The Apple Orchard. Сьюзен Виггс

He had the kind of deep, sonorous voice that drew attention, even though he spoke in low tones. Tess could practically feel everyone within earshot tuning in to eavesdrop.

      “All right, then,” she said. “Dominic.” Of course his name would be Dominic. It meant “gift from God.” AKA a life-support system for an ego. Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t fun to stare at. Dominic Rossi looked like a dream, the kind of dream no woman in her right mind would want to wake from.

      She had always been susceptible to male beauty, ever since the age of ten, when her mother had taken her to see Michelangelo’s David in Florence. She recalled staring at that huge stone behemoth, all lithe muscles and gorgeous symmetry, indifferent about his nudity, his member inspiring a dozen questions her mother brushed aside.

      Now, with utmost reluctance, she folded her arms across her chest, walling herself off from the charms of Mr. Tall, Dark and Devastating. “So...how can I help you?”

      “Shall I send out for more coffee?” asked Brooks. “Or maybe just disaster cleanup?”

      “Very funny.”

      Oksana Androvna, an acquisitions expert, popped her head above the walls of her cubicle. She spotted the visitor, then ducked back down. The handsome stranger had probably already set off a storm of workplace gossip. He didn’t look like most Sheffield clients. “My office is through here,” she said, heading down the hallway. She led the way, wondering if he was checking her out from behind, then mad at herself for wondering as she unlocked the door and turned on the lights. When she turned to face him, his gaze held hers, but she had the uncanny feeling that he had been checking her out. She wasn’t offended. If she thought she could get away with it, she’d do the same to him.

      As usual, her work area was a mass of clutter. It was organized clutter, to be sure, though she was the first to admit that this was not the same as neatness. “I’m a bit pressed for time this morning—”

      “Sorry to arrive unannounced,” he said, striding forward into the cramped confines of her office. “I’m not sure I have a good number for you.”

      “I never gave you my number,” she said. But I might have, if you’d asked me.

      He held out a business card. “I’ve been looking for you.”

      For no reason she could fathom, his words gave her a chill. In a swift beat of time, she tasted the intense sweetness of powdered sugar in the corners of her lips, felt the cool breath of the air conditioning through a ceiling vent, watched it ripple through some loose papers on her credenza.

      “Miss Delaney?” He regarded her quizzically.

      She studied the card—Dominic Rossi. Bay Bank Sonoma Trust. “You’re a bill collector?”

      He smiled slightly. “No.”

      She set aside the card and stepped back, considering him warily. He had the features and hair to match his physique and voice. The horn-rimmed glasses, rather than detracting from his looks, merely enhanced them, like a fine frame around a masterpiece. He stood just inside the door, seeming out of place in her space. “Yes, it’s a wreck,” she said, reading disapproval in the way he was looking at the various piles. “It drives Brooks crazy, but I have a system.”

      He found an empty spot on the floor and set down his briefcase. She placed her coffee cup atop a stack of art history books. He extracted a folded handkerchief from his pocket. “Er, you might want to...” He gestured at her lapel.

      “What’s the matter?”

      “You’re covered in powdered sugar.”

      She glanced down. The front of her blazer was sprinkled with the white stuff.

      “Oh. Damn.” She took the handkerchief—white, crisp, monogrammed—and brushed at the mess.

      “Your face, too,” he pointed out.

      “My face?” she asked stupidly.

      “You look like a cocaine addict gone wild,” he told her.

      “Lovely. I don’t have a mirror.”

      He came around the desk to her. “May I?”

      In spite of herself, she kind of wanted to say yes to this guy, no matter what he was asking. “Sure. Have at it.”

      Very gently, he touched a finger under her chin, tilting her face toward his as he dabbed at the corners of her mouth.

      Up close, he was even better-looking than she’d originally thought. He smelled incredible and was perfectly groomed. The suit fit him gorgeously. It was probably a bespoke suit, made-to-measure. Because no normal man was built like this guy. Maybe she’d manifested him. Hadn’t she just been thinking about how nice it would be to have a boyfriend?

      Indulging—ever so briefly—in his touch, his very focused attention, she fantasized about what it would be like to have a boyfriend like this—attentive, patient, wildly attractive. Though she had no idea who he was, she already knew he was going to make her wish she had better luck at keeping guys around. When he finished his ministrations, she hoped she wasn’t blushing. But being a redhead, she couldn’t stop herself.

      “Better?” she asked.

      He put the handkerchief back in his pocket. “I just thought you’d be more comfortable...”

      “Not looking like a cocaine addict,” she filled in for him. She forced herself to quit gaping.

      For the first time, he cracked a smile. “Believe me, you’re better off sticking with donuts.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind.” She did her best to ignore the pulse of attraction inspired by that smile. She flushed again, remembering her imminent meeting. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve got something on the schedule that can’t wait.”

      “Just...hear me out.” Somber again, he moved a stack of paraphernalia off a chair and took a seat. “That’s all I ask.”

      “What can I do for you?”

      He paused, a somber look haunting his whiskey-brown eyes. Oh, boy, she thought. He’d probably tracked her down for a valuation. People like this always seemed to find her. If he was like so many others, he wanted to know what he could get for his grandmother’s rhinestone jewelry or Uncle Bubba’s squirrel shooter. She often heard from people who came across junk while cleaning out some loved one’s basement, and were convinced they had discovered El Dorado.

      She shifted her weight, feeling a nudge of anxiety about the upcoming meeting. She was going to need all her focus, and Mr. Dominic Rossi was definitely not so good for her focus. “Listen, I might need to refer you to one of my associates in the firm. Like I said, I’m a bit pressed for time today—”

      “This is about a family matter,” he said.

      She almost laughed at the irony of it. She didn’t have a family. She had a mother who didn’t return her calls. “What in the world would you know about my family?”

      “The bank I work for is located in Archangel, in Sonoma County.”

      “Archangel.” She tilted her head to one side. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

      “Doesn’t it?”

      “I’ve been to Archangel, Russia. I’ve been to lots of places, traveling for work. But never to Archangel, California. What does it have to do with me?”

      His expression didn’t change, but she detected a flash of something in his eyes. “You have family there.”

      Her stomach twisted. “This is either a joke, or a mistake.”

      “I’m not joking, and it’s not a mistake. I’m here on behalf of your grandfather, Magnus Johansen.”

      The name meant nothing to Tess. Her grandfather. She didn’t have a grandfather in any standard sense of the word. There