The Stranger: The Heroes of Heyday (Harlequin Superromance No. 1266) by Kathleen O`Brien Page B

things.
    No point trying to pretend he didn’t see it. And even less point trying to act as if mutilating a fresh bouquet of flowers was normal.
    He smiled, glancing at the mess on the desk. “Which one was the culprit? The flowers, or the guy who sent them?”
    She was recovering. She put the chrysanthemum down slowly and brushed her hands together to whisk free the remaining petals. The gesture released a fresh puff of perfume into the air.
    â€œDid you need anything else, Tyler? It was thoughtful of you to check on me, but, as you can see, I’m fine.”
    He smiled again. “Is that what you call it? Some people would call it displaced aggression. See, it works like this. The civilized world won’t allow you to chop off the head of the guy who sent you these, so you sacrifice the flowers in his place.”
    She began collecting some of the pieces and dropping them into the trash can beside the desk. “Well, ifthat’s what I’m doing, maybe you’d better let me get back to it. Before I decide to displace it somewhere else. ”
    He chuckled, but he didn’t move. He had not forgotten about the shadow in the park, and he had no intention of leaving her in here alone.
    Besides, this display of anger really made him curious. Who could have sent these poor, doomed flowers? Her ex-husband, maybe? Or was there a new lover in the picture? He’d seen her kissing that guy at the golf club, but he’d assumed there was no real heat, on account of the skirt.
    Maybe he’d misjudged. Maybe, for some women, men in skirts were kind of a turn-on.
    As she stood there glaring at him, he discovered that, for some men, a woman in soft cotton pajama pants definitely was a turn-on.
    She must have been trying to sleep before she came downstairs, because her hair was a mess. She used to wear it super short, but it was growing out, and curls were tumbling everywhere, tickling at her chin, her ears, her eyelashes.
    He pictured her in bed, tossing and turning, creating that disarray. His whole body tensed, a feeling he remembered all too well.
    She had always affected him this way, damn it. He remembered the first time he saw her. She’d been wearing her silly Ringmaster Café uniform, which was all black and white with a mannish bow tie. He’d thought she was sexy as hell, and he had, for just a moment, considered breaking his firm rule against one-night stands with total strangers.
    Then he saw the ring on her finger, and the fantasies screeched to a halt. The rule against sex with married women was one he never messed with.
    It hadn’t been easy. Everything about her had turned him on. Sometimes, when he sat in the café late at night, going over his notes from the day’s interviews, he’d been so distracted he couldn’t think straight.
    When she poured him water from a sweating silver pitcher, apologizing as the cool drops splashed on his fingers, he’d nearly gone crazy. When she bent down to pick up a straw wrapper, or leaned over to wipe the counter, her breasts pressing against the Formica, he’d had to look the other way.
    â€œSo—” He glanced at the flowers. “Are they from your husband?”
    He didn’t know why he asked. She wouldn’t think this was any of his business and undoubtedly would refuse to answer.
    She cocked her head and smiled. “Of course not,” she said, surprising him. “How big a fool do you think I am?”
    â€œI don’t think you’re a fool at all. Frankly, I thought he was.”
    A fool, or worse. Sometimes, at the café, Tyler had seen her pick up her cell phone when she thought no one was watching. She’d dial a number, wait, then hang up with a tight frown between red-rimmed eyes. He knew she’d been calling her husband, because afterward she’d roll her wedding ring roughly around and around on her finger, as if she’d like to take it off and toss it into