I Think I Love You (19 page)

She smirked.

"Or why she wears glasses she obviously doesn't need."

She lost her smile. "I like my glasses."

He took out half the doughnut with one bite and chewed thoughtfully. "I think you hide behind them."

"You're ridiculous. And way out of line."

"Out of line, maybe, but I looked at your lenses when you left your frames here. They're clear glass."

She looked back to the ledger. "I've worn glasses my entire life. After I had laser surgery, I couldn't get used to looking at myself without them."

"Take my word for it, you look fine without them."

She lifted her pencil and surveyed the sexy tilt of his smile. "Don't flirt with me, Mitchell. I'm sure you have a girl in every port, but this girl isn't interested."

"Do you have a boyfriend back in Boston?"

She thought about Alan Garvo and their studiously corporate—and corporeal—affiliation. "No."

"Still carrying a torch for someone?"

"No."

"So what's the problem? I'm free, you're free, and there's a definite attraction between us."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Speak for yourself."

The rest of the doughnut disappeared. "All right—I'm attracted to you. I'm a red-blooded American guy who appreciates a nice view. Have dinner with me tonight."

He was appealing, but he knew that, of course. She looked back to figures in the ledger. "I'm having dinner with Pete Shadowen."

"What?" He made a disgusted noise. "You're going on a date with that fathead?"

"It's not a date; it's two old friends catching up."

"So have lunch with me."

"I brown-bagged a sandwich."

"We can have a picnic." He signaled Sam, who immediately came over to nuzzle her knee.

She was starting to get annoyed at the man's doggedness. And his pimp dog. "Knock it off, Mitchell. I publish entire books about guys like you and why women like me should keep their distance."

"Do you always follow your own advice?"

She pushed up her glasses. "Yes."

He sighed noisily, then snapped his fingers. The dog withdrew from her leg and trotted back. "We're wearing her down," he assured Sam.

She gave him a "fat chance" look, but he seemed undaunted.

"Did you make any decisions about the, um,
thing
you were looking for on-line?"

"No." But she'd thought of little else since her walk yesterday with Justine and Mica. And since her visit with Uncle Lawrence. The simplest solution would be to keep her mouth shut.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not with you."

He worked his mouth back and forth. "Fair enough. Can I offer a piece of advice?"

She shrugged, not about to let on she was interested.

"Well, in my experience, the most difficult option is usually the right one."

His words went down like a big, bitter pill. Beneficial, but not what she wanted to eat.

He stood up and clapped his hands. "Okay, I guess I'll get to work."

Better to forget the missing letter opener for now and concentrate on the job at hand. "Want to get started on the pottery? I just need to make a few more entries here."

"Sure. Maybe we'll find a piece of early Rookwood."

She nodded. "Then we could all go home." Literally, since a find of that magnitude might negate the need for an auction. Cissy and John could liquidate, split the money, and go their separate ways. As is, how either of her parents would make a living, she wasn't sure. She'd wrongly assumed they'd prepared for their retirement. She had some savings, but not enough to make a difference. Maybe Justine would pitch in, or Mica, since she was making such great money. It was all too much to think about, and Mitchell's flirting had put her in a skittish mood.

"Flirt back."

From beneath lowered lashes, she watched him leave the room. His red T-shirt fitted snug across his shoulders, and his Levi's were equally well acquainted with their contents. She slid her glasses down her nose for an unobstructed view. Unbidden, the tip of her tongue curled out to touch her upper lip. She was human, after all. Sam looked back, caught her looking, and barked happily.

Mitchell turned. She stabbed at her glasses and sent them flipping off her face. She juggled them to the tune of his amused chuckle, then jammed them back on her face. "What?"

He smiled wide. "Nothing." Then turned around, kept walking, and gave his behind a little shake.

Regina closed her eyes in perfect mortification, then stuck her tongue out at Sam. Now there would be no living with the man.

