discussion,” he said. “Philosophy bores me.”
“Then behave,” she said, her tone light. “Do you know how to make toast?”
“Sure. Order it from room service.”
“Is that a joke?”
“Nope,” he said, standing to join her on the other side of the work bar. “Both my parents had housekeepers to cook toast. At school we got it in the cafeteria, and now I either eat out or order room service. Educate me.”
She looked at him, a thousand questions crowding her mind.
“See that little boxlike thing over there, with the slits in the top?” He walked over to scrutinize the toaster with much ado. “Drop a piece of bread in each slot, push the lever on the side down until it sticks, and when the bread pops up, butter it. You can butter bread, can’t you?”
His expression was vapid. “Like ... with a knife?”
“That’s right.” A smile tugged at her lips when he pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and looked as if he were about to create gourmet toast. “If both your parents had housekeepers, should I assume that they were divorced?”
“Terminally divorced. They hated each other,” he said, squinting into the toaster to watch the bread turn golden brown. He was conscious of the ease with which his statement had come, yet he rarely spoke of his family.
“That must have been hard for you,” she said.
“That was the way it was,” he said casually. “My family’s legacy is a little different than yours. Dunsmores are doomed to divorce, you might say.”
“Were you ever married?”
“Sure. And divorced. Luckily, I was quick to get the message.”
“What message?”
“Not to marry again.” The toast popped up, and he glanced at her for approval. The concern in her eyes surprised him. “Relax. It isn’t unheard of for a Dunsmore to think he’s in love again, and to remarry over and over again. As a matter of fact, each of my father’s divorces has resulted in a trip to the Bahamas, and he invariably returns married to someone else. I have a half sister who cleans out her closets, loses twenty pounds, and buys an entirely new wardrobe before she goes husband hunting again. She’s done that three times so far. One of my stepbrothers drank himself stupid after his first divorce and then he eloped with an exotic dancer who was already married to someone else. My mother married twice before she discovered that husbands were more aggravation than pleasure and that disposable lovers were the way to go.”
“And you?”
He’d spent the past ten years devoted to his work, and feeling as hard and cold as his ex-wife accused him of being, but for Harriet’s edification, he said, “I made a life of my own. The only person I trust is me. The only person I care about is me. I don’t own anything I can’t afford to lose, and there’s no one in my life that I’d miss if they were gone tomorrow.”
She had filled two plates with thick slices of Canadian bacon and light, fluffy scrambled eggs but arrested all movement to stare at him.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, sensing he wasn’t quite as cavalier on the subject as he sounded. “You’re not at all like that.”
“How the hell would you know?” he asked, dumbfounded. “And if you tell me your friend DeLuca told you anything different than what I’m telling you, then you were a chump for hiring him, because he doesn’t know what he’s talking about either.”
She put the fry pan in the sink and took up the plates. “I don’t need Mr. DeLuca to tell me that you’re not a very nice man. But I don’t believe you’re as indifferent and heartless as you’d like me to think.”
“Why not?”
Intuition? she speculated, looking at him. She set his plate on the table across from her and reached to pour them both some coffee.
“Your eyes.”
“My eyes?” He handed her two pieces of buttered toast, and sat down with two pieces for himself. “Give me a break.”
“No. It’s true. You’re very good at hiding
“Then behave,” she said, her tone light. “Do you know how to make toast?”
“Sure. Order it from room service.”
“Is that a joke?”
“Nope,” he said, standing to join her on the other side of the work bar. “Both my parents had housekeepers to cook toast. At school we got it in the cafeteria, and now I either eat out or order room service. Educate me.”
She looked at him, a thousand questions crowding her mind.
“See that little boxlike thing over there, with the slits in the top?” He walked over to scrutinize the toaster with much ado. “Drop a piece of bread in each slot, push the lever on the side down until it sticks, and when the bread pops up, butter it. You can butter bread, can’t you?”
His expression was vapid. “Like ... with a knife?”
“That’s right.” A smile tugged at her lips when he pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and looked as if he were about to create gourmet toast. “If both your parents had housekeepers, should I assume that they were divorced?”
“Terminally divorced. They hated each other,” he said, squinting into the toaster to watch the bread turn golden brown. He was conscious of the ease with which his statement had come, yet he rarely spoke of his family.
“That must have been hard for you,” she said.
“That was the way it was,” he said casually. “My family’s legacy is a little different than yours. Dunsmores are doomed to divorce, you might say.”
“Were you ever married?”
“Sure. And divorced. Luckily, I was quick to get the message.”
“What message?”
“Not to marry again.” The toast popped up, and he glanced at her for approval. The concern in her eyes surprised him. “Relax. It isn’t unheard of for a Dunsmore to think he’s in love again, and to remarry over and over again. As a matter of fact, each of my father’s divorces has resulted in a trip to the Bahamas, and he invariably returns married to someone else. I have a half sister who cleans out her closets, loses twenty pounds, and buys an entirely new wardrobe before she goes husband hunting again. She’s done that three times so far. One of my stepbrothers drank himself stupid after his first divorce and then he eloped with an exotic dancer who was already married to someone else. My mother married twice before she discovered that husbands were more aggravation than pleasure and that disposable lovers were the way to go.”
“And you?”
He’d spent the past ten years devoted to his work, and feeling as hard and cold as his ex-wife accused him of being, but for Harriet’s edification, he said, “I made a life of my own. The only person I trust is me. The only person I care about is me. I don’t own anything I can’t afford to lose, and there’s no one in my life that I’d miss if they were gone tomorrow.”
She had filled two plates with thick slices of Canadian bacon and light, fluffy scrambled eggs but arrested all movement to stare at him.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, sensing he wasn’t quite as cavalier on the subject as he sounded. “You’re not at all like that.”
“How the hell would you know?” he asked, dumbfounded. “And if you tell me your friend DeLuca told you anything different than what I’m telling you, then you were a chump for hiring him, because he doesn’t know what he’s talking about either.”
She put the fry pan in the sink and took up the plates. “I don’t need Mr. DeLuca to tell me that you’re not a very nice man. But I don’t believe you’re as indifferent and heartless as you’d like me to think.”
“Why not?”
Intuition? she speculated, looking at him. She set his plate on the table across from her and reached to pour them both some coffee.
“Your eyes.”
“My eyes?” He handed her two pieces of buttered toast, and sat down with two pieces for himself. “Give me a break.”
“No. It’s true. You’re very good at hiding
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