Kiss Me Forever/Love Me Forever. Rosemary Laurey

time it took three deep breaths and a couple of mouthfuls of jacket potato, but at least she could still swallow. “The books you wanted. I found an antiquarian bookshop in Guildford in the yellow pages. I plan to get them valued.”

      “Name your price, I’ll pay it.”

      “What about the first-edition forgery? You want that too?”

      He nodded. “Especially that. Couldn’t let my namesake get away, could I?” Broad shouldered and handsome as sin, one arm draped over the back of his chair, he could probably get away with anything. But not with her. She’d come here to get over men, not tangle with them. She’d successfully evaded James and Sebastian; she wasn’t falling for one-eyed Christopher, no matter how wide his smile or inviting his lips.

      “I’ll get back with you as soon as I have a price.”

      “I’ll be waiting.” He rested an elbow on the back of his chair. Slim fingers rubbed his chin. He watched her the way a gambler might study his cards, assessing his hand and planning a finesse. His lips parted slightly, the pad of his index finger traced the fullness of his lips. Shivers raced like cold mercury up and down Dixie’s spine. Who was she fooling? He wasn’t talking first editions here. He wanted more than a look at her books. And so did she. Her body hadn’t reacted this way for months. In the silence between them, a strange clarity hit her. This man could give her incredible joy and pleasure and heartbreak. And she’d had enough of the latter to last two lifetimes.

      Now was the time for a quick exit.

      She stood up. “I’ll get back in touch with you.”

      Like one of the slow motion scenes in a movie, he reached over and wrapped his cold fingers round her wrist. She could have moved. She didn’t want to. “Don’t go, Dixie. Besides, you haven’t eaten your dinner.” She’d swallowed three mouthfuls, if that. “Alf put that on the menu just for you; don’t hurt his feelings.”

      Alf’s feelings would survive. Would hers? She sat back down to find out. And maybe find out something else. “Tell me about my great-aunts,” she said. If he got talking, maybe he wouldn’t look at her in quite the same way.

      “What about them?”

      “Anything. I’m living in their house, sleeping on their bed, making coffee in their kitchen and they’re strangers. I know nothing about them. Except Gran didn’t like them.”

      His frown eased a little. “What did your Gran tell you?”

      “She broke with them when she married Grandpa. They never wrote or phoned or anything. It’s so odd they left the house to her.”

      “Their father left it to the three of them for life, and then to their heirs. It came to you as the only survivor.”

      How did he know? “You’re up on village gossip?”

      “Not gossip. Fact. Ask your friend Sebastian.”

      “He’s hardly my friend.”

      “I’m relieved to hear it.”

      Was he flirting? Smiling like that, who knew? “Get serious. Tell me about them. Gran called them witches. Were they?”

      “I thought you didn’t believe in witches and vampires and things that go bump in the night.”

      “I don’t, but I spent a couple of hours looking at your books and the others in that section. Not everyone shares my skepticism.”

      His mouth twitched at the corners. “And what a beautiful skeptic you are.”

      “Yeah, right.” But she didn’t laugh it off—the snicker died as she met his eye. Flirting was one thing, this was—what?

      “Right,” he whispered. “Are you skeptical about compliments?”

      “Not compliments. Men!” She wanted to choke herself. That wasn’t supposed to jump out like that.

      It didn’t faze Christopher. His dry, deep chuckle emerged like a ripple of spring sunshine. “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe with me.”

      Meeting the warmth of his velvet-brown eye, she wondered about that. She gave her potato a lot of attention for the next few minutes. “Back to my aunts,” she said. “Were they witches?”

      “Black witches? No. They were a pair of eccentric old ladies who longed for the feudal ages when they’d have controlled the whole country.”

      “And all the books?”

      “Bought by their father. A retired colonel from the Indian Army. An old martinet if ever there was one. He treated his daughters like unpaid servants, his servants like slaves, and ran the village. He was in charge of the local Home Guard during the war. One day a group came to discuss invasion defenses. One of them was a young captain from the United States Army. Your great-grandfather invited them to dinner.

      “The rest, as they say, is history. They stayed around for a week or so. Six months later, three days after her twenty-first birthday, your grandmother got married in London. They say the old colonel never let a single man under sixty into the house after that.”

      That tallied with Gran’s version. “Didn’t they have a mother?”

      “She died out in India.”

      “How do you know all this? It happened years before you were born.”

      He hesitated, just a beat. “This is a village. Gossip keeps a long time.”

      He’d given more information in five minutes that Gran had in a lifetime. She wanted to go home, and think about it. She drained the last mouthful of Guinness and set the glass on the table. The creamy rings of lather clung to the glass like stray thoughts, unclear and indistinct. Christopher watched her. She knew it even as she watched the slow beads of froth descend the inside of her empty glass. Her breath caught in her throat.

      “You walked.” It wasn’t a question.

      This time he didn’t offer to walk her home. He didn’t need to. There was no moon, but Christopher had no problem finding the path. She stumbled on a root, but he reached out and caught her. After that, it made sense to hold his hand and follow him across the green. It also made for distraction and wild imaginings. Her fingers felt warm against his, his handclasp firm and sure. How would his fingers feel on her neck, her shoulders, her…? Enough. She didn’t want any involvement. She’d come here to catch her breath and find peace of mind. Not lose it.

      “No visitors tonight,” he said as they stood on the gravel drive looking up at the house.

      “With my new locks, they’d have to be desperate to keep trying.”

      “Maybe they are….” He whispered it, as if talking to himself.

      She walked up to the door, key in hand. He came with her. Did he expect to be asked in? He’d be disappointed. She wasn’t ready for that. Wasn’t likely to be, either.

      His hand tightened around hers. Her heart tightened inside her chest. “Dixie, make sure you double check every lock and the windows.”

      “Worried about me?”

      “Why wouldn’t I be? Someone’s up to no good.”

      “Offering to come in and protect me from ill wishers?”

      “No.” It came out a hoarse cry.

      His hand closed on hers. She clenched back. She didn’t want him to go. For two cents she would ask him in. No, she wouldn’t! Why not? Because she wasn’t stupid. Lightheaded from the Guinness and the night air, she turned to face him. “Christopher,” she whispered, “I will be all right.”

      “I know. No one will bother you tonight.”

      “Good night, and thanks for the company.” She kissed him.

      Rather than the cheek she’d intended,