...Once he'd spotted her, it was hard to pull his eyes or his attention away from her. Not that she was such a knockout--cute really was the best word to describe her--but there was something about the way she moved, with a seemingly contradictory blend of self-confidence and a beguiling naivete. Pert, he thought, mildly surprised to realize he even knew a word like pert. She was short, petite without appearing fragile, with the kind of trim and tidy little body that had always appealed to him. Hair the color of cinnamon, worn short and with a bit of curl that looked natural. Too far away to tell about her eyes.

He could feel his awareness of her creep along the back of his neck as the wave of newcomers swept into the plaza. Would she stop? Or, as anyone with a lick of artistic taste ought to do, wrinkle her nose fastidiously and move on.

"Good grief."

The exclamation was muttered, barely audible, but McCall heard it, felt it almost, like warm breath across his skin. He glanced around and there she was right beside him, her head barely topping his shoulder.

He turned toward her, eyebrows raised in pretended surprise, teeth bared in a wolfish but welcoming smile around the stump of his cigarette. "Yes ma'am," he said, expansive, inviting. "How's about a nice little souvenir of old Mexico--every single one hand-painted and hand-signed."

She jerked her fascinated gaze from the painting to throw him a startled glance. "You're American." Her voice was husky with what he thought was probably embarrassment, realizing he'd have understood that little comment of hers.

Still smiling, McCall plucked the cigarette from his teeth with a sweeping gesture. "Guilty." He pointed the butt at the three parrots. "You like that one? Sorry--can't let you have it, it's still wet. But hey, I can ship it to you later, if you--"

She shook her head, and he saw her turn slightly pink. "No! In mean, it's...uh, they're very...colorful." He could see honesty arm-wrestling with politeness. Honesty won. Impatience gave her voice an edge as she added, "It's just...way too big." The edge wasn't unpleasant, he decided, just sort of like an itch between his shoulder blaces he couldn't reach to scratch.

"You think so?" McCall considered his work in progress, frowning. "I try to make 'em small enough so people can take 'em home in a shopping bag. I'll ship if I have to, but I'd rather not."

"No, I mean the conyer--the yellow one," she earnestly explained, seeing his blank look. "It should be only half the size of the two macaws."

Oh brother. Everybody was an art critic. Mentally rolling his eyes, McCall snatched the remnants of the cigarette from his mouth in mock amazement. "No. Is that right?"

"I own a pet shop," she explained, and her flush deepened slightly as she shrugged. He wondered why.

"Hmm." McCall's fingers rasped on his beard-stubbled chin as he thoughtfully regarded the painting. He looked sideways at his critic. "You ever hear of perspective?"

She shook her head. "The conyer's behind the macaws--that would make it even smaller." She gazed at him steadily, not giving an inch.

He could see now that her eyes were hazel, almost golden in this light. And that the sprinkle of freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks exactly matched her hair. And that she was wearing a gold wedding band on the appropriate finger of her left hand.

"Damn," he muttered for more than one reason, snapping his fingers, and was rewarded with the sudden and unexpected brilliance of her smile.

To his regret, before he'd even had time to absorb the wonder of that smile she'd moved away from him to stroll among the rest of his stock--a riotous mix of tropical flora and fauna, hung without regard for color compatibility on their racks against the garish backdrop of bougainvillea--with lips slightly parted, as if in awe. Having reached the end of the display, she gave her head a little shake and turned it toward him to inquire in a tone of disbelief, "You actually sell these?"

He was amused rather than insulted--even, in some remote part of himself, pleased to discover that she seemed to possess both taste and intelligence. But he hid it from her, instead scowling around his cupped hands as he lit a new cigarette. "Like hotcakes, sister."

Undaunted, her eyes held his, and he saw laughter in them as she persisted in a cracking voice, "Where do you suppose they hang them?"

Oh hell. He threw back his head and laughed. How could he help it? When he looked again, she'd moved on to the next booth and was idly fingering through a pinwheel of embroidered shawls. He felt a pang of genuine regret at her going, but the laughter stayed with him for a while, quivering just beneath his ribs as he turned his attention to more likely customers.

From the book: "The Seduction of Goody Two-Shoes" By Kathleen Creighton
Silhouette Intimate Moments July 2001
ISBN: 0-373-27159-X
Copyright 2001 by Kathleen Creighton-Fuchs

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