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By Cathy Maxwell

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To whom you may talk. No one spoke with such stilted formality anymore. At least, no one reasonable. And if he thought that set-down would shut her up, he was wrong. “We must talk,” she insisted, putting a lot more whine in her voice. “It isn‟t nice to not talk. ” He looked at her then and smiled, the expression not nice. ” He drawled the words out, making them last, before returning his attention to his ledger. Grace‟s fingers ached to grab him by the ear and give it a savage twist. That would wipe the smug smile off his face.

What the man didn‟t anticipate was that she‟d use the knife. She buried it in his thigh. “God‟s balls in heaven,” the man roared and then screamed as Miss MacEachin pulled the knife out. “Here, take her. ” He shoved her toward Richard with enough force she fell into his arms, her breasts against his chest. Richard was stunned by the contact of her soft roundness against his hard strength. Breasts. He‟d never had them so close before—and that second of stupefied hesitation was enough to allow the man to go running off down the street into the night.

She drew short breaths, one after the other, and he knew his barb had hit home. “Oh, wait,” he had to add, “you never have any difficulties walking home. I forgot. My apologies. