probably don’t remember me …you were, after all, just a child the last time we met…but my name is Riley Witherspoon. I’m a curator at Independence Hall in Philadelphia…and a friend of your grandfather’s.”
“ Have you seen my grandfather?” she blurted excitedly. “Do you know where he is?”
There was a pregnant silence on the other end of the line before he said, “I have reason to suspect that he may be in peril. Better not to discuss it on the phone, though, I daresay. Would it be possible for you to come to Philadelphia?”
“Of course ,” she said without hesitation. “I can be there in a couple of hours.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you again. I only wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances. My office is in the Merchant’s Exchange.”
“What was all that about?”
Buchanan’s deep brogue startled her. He was standing in the doorway, wearing only his slacks. Her eyes swept across his bare chest, which was broad, defined, and carpeted with dark hair from which his nipples stood out like rosy buttons.
“W e’re going to Philadelphia,” she told him, annoyed by the tingling in her loins. Damn him for having this effect on her. Especially after last night.
“I need a shower ,” he said, rubbing his chin, which was shaded with dark stubble. “And a shave. But I guess, since I’ve got no razor, that I’m out of luck on that score, eh?”
“ You can use one of mine,” she said, moving toward her bag to fetch him one of her disposables. “But don’t go rusting yourself.”
“Sorry?”
She felt a surge of resentment born of wounded pride. “You’re the Tin Man, remember?”
“Oh, right,” he muttered, coloring a little.
“And I need a shower, too,” she said, glowering as she held out the pink plastic razor, “so have the decency to leave some hot water, okay?”
* * * *
While Buchanan showered, Thea went into the kitchen to rustle up something to eat. If she was this hungry, he must be, too. She put the kettle on for tea and hunted around, finding some eggs and butter that were still fresh in an old-fashioned icebox, and half a loaf of homemade bread in a hinged wooden box on the counter.
She wondered briefly how he liked his eggs, but shrugged it off . He didn’t seem like the type to be fussy about such things. And, even if he was, he was probably hungry enough to eat anything she put in front of him and, if he had any brains, would show the proper gratitude.
As she put the pan on the stove, s he felt a stab of shame for having kissed him. What had come over her? She wasn’t normally so bold with her affections. Was it an adrenaline rush brought on by the gunfight? She had read that violence sometimes triggered sexual arousal. Was he feeling it, too? Was that why he kissed her back? And he definitely had. She wasn’t mistaken about that. Although, apparently, she was mistaken in her belief that he was warming to her.
Only if you want it to mean something.
The coldness of his words still chilled her. Shrugging them off, she returned to her breakfast preparations, breaking several eggs into a bowl and whisking them with a fork. When the pan was hot, she threw in some butter, pushed it around with the fork until it sizzled, and then poured in the mixture. As she scrambled, she listened to the thundering shower, trying very hard not to think about him standing there under the hot spray with water streaming down his naked body.
Trying , but failing miserably.
The shower shut off just as the eggs were done. She divided them onto two plates, buttered the toast, and poured the tea. She wished there was some milk—she liked a little milk in her tea and suspected that he, being a Brit, took milk in his as well. But, short of getting it from the source, which she wasn’t about to do, they’d have to do without.
“Get it while it’s hot,” she called out toward the bedroom.
He appeared a moment later, again wearing
“ Have you seen my grandfather?” she blurted excitedly. “Do you know where he is?”
There was a pregnant silence on the other end of the line before he said, “I have reason to suspect that he may be in peril. Better not to discuss it on the phone, though, I daresay. Would it be possible for you to come to Philadelphia?”
“Of course ,” she said without hesitation. “I can be there in a couple of hours.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I look forward to seeing you again. I only wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances. My office is in the Merchant’s Exchange.”
“What was all that about?”
Buchanan’s deep brogue startled her. He was standing in the doorway, wearing only his slacks. Her eyes swept across his bare chest, which was broad, defined, and carpeted with dark hair from which his nipples stood out like rosy buttons.
“W e’re going to Philadelphia,” she told him, annoyed by the tingling in her loins. Damn him for having this effect on her. Especially after last night.
“I need a shower ,” he said, rubbing his chin, which was shaded with dark stubble. “And a shave. But I guess, since I’ve got no razor, that I’m out of luck on that score, eh?”
“ You can use one of mine,” she said, moving toward her bag to fetch him one of her disposables. “But don’t go rusting yourself.”
“Sorry?”
She felt a surge of resentment born of wounded pride. “You’re the Tin Man, remember?”
“Oh, right,” he muttered, coloring a little.
“And I need a shower, too,” she said, glowering as she held out the pink plastic razor, “so have the decency to leave some hot water, okay?”
* * * *
While Buchanan showered, Thea went into the kitchen to rustle up something to eat. If she was this hungry, he must be, too. She put the kettle on for tea and hunted around, finding some eggs and butter that were still fresh in an old-fashioned icebox, and half a loaf of homemade bread in a hinged wooden box on the counter.
She wondered briefly how he liked his eggs, but shrugged it off . He didn’t seem like the type to be fussy about such things. And, even if he was, he was probably hungry enough to eat anything she put in front of him and, if he had any brains, would show the proper gratitude.
As she put the pan on the stove, s he felt a stab of shame for having kissed him. What had come over her? She wasn’t normally so bold with her affections. Was it an adrenaline rush brought on by the gunfight? She had read that violence sometimes triggered sexual arousal. Was he feeling it, too? Was that why he kissed her back? And he definitely had. She wasn’t mistaken about that. Although, apparently, she was mistaken in her belief that he was warming to her.
Only if you want it to mean something.
The coldness of his words still chilled her. Shrugging them off, she returned to her breakfast preparations, breaking several eggs into a bowl and whisking them with a fork. When the pan was hot, she threw in some butter, pushed it around with the fork until it sizzled, and then poured in the mixture. As she scrambled, she listened to the thundering shower, trying very hard not to think about him standing there under the hot spray with water streaming down his naked body.
Trying , but failing miserably.
The shower shut off just as the eggs were done. She divided them onto two plates, buttered the toast, and poured the tea. She wished there was some milk—she liked a little milk in her tea and suspected that he, being a Brit, took milk in his as well. But, short of getting it from the source, which she wasn’t about to do, they’d have to do without.
“Get it while it’s hot,” she called out toward the bedroom.
He appeared a moment later, again wearing
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