He didn't tease her when she joined him in the showroom a few minutes later, but he did maintain an infuriating smile as he sang along under his breath to Muddy Waters' "(I'm Your) Hoochie Coochie Man" playing on the blues station. She ignored him as much as possible, but when she wasn't looking, someone had turned up the sexual thermostat in the room. Suddenly she was fidgety and self-conscious every time their hands brushed or their gazes met. He, meanwhile, maintained a graceful, athletic command over his body. Even though they processed dozens of pieces of pottery and porcelain and glassware, two hours
crept
by as she fought Mother Nature. Her hormones were on a slow, steady drip. Budding. Accumulating. Preparing. When she almost dropped a Van Briggle crock, Mitchell's hands went under hers to cradle the valuable piece.

"Easy," he said, but didn't seem to be in a hurry to remove his hands.

"I've got it," she said, noting that he had a working man's hands, strong and work-hewn.

"You sure?"

"Y-Yes." And warm. Very warm.

He rescued the dark piece of earthenware and, much to her chagrin, ran his hands over the smooth surface, feeling for defects. Unerring. Sensitive. Deft. Feeling utterly defeated, she watched unabashed.

"No cracks or chips," he announced. "Needs cleaning, but it's a nice example. Common, but definitely collectible."

She murmured agreement but shifted uncomfortably as he set the crock aside and entered info into his laptop. Her father should be coming downstairs soon and would dispel the intimate atmosphere that had sprung up between them. Meanwhile, she decided that talking would be the best use of her pent-up energy.

"We were joking about Rookwood earlier, but have you ever run across anything truly remarkable that someone didn't know they had?"

He shrugged. "Once I found an ancient prayer rug at a roadside sale. Amazing condition. The old lady was asking ten bucks, and I knew it was worth about a thousand times that much."

"What did you do?"

"I gave her the ten bucks and got her address. When I found a dealer for the rug, I took her the money, less a twenty percent commission."

"That was generous of you."

"It was worth it to see the look on her face. It's the thrill of the find that drives me, not the money."

"You mentioned that your parents were in the business—are they still living?"

"Yeah. They live near Charlotte. My younger brother is there, with his wife and two daughters."

"Is he your only sibling?"

"Uh-huh. He's an attorney, private practice."

"Oh."
Too late, she heard the comparison in her own voice—the same way people reacted when she told them her little sister was the Tara Hair Girl. When he looked up, her cheeks warmed. "I didn't mean to imply... anything."

He smiled. "That's okay. It's natural for people to compare siblings. I guess it's a fascination with the different outcomes of the same environment. And it's true—David is an attorney, and I'm a junk man."

For some odd reason, she didn't want to hear him denigrate his profession. "That's not true."

He laughed, a pleasing, sexy rumble. "I'm totally comfortable with my line of work. It might not command the prestige of practicing law, but doing on the-road appraisals fits my lifestyle right now."

Right now. As in, living for the moment. She duplicated his casual smile. "No sibling rivalry in the Cooke family, then?"

"Once upon a time, perhaps, but not now."

Ah, so he
used
to be jealous of his brother. "Are you close to your family?"

He nodded. "I see them often, and I stick around until they start pressuring me about settling down." He laughed again, irresistibly.

Even as she laughed with him, Regina realized that he was giving her what was known in the singles world as "the disclaimer." He wanted to sleep with her and promised it would be a supernatural experience, but he had no intention of becoming involved in any kind of liaison that resembled a relationship.
Sign on the dotted line, please.

His smile went from carefree to carnal in the blink of an eye. When the impact of his stare hit her, she stepped back and tripped over the base of a wooden cigar-store Indian. She flailed, then took the chief down with her and wound up flat on her back with the wind knocked out of her. This couldn't be happening. She was a respected senior editor for a prestigious publishing house.

The statue was lifted off her and Mitchell stared down. "Are you okay?"

She inhaled and nodded.

He burst out laughing and extended his hand down to pull her to her feet.

Her pride was mortally wounded. "I didn't think that was funny."

"You didn't see it from here. Are you sure nothing's broken?" He gave her a cursory pat-down until she pulled away.

"Yes,
I'm sure."

"Good. Can I kiss you and get it over with?"

Regina blinked. His eyes danced while he waited for her to say yes or to fall into his arms. A reasonable assumption considering every cell in her body—excluding the few brain cells that were operating—strained toward him. God help all the women over the years who had lost their hearts to this traveling man.

He leaned closer. "Is that a yes?"

"I..." The door chime sounded, and she jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "Have to wait on a customer."

She turned toward the door and puffed out her cheeks with relief. But when she rounded the corner to see a salt-and-pepper-haired man pulling a handcart, she broke into a genuine smile. "Mr. Calvin!"

The man's turtle head jutted forward; then a smile split his face. "Regina?"

"You remember me." She clasped his dry, leathery hand between both of hers and inhaled the perpetual scent of mothballs and Listerine that clung to him. "How
are
you?"

"Pretty good for an old man," he said with a chuckle.

"I've thought of you so often over the years, and all the books you used to bring me."

"Did you ever find number twenty-one of your Nancy Drew mystery series?"

"No. And I can't believe you remember."

"I remember," he said. "I've never seen a child read as much as you did."

"And still do—I'm an editor at a publishing house in Boston."

He smiled. "I've been keeping up with you over the years. I knew you'd be the one who would make it."

"That's sweet of you to say, Mr. Calvin, but my sisters are both very successful."

"But you were special, Regina. You remind me of my own daughter."

She angled her head. "I didn't know you had a daughter."

He nodded. "Rebecca. Blond and petite, just like you. She's been gone from here for a long time, though."

She was thinking how sad that the woman never visited her father when Mitchell came around the corner, looking as if he'd recently been in pain. "Mitchell Cooke, I'd like you to meet Mr. Calvin, an old friend."

Mitchell extended his hand. "Hello."

"Are you Regina's boyfriend?"

"No," Regina said quickly. "Mitchell is helping Dad appraise all the items in the store." She glanced at the cardboard box on Mr. Calvin's handcart. "We're closing the business soon—I'm afraid we can't take on more inventory."

"Oh? Sorry to hear that. John's been a good customer over the years."

"What do you have in there?" Mitchell asked.

"Books."

"Care if I take a look?"

She'd forgotten he was a collector.

"No, go ahead."

Regina retrieved a soda for Mr. Calvin, and by the time she returned, the men were poring over two leather-bound volumes.

"I'll take them both," Mitchell said. He peeled off several bills from an impressive stack in his wallet, then loaded the box of books onto the handcart and wheeled it out to Mr. Calvin's truck.

She handed Mr. Calvin the soda and said good-bye. The books that Mitchell had purchased lay on a small table next to the door. She fingered the hand-sewn welts on the spine, then opened the cover of one.
A Collection of Law Essays, 1965-1975.
The other one,
Laws That Shape Everyday Life.
The bindings were exquisite, but it was the subject matter that intrigued her. Law? Mitchell must be more hung up on the rivalry between him and his brother than he let on. But then, no family was without its blemishes.

She closed the books and leaned against the door-jamb to study the puzzling man through the screen door. He hefted the box of books into the flatbed truck as if it weighed nothing, then situated the load according to Mr. Calvin's directions. Mitchell leveraged his big body with such deliberate ease, she could believe that he had never made an unintentional move—physical or otherwise. The man was in enviable control of his personal space and, in an alarmingly short period of time, had extended a persuasive invitation for her to share that space.

Tempting and temporary—Mitchell Cooke was straight from the pages of
Top Ten Types of Men to Avoid
(a national best-seller last winter). Effortlessly male, eminently sexy. Tall and substantial and ripe.
Hmmnnn-um.
She could do worse for a summer fling.

She sighed. But not this summer.

Chapter 16