The Spellbinder by Iris Johansen Page A

his lips. “Why do I feel that you prefer the bullets?”
    “Well, it’s true that I don’t like to be hungry. Things always look brighter when your stomach is full.” She gestured to the breakfast nook across the kitchen, where a place had been set and a steaming bowl of stew smelled mouth-wateringly delicious. “I dished it up when I heard the car outside. Sit down and eat while I put away the groceries.”
    “Aren’t you going to have anything?”
    “I ate earlier.” She began to unpack one of the sacks on the counter. “But I’ll stay and talk to you while you taste my wonderful stew. I know I never like to eat alone. It’s much nicer to have someone to chat with.” She glanced over her shoulder with a smile. “Not that I give you much chance to talk. Tell me to be quiet when you get bored with my chatter.”
    Brody raised his gaze from the contents of the bowl in front of him. “You never bore me.” He smiled slowly with a warmth that made her catch her breath. “I like to hear you chatter. I find it very … companionable.”
    Sacha could feel the hot color surge to her cheeks. The reaction startled her, and she found herself gazing at Brody with a strange, breathless shyness. What was wrong with her? It wasn’t like her to react with this lack of composure once she’d reached a decision. Yet there was no question that she was distraught. Even her hands were trembling as she finished unpacking the groceries. She turned around and tried to keep her tone light. “Are you making fun of me?”
    “A little. Do you mind?”
    “Why should I? I hope I don’t take myself so seriously that I can’t laugh at my own foibles.” She opened the door of the refrigerator and began storing the milk and other perishables. “This is a fine house, very luxurious and expensive. Do you like it?”
    “It’s fine, I suppose. I bought it last year fully furnished, and I never thought much about it. Itwas just a place to come to when I needed privacy to work. I guess I liked the private beach more than any other feature.”
    She breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, good, then you won’t mind if I don’t like your house. I was afraid if I was honest I might hurt your feelings.” She opened the cabinet door and began shelving the canned goods. “It’s really a dreadful place. So cold. It has no personality and that’s the most terrible thing a person can say about a house. But don’t worry. I’ll find a way to make it livable.”
    “I’m sure you will.”
    “Do you like your stew?”
    “It’s magnificent.”
    “I knew you would love it. Wait until I cook my beef Stroganoff for you. How did the performance go tonight?”
    “Okay, I guess.”
    “You sound tired.” She glanced over her shoulder with quick concern. He looked as weary as he sounded, she noticed with a rush of maternal tenderness. “Finish eating quickly and go to bed.”
    “I couldn’t sleep.”
    She turned around and studied him thoughtfully. “You’re not only tired, you’re very tense,” she said slowly. “Why? The tour is over. I would think you’d be able to relax now.”
    “Would you?” He took another bite of stew. “It would be nice if all our reactions could fall into nice little reasonable patterns.”
    “Don’t be sarcastic with me. I want to help you.”
    “Then for God’s sake, let—” He broke off as his gaze rose to her face. He drew a deep breath.“Look, I’m sorry. Maybe it would be better if you left me alone. I’m a moody bastard, and I can be pretty savage at times.”
    “But you don’t like yourself when you’re this way. I don’t know why you want to be alone. It’s always easier to bear a burden if you have someone else to share it.”
    “I’ll be okay.”
    “Brody …” She gazed at him helplessly. The tension radiating from him was nearly painful in intensity, yet his expression held a stubbornness that filled her with exasperation as well as despair. She suddenly couldn’t stand it any