Storm Over the Lake by Diana Palmer

neck.
    â€œI…Is it?” she managed in a strange, husky voice.
    He leaned down until his breath was whispering across her trembling mouth, until his dark eyes filled the room.
    He drew back as she swayed helplessly toward him, chuckling like the devil he was. “Don’t worry, little girl,” he saidsoftly, “I don’t rob cradles.” Taking a long draw from his cigarette, he stood up with a taunting smile at the nervous wreck he’d left in the chair before him. “Come on, Dana, let’s get some coffee and cake. I barely touched my supper.”
    â€œC…coffee and cake?” she faltered.
    â€œAren’t you hungry, honey?” he asked with one raised eyebrow. “God knows I am. Have coffee with me, at least.”
    â€œAll right.” She tugged her calm mask back in place, unaware of the mischief in the dark eyes she couldn’t see, and followed him to the kitchen. That he wanted her company was enough to kindle a glow in the pit of her stomach.
    She made coffee while he sat quietly at the kitchen table and watched her.
    â€œI never thanked you,” she murmured, pouring water into the automatic coffee maker.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œGoing with me. Staying with me. Easing the hurt,” she replied, glancing at him past the silky curtain of her long hair.
    â€œI’d have done that for my worst enemy, didn’t you know?” he asked with a hint of smile. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t credit me with too much compassion. I never make investments without a guaranteed return.”
    â€œWhat did you get out of it, then, except a lot of expense?” she asked. “And I’m going to pay you back, every penny,” she added firmly.
    â€œYou can work it out,” he told her, not bothering to argue. He leaned back in the chair, his darkness, his broadness tantalizing in the silence and the privacy of the kitchen. Her eyes were drawn against her will to that spray of black hair peeking out of the unbuttoned white shirt, and she was remembering how it had felt under her hands that night she danced with him at the lake….
    â€œYou’re staring, Persephone,” he taunted.
    Flushing, she drew her eyes back to the coffee maker. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
    â€œWhy not? It fits.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t like it if I called you Pluto.”
    â€œDamned straight, and I wouldn’t advise you to try it. I like mine with cream,” he added as she poured coffee into the two big, thick mugs. She paused to lace his with cream before she set it in front of him.
    â€œYou always pick on me,” she protested, dropping into the chair across from him, vulnerable in the soft blue dress with her hair spreading like yellow satin onto her shoulders, her eyes huge and brown and wistful. “Why can’t I hit back?”
    â€œHoney, you’ve got a foolproof method for getting at me, and you don’t even know it.”
    She stared at him blankly. “What?”
    But he only shrugged. “Forget it.” He sipped his coffee absently. “What were you doing up—waiting for me?”
    She blushed furiously. It had never occurred to her that he might put that interpretation on it. “I…I just couldn’t sleep,” she hedged. “And I needed to finish that…all right, I was thinking about Mamaand I needed something to do,” she admitted finally, wearily.
    â€œIt passes, Dana,” he said quietly. His fingers absently stroked the coffee mug. “I remember when Janine died…”
    â€œYour…your wife?” she asked gently.
    â€œMy wife.” He stared down into the shimmer of light that reflected in the deep mug. “It was a merger more than a marriage—her family had cloth mills, mine manufactured clothing. But I’d lived in the same house with her long enough to miss the scent of her perfume in a room, or the sound of her