A Little Corner Of Paradise. Catherine Spencer

of herself. ‘Well, you’ll find plenty of that. Apart from beach-combing and bird-watching, there’s not much else to keep you entertained out here.’

      He looked her over again. And again that vibrant jolt leapt the distance separating them. ‘Oh, I don’t know that I agree with that,’ he said gently. ‘I can think of a couple of other very pleasant ways to pass the time.’

      His approach was more polished, but not since Martin had any man so overtly plied her with sexual innuendo. Only by drumming up a reminder of the disaster that had ensued from succumbing to male flattery that first time was Madeleine able to resist it now. ‘I’m sure you can,’ she replied coolly, and turned away, snapping her fingers for Peg Leg to follow.

      To her dismay, Nick Hamilton’s hand closed over her shoulder, detaining her, and another stab, of alarm this time, underscored her discomfiture. Beyond the fact that he was incredibly good-looking—the worst kind of recommendation in a man!—she knew nothing about this person holding her with such subtle strength. ‘Please don’t do that,’ she said, unable to suppress the shiver that skated over her.

      He let go of her at once. ‘I’ve made you uncomfortable,’ he mourned, his voice charmingly, ingenuously, contrite. ‘I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention at all.’

      She really did feel like a fool then, especially since Peg Leg seemed not the least disturbed by the fact that he’d dared touch her mistress. Madeleine managed a faint smile. ‘That’s all right’

      ‘No, it’s not,’ he said, beguiling her all over again with his sexy, sandpapery voice. ‘I’ve frightened you, when all I meant to do was let you know what a very delightful woman I think you are.’

      She blushed like a thirteen-year-old with a bad case of hero-worship, and went a little weak at the knees. ‘Thank you. I…um, I have to get back now, but if there’s anything you need during your stay—use of the phone, perhaps, or fresh water—you know where I live.’

      ‘Yes,’ he said, his gaze roaming warmly over her face. ‘I know where you live.’

      

      Watching her leave, Nick pursed his lips in a silent whistle and shook his head in mystified disgust. When the gregarious garage attendant had let slip who lived next door an instant picture had sprung to mind of the sort of woman Nick expected to find. Long, slender legs and sweetly flaring hips had no more place in that picture than eyes the soft gray-green of wild sage, or the dense fluting of lashes half a shade darker than the hair tumbling wildly around a face that belonged in a Renoir painting. Nick had itched to run his fingers through that hair. Any man would.

      And the blush! Women today didn’t blush when a man tossed a compliment their way, for Pete’s sake; they smacked him in the mouth. And where was the sober tweed skirt and twin-set, the graduated pearls and prim, horn-rimmed glasses he’d justifiably envisioned? By what right did the local Heritage Society come by a president who was so stunningly desirable?

      This was going to throw a monkey wrench in the works and no mistake! She belonged in another era. Hell, another century! How was he supposed to contend with an opponent soft-hearted enough to own a three-legged dog and who, when he had the temerity to touch her, prefaced her request for him not to do so with a softly uttered ‘please’? She didn’t play fair.

      On the other hand, neither did he—which was the chief reason he’d earned the reputation among his colleagues for ferreting out world news before it happened.

      Frowning, he swung back along the path to where he’d parked the RV next to the lodge, a plan of attack already taking shape in his mind. Wooing the lady next door could conceivably backfire. But, as the old saying went, a man could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar and, as long as he never forgot that the sweet-talk was merely the means to an end—in this case winning the right to do as he saw fit with the Spindrift property-he could circumvent any complications that might arise.

      Looked at from that perspective, the fact that his only neighbor should turn out to be young and gorgeous was a distinct advantage, and simply made his task a lot more agreeable than it would have been had she turned out to be old and ugly.

      Phase One of Operation Tyler began to take rather tantalizing shape in his mind. Always provided, of course, that good old home-town Andy Latham hadn’t already staked a firm claim on her affections. Because there was a limit to how down and dirty even Nick Hamilton was prepared to act. He drew the line at poaching on another man’s territory.

      

      Madeleine hadn’t expected to see him again but, just after ten on Saturday morning, Nick showed up on her back doorstep. ‘Hope I’m not calling at a bad time,’ he said, ‘but I cut myself trying to open a can of coffee.’ He held up a thumb wrapped in a bloodstained handkerchief. ‘I think I need a Band-Aid.’

      ‘I think you do, too.’ She opened the door wider and ushered him into the kitchen. ‘Have a seat and I’ll see what I can find. Are you sure you don’t need stitches?’

      ‘No.’ He slouched in a chair at the table and with his good hand petted Peg Leg, who greeted him like a long-lost friend. ‘It just needs something to bind it closed for a day or two.’

      Madeleine found the first aid kit and sorted through it for the package of waterproof dressings and the iodine she always kept handy. “This should do the trick. Let me have a look.’

      She reached for his thumb but he drew it back, nursing it gingerly, and regarded the bottle of iodine with fearful suspicion. ‘That’s OK. I can take care of it myself. If I could just rinse it off…?’

      Madeleine contained a smile. Strange dogs and un-friendly police officers might not faze him, but threaten him with minor surgery and he was ready to keel over. The god had clay feet, after all. Thank the lord! ‘There’s a powder-room just down the hall. You’ll find clean towels in the cabinet under the sink.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      While he was gone she started a fresh pot of coffee and popped an apricot strudel in the oven. By the time he reappeared, his thumb securely taped, she had set out two mugs and a couple of paper napkins. ‘I thought you might need something to revive you.’

      He smiled wanly. ‘Are all men cowards at the sight of blood, or is it just me?’

      ‘You’re braver than most. You dressed the injury yourself.’ She held the coffee-pot poised over his mug. ‘Cream and sugar?’

      ‘Just sugar. Three lumps.’ He laughed, a light, rusty snort of amusement. ‘I need a lot of sweetening.’

      From what she’d witnessed he seemed plenty sweet enough, but she realized it was an opinion based on very meager evidence. For all she knew, he could possess a foul temper and a wicked tongue, and be a wife-beater to boot—a reflection which raised the rather interesting question of his marital status. Offering him first aid, however, scarcely entitled her to pry into his personal life.

      He suffered from no such reticence concerning hers. ‘How was your date?’

      ‘Date?’ She paused in the act of slicing the strudel.

      ‘With the knight in navy.’ He grinned unashamedly. ‘I eavesdropped the other day. Are the two of you, as they say in trendy circles, an item?’

      ‘I…er, no.’

      He didn’t miss her hesitation. ‘But he’d like you to be?’

      ‘When are you going to marry me, Madeleine?’ Andy had asked lightly just before he’d dropped her off after dinner the night before. It wasn’t the first time he’d proposed, nor the first time she’d turned him down with the joking suggestion that he was married already, to his work.

      ‘Andy’s a good friend,’ she told Nick. ‘We’ve know each other since we were children.’

      ‘I take it from that that you were born here? Have you always lived in this house?’

      She looked around the