dust, he told himself, refusing to be dizzy. The fact that he didn’t actually see any dust was inconsequential. Everyone knew antiques attracted dust. Salt and pepper, pretzels and beer, antiques and dust. Just one more reason he didn’t want to be here, looking at shelf after shelf of useless junk when he didn’t even know what the hell he was looking for.

Liar. He knew exactly what he had come looking for, exactly what it was he wanted from Rose Davenport. He wanted her help. The problem was asking for it. He was no good at asking for help. In fact, he flat out hated it. Almost as much as he hated needing it in the first place. Being needy was even worse.

And he ought to know. In the past year he’d been forced to accept more help from more people than most men do in a lifetime. Doctors. Physical therapists. Even neighbors. And shrinks, don’t forget the shrinks. Without their “help,” he wouldn’t have done such a bang-up job of adapting and adjusting and accepting the fact that life as he knew it was over. Kaput. Finished. And the fact that his old life was the only life he had any interest in living? Why, that was just one of those inconvenient, lingering, post-accident stages that they insisted he would emerge from. One of these days.

But not today.

Today, this moment, it all added up to one thing; a burning urge to toss the chatty deliveryman out on his behind and get on with it. The other guy might be younger and fitter and faster, but Griff could feel a bigger chip on his shoulder and had been spoiling for a fight longer. That gave him the edge. The only thing holding him back from wiping the grin off Charlie’s face was the look on Rose’s. Pure ecstasy.

The way her eyes had lit up the second she saw the truck, you’d have thought it was Ed McMahon walking in with the grand prize check in his hand. Griff might not appreciate the appeal of a package jockey in shorts, but clearly Rose did—and he wasn’t about to risk ticking her off.

On the contrary, he was going to say and do whatever was necessary to stay in her good graces, until he found out what he needed to know. For starters, that meant keeping his thoughts about almost everything, especially his plans for the house, to himself. It also precluded telling her outright that throwing a party for him was a waste of time since he wouldn’t be hanging around long enough to make friends. And above all, it meant not slipping up and referring to her junk as junk.

With that in mind, Griff picked up a battered metal watering can and tried to look fascinated.

The Jerk held out his clipboard. “Care to sign your life away?” he asked Rose in a tone that made it clear it wasn’t only her signature he was after.

“For you, Charlie?” She smiled as she scrawled her name. “Anytime. And thanks. I owe you.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He executed a tight circle with the cart and winked at her. “See you tomorrow, Rose. Enjoy your new chintz teapot.”

“I plan to…and if you’re real good maybe I’ll invite you to tea sometime.”

Griff managed not to snort.

“I’m at your disposal,” said Charlie.

“Don’t you mean ‘mercy’?”

“That, too,” he called over his shoulder, laughing.

“’Bye, Charlie.”

Rose carefully slit the tape on the first box and began unpacking the contents. In her excitement, she almost forgot she wasn’t alone in the shop. Almost. It was impossible for a woman to actually forget the presence of a man like Griffin. As she carefully unwrapped each piece, checked it off on her order sheet and inspected it for damage, she also tracked his movement around the shop, curious as to what he might find of interest.

Not much, judging from his indifferent expression. She, on the other hand, was just bursting with interest. She wasn’t sure how a man using a cane managed to project such an air of invincibility, but somehow Griff succeeded. She had a hunch that it had something to do with world-class shoulders and the way his wash-softened jeans fit his thighs, but she didn’t want to dwell on it. His posture didn’t hurt, either, she decided. She had never realized it until now, but there was a lot to be said for a man with great posture.

He paused to look at some old wooden bookends with woodpecker carvings, and he actually picked up one of a pair of ceramic hummingbirds and glanced at the bottom.

Finally, he came to stand across the counter from her, the purposeful glint in his eye a bit unnerving in spite of his reassuring connection to Devora.

“Look…” he began.

Rose flashed him a smile. “Find anything you can’t live without?”

“Not quite.” The words were hardly out when his forehead creased, intensifying his grim expression. “That is, except for…” His gaze raked across the counter—now covered with plates and teacups named for the brightly flowered fabric that had inspired them—and landed on the hydrangea garland. Looking vaguely relieved, he reached for it. “This—”

Rose was aghast. “That?”

“Right.” He glanced at the price tag without flinching, and reached for his wallet.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Very sure.”

“You don’t think it’s a bit…pricey?”

“Not at all. It’s a bargain, in fact, and exactly what I had in mind.”

“For what?”

He looked up from the stack of bills he was thumbing through. “I beg your pardon?”

“I was wondering what you had a nine-foot-long garland of dried hydrangea in mind for? What do you plan to do with it?” she added, when he stared at her in what looked like bewilderment.

“Do?” He looked at the garland with a blank expression.

Please change your mind, Rose pleaded silently.

“I thought I would use it…on the porch.”

“The porch?” she gasped, horrified. “Aren’t you afraid the dampness will ruin it?”

“Good point.”

“I have a wicker plant stand that would be perfect on Devora’s porch,” she told him. “Maybe with a gorgeous Boston fern? Ferns love humidity.”

He shook his head.

“Geraniums?”

“I’m not much for plants. This thing is fine. I’ll figure out what to do with it once I get it home.”

