Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,10

it in front of him. “This suit was especially designed and tailored for me. Now, not even a midget could get it on.”

“Not something you’d wear around here anyhow.” He shrugged and returned his attention to the stove. “So no big loss.”

“Ahhhhh!” Allison bundled the shrunken suit under her arm and headed back to her bedroom. Barbarian, barbarian, barbarian.

****

“Dinner.” He stood in the open doorway of her bedroom, a large slotted spoon in one hand, an oven mitt on the other.

Wonder what he’d look like in an apron? Only an apron. Damn! Where did that come from? Focus, Allison. Focus on the royal pain he really is.

“I need to find something to wear.” In an effort to change her thought pattern, she began to dig in the suitcase on her bed.

“Don’t take too long.” He turned back toward the kitchen.

By the time she entered the dining room, wearing designer jeans and a green silk shirt, he’d placed two steaming plates on the table. Candles in its center cast bewitching shadows in the gathering gloom of the foggy spring twilight.

Is he trying to romance me? Well, good luck with that. He may be the best-looking wild-woods type I’ve ever seen, but I know what’s behind the fancy cover. Heath Oakes is one book I don’t want as bedtime reading.

“Smells like you may be able to cook.” She drew a deep inhale.

“You be the judge.” He took a decanter from the sideboard and poured white wine into each of their long-stemmed glasses. “The asparagus and rice are my doing. The Chicken Kiev is from the freezer. Before my mother left, she prepared it along with some other dishes to keep me from starvation.”

They ate in silence. Allison was content with the situation. Words between them had a way of degenerating into nasty remarks and personal insults.

****

“That was excellent.” Allison finished the meal and touched the napkin to her lips.

“Glad you enjoyed it.” He stood and gathered the plates and utensils. “Coffee in the living room. I’ve got a fire going in there.”

Touching remembered furniture and pictures along the way, Allison wandered to the adjoining room. At the archway that separated dining and living areas, she slid open the bifold doors that divided the two. And caught her breath.

The big room lined with varnished pine and floored with gleaming birch glowed golden in the soft light of the flames dancing in the wide fieldstone hearth that dominated the room. A long, chocolate-colored couch and an oak coffee table filled the area in front of the fireplace. On the opposite wall, a well-filled bookcase stretched from floor to ceiling. To its left, a closed door led to what Allison remembered was her grandfather’s office. Scattered around the spacious room in friendly conversational groupings were matching easy chairs, each with an end table holding its own oil lamp as the center piece. A pair of hurricane lamps decorated the mantel.

Allison remembered her grandfather had not permitted the installation of electric lights in this room. He’d wanted his guests to experience the romance of a pioneer ambience in a homely atmosphere.

Homely. Like home. The thought rose up to describe her overall impression. But that was ridiculous. Home for Allison Armstrong was an ultramodern glass-and-chrome condo situated on the seventeenth floor of a security building in the heart of Toronto. Home was an hour’s drive from her parents’ spacious multilevel in the suburbs and another half hour’s drive from the stable where she boarded her horse. Allison’s Pride was an elegant Kentucky-bred chestnut hunter with a family tree that would impress the most discriminating of equine enthusiasts.

It wasn’t this log hostelry in the backwoods.

Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she crossed the room and curled up on the couch to stare into the flames crackling on the hearth.

“Coffee.” Heath walked into the room with a wooden tray holding a pot and mugs with pheasant motifs. He placed it on the table in front of the fire and poured dark, steaming liquid into the cups.

“Cream, sugar?”

“Black.”

“I should have guessed.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” She tried to remain cool as she lifted her cup from the tray.

“Everything with you has to be black and white. Good or bad. Worthwhile or garbage. No gray areas for Ms. Armstrong, CFO.”

It’s on. Oh, it’s definitely on, Mister He-Man Woodsman.

“You think you know me so well, don’t you.” She plunked her cup down onto the coffee table and jumped to her feet. “You have no idea who I am, who