Clark flapped his hand at her.
Winnie mouthed, “Go on!”
She would have made a smart remark, but her heart was in her throat. It bothered her that Boone had asked her to bring dessert to him. Considering his reaction to her friendship with Clark, he had to be up to something.
* * *
SHE TAPPED NERVOUSLY on the door.
“Come in,” he called curtly.
She balanced the saucer holding the cinnamon buns on the cup of coffee and gingerly opened his office door, closing it with her back once she was inside.
It was a small, intimate room, with ceiling-to-floor bookcases on two walls, French windows opening onto a small patio and a fireplace with gas logs. The carpet was deep beige, the curtains echoing the earth tones. But the furniture was red leather, as if the very sedateness of the room commanded a touch of color. Boone looked right at home in a big red leather-upholstered chair behind his enormous solid oak desk. Over the mantel was a painting of Boone’s father. It was a prophecy of what Boone would look like in old age—with silver hair and a distinguished, commanding expression.
“You look like him,” Keely mused as she put the coffee and its accompanying dessert gently in a bare spot on the paper-littered desktop. Her hands were cold and shaking and the cup rattled in the saucer. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.
“Do I?” He glanced at the portrait. “He was a head shorter than I am.”
“You can’t see height in a painting,” she pointed out.
She didn’t want to argue. She started toward the door.
“Come back here,” he said curtly. It wasn’t a request.
It was now or never. She took a steadying breath and turned. “Winnie’s waiting for me.”
“Winnie?” he asked with a cynical smile. “Or Clark?”
She swallowed. Her hands began to shake again. She clasped them at her waist to still them. “Both of them,” she compromised.
He leaned back in the chair, ignoring the buns and the coffee. “You and Clark have been like siblings for years. Why the sudden passion?”
“Passion?” she parroted.
“He’s dating you. Didn’t you notice?” he asked sarcastically.
“We went horseback riding,” she pointed out. “There are a lot of things you can’t do on a horse!”
His eyebrows made arches. “Really? What sort of things?”
He was baiting her. She glared at him. “You said you wanted cinnamon buns and coffee. There it is.”
She started toward the door again.
Incredible, how fast he could move, she thought dazedly when he was already at the door before she reached it. She had to stop suddenly to keep from running right into his tall, powerful body.
He turned so that her back was against the door. His dark eyes narrowed as he looked down at her. She felt like a small, delicious and decidedly alarmed bunny.
He knew it. He smiled slowly and his eyes began to glitter. “You’re afraid of me,” he said in a slow, deep tone.
Her hands spread behind her against the door and she tried to melt into it. He was very close. She could feel the heat from his tall, powerful body, smell the clean, spicy scent of him as he leaned closer.
Now he had an advantage, and he knew it. She’d done a stupid thing, trying to run.
“You aren’t afraid of Clark or Bentley, though, are you?” he persisted.
“They’re nice people.”
He made a short, rough sound deep in his throat. “And I’m not?”
She dragged in a ragged breath. Her eyes would only go as high as his top shirt button, which was unfastened. Thick, black curling hair peeked out from under it. She wondered if there was more across his broad, muscular chest under the fabric. He never took his shirt off, or even opened it past that top button. She was curious. Her thoughts surprised her. She hadn’t thought that way about a man in a long time.
He recognized her fear for what it was. One lean hand came up to her cheek and brushed back strands of soft blond hair, the gesture sensuous enough to make her shiver. She couldn’t hide her reaction to him. She didn’t have the experience.
Pressing his advantage, he bent and brushed his nose lazily against hers in an odd, intimate little caress that made her breath stop in her throat.
“You smell of lilacs,” he whispered. “It’s a scent I never connect with any other woman.”
“It’s only shampoo,” she blurted out. She was shy and nervous. She didn’t understand what he was doing. Was this a pass? She couldn’t remember a man ever treating her like this.
“Is it?” He shifted, just a little, but enough to bring his long legs in contact with hers, in an intimacy she’d never shared with a man.
Instinctively her small hands went to his chest and pushed once, jerkily.
He pulled back from her with a rough word. His eyes were blazing when he looked down at her. “Did you think I was making a pass at you?” he challenged tightly. “You’d be lucky! I don’t waste my time on children.”
She was shivering. His whole posture was threatening, and he looked murderous.
“Hell!” he burst out, furious at his own weakness and her cold reaction to it. She was just a little icicle.
Her lower lip trembled. He was scary like that. She still connected anger with physical violence, thanks to a friend of her father’s. She cringed involuntarily when he lifted his hand.
Her blatant fear put a quick cap on his temper. He stopped for a moment, puzzled. What he was learning about her, without a word being spoken, fascinated him. She really was afraid of him. Not only of his ardor, but his temper, as well. She thought he was raising his hand to strike her. Which posed a worrying question. Had some man hit her in the past?
“I was going to open the door, Keely,”