“I see.” She grabbed a stack of pastel tissue and began wrapping it, doing her best not to look perturbed. As he had pointed out, this was a place of business. How was he to know that just because a “thing” had a price tag did not mean it was actually ready to be sold?

With the garland lovingly wrapped and gently arranged in a shopping bag, she wrote out a receipt and calculated the sales tax.

“That will be two hundred and sixty-seven dollars and fifty cents,” she said to him.

The creases suddenly reappeared on his forehead, but if he was having second thoughts, he didn’t say so. With the same ease he’d shown in handling the cane, he tucked the cash away and produced a credit card. “This okay?”

“Sure.”

The transaction complete, Rose handed him the bag, resisting the urge to tell him to take good care of it.

“I’ll be in touch,” she said. “About your party,” she added when he gave her a puzzled look.

“Oh. Well, we’ll talk about that. In the meantime, there is something else I’d like to ask you.”

A date? Rose braced herself, not sure how she felt about that. It was one thing to be neighborly, another thing entirely to risk thinking of him as anything other than Devora’s nephew.

“Shoot,” she invited.

“Devora collected some kind of birds. Glass birds, I think, but I’m not quite—”

He broke off, his expression visibly relieved, when she started to nod.

So he wasn’t going to ask her out, thought Rose, telling herself she wasn’t disappointed.

“Devora collected works by Boris Aureolis, specifically his first nature series. They’re not glass, though I can see how you might think so. They have such a wonderful clarity. They’re actually hard-paste porcelain from the mid-eighteenth century. Aureolis started out as a colorist for Meissen, but ended up a major creative force. He worked with an alchemist to develop the special glaze that distinguishes his work.”

“That’s fascinating,” he said, looking anything but fascinated. “Do you happen to have any in stock?”

He scowled when she laughed and shook her head.

“Heavens, no. Aureolis is too rich for my blood.”

He gave a small grunt. “Really? Just how rich are we talking?”

She nibbled her bottom lip thoughtfully. “I’m no authority, you understand, but they do turn up at auction once in a while, and I was always keeping an eye open for Devora. If I remember correctly, she was missing only four of the series of twenty-five.”

“Three.”

“Three?” She nodded. “That’s right. She snagged the falcon from The Snooty Fox in Burlington.”

“Did she mention what she paid?”

“Probably, but my head is always so full of prices, it’s hard to remember exactly.” She fiddled absently with the sliver of a gold moon that hung on a slender chain around her neck, stopping when she noticed his attention lingering there. Again. “It seems to me it was in the neighborhood of four…maybe high threes.”

“Hundred?”

“Thousand.”

“Figures,” he muttered, then added, “Devora always did have expensive taste.”

“Are you thinking of selling the collection?”

“Actually, I’m looking to complete it.”

Rose’s heart melted a little around the edges. “What a sweet, thoughtful thing to do. Oh, Devora would be so pleased.”

“Trust me, it’s not thoughtful. It’s not even my idea,” he insisted, looking uncomfortable with the approval she was beaming his way. “It’s what Devora wanted. Her last request, you might say. She wants the completed collection donated to the Audubon Society.”

“She always talked about doing that someday. It was her dream. And it’s also something a lot of people wouldn’t understand, or else would simply write off as the crazy whim of an old lady. No wonder she adored you.”

He looked horrified by her praise. “You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t understand anything. I certainly don’t understand why anyone would spend their time and money chasing after some old glass…excuse me, porcelain birds, just to give them away. I think it’s the single wackiest, most senseless thing I ever heard of.”

“Maybe so,” she allowed with an easy smile. “And yet you’re willing to do it, anyway. Sorry, Griffin, that makes you some kind of hero in my book.”

“I am not willing,” he snapped.

“Then why are you here?”

“Because…” He stopped and clenched his teeth. “Because I have no damn choice.”

“I understand…really. And believe me, that kind of devotion is rare.” Her smile gentled as she reached out and patted the hand with which he was gripping the cane. “Sometimes it takes a personal setback to make us more sensitive to the hearts of others.”

“Sensitive?” His tone was edgy, and a flush darkened his lean face. She could feel the tension in his hand and drew hers back.

“Is that what you think I am?” he demanded, growling now. “Sensitive?”

Oh, yes, most definitely a growl. You’d have thought she’d called him a sissy. Of course, in his testosterone-pickled view of reality, she just may have. It was silly, really, when all she had been trying to do was build on the one thing they had in common—a love for Devora. And why? To ease his damn loneliness, that’s why. After all, it wasn’t as if she was the one out hunting for friends. Well, she’d done her part…and after he’d had the gall to refer to her garland as this thing.

Standing in the pinpoint of his fierce glare, her initial impression of him returned. Conventional wisdom was wrong, she thought. Sometimes you really could judge a book by its cover. She’d have let loose and told him what she really thought of him—but why go out of her way to cheer him up?

She shrugged. “Look, Griffin, I didn’t mean—”

He cut her off. “Good. Because if there is one thing I am not, and never will be, it’s sensitive. Got it?”

“With a vengeance,” she shot back.

“Good.”

That said, he clamped the bag containing her fragile masterpiece under his arm and stalked out.