Housebound by Anne Stuart Page B

moments more, until suddenly the very silence of the house seemed to press down upon her, and she jumped up, determined to escape.
    The last thing she needed was a repeat of yesterday’s tête-à-tête. She made her escape in record time, dressing, grabbing her manuscript and sneaking out the kitchen door without even the solace of a cup of coffee. Half an hour later she had made her way along the newly plowed highway and was comfortably ensconced at a back table in the almost deserted all-night diner that was a home away from home, already well into her second cup of respectable coffee, Professor Etling’s pontifications on Chinese history coalescing into some sort of sense before her tired eyes.
    â€œCrowded house again, Anne?” Mrs. Mendoza had greeted her serenely. “Take your pick of tables and I’ll send some coffee straight over. Not too many people out in all this snow.”
    â€œBless your heart,” Anne had said in relief. If she hadn’t had this one refuge she might very well go mad. “How’s Elena doing?”
    â€œDon’t ask! She’s just about to present me with another grandchild. You’d think she’d learn a little moderation. Stop at four, I told her. But would she listen? Who listens to a mother, anyway? I only hope her five little ones do the same to her.”
    Anne stifled the little pang of jealousy that always filled her at news of Elena Mendoza Richardson’s proliferation. “She’s a better woman than I, that’s for sure. How she can manage the children and keep her practice at the same time is beyond me.”
    â€œLet’s thank heavens she’s an obstetrician—at least her patients know she’s got plenty of experience.”
    Anne’s mind wandered from the Ming dynasty to that conversation. Elena was two and a half years older than she—almost thirty-seven, and she was still having babies. At least Anne and Wilson had agreed on that one thing, even if he hadn’t bothered to discuss it with her. But if she wasn’t going to marry Wilson, when was she going to have her babies?
    She took another sip of her coffee, staring out the windows at the slush-covered highway with its sparse, Sunday morning traffic. Noah had been married. Had he had children, too? She didn’t dare ask him—the closed expression on his face last night as Wilson outlined their plans had made an indelible impression. Besides, it was really none of her business. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had beautiful babies with curly dark hair and those incredible blue eyes. Were they little Gypsy children, or did they look like his wife? Or like the two of them?
    She set the coffee down, spilling a bit into the saucer, and determinedly turned her attention to the manuscript. She hadescaped from the house to concentrate on her work and to put Noah Grant out of her mind. She wasn’t being particularly successful at either task.
    And there was no question but that Noah Grant had to be banished from her daydreams and night dreams. For all the warmth in those laughing blue eyes, the gentleness of his full mouth, there was a touch-me-not quality to him that came through even in his masterful flirtations. Involvement with a man like him would be disastrously heartbreaking. She didn’t need the sexiest man alive to sleep with on a weekend and wonder then if she’d ever see him again. To wait desperately for a phone call or a letter that never came, or even worse, suffer through a stilted meeting when he had lost all interest. Besides, a woman with her limited experience would hardly be able to hold a man like him. He needed a Playboy bunny to warm his bed, not a cloistered saint.
    â€œAs a scholar, the Ming dynasty means a great deal in terms of…” She forced herself to read out loud in the small, deserted diner. For a moment the sheer grammatical horror of the sentence distracted her, and she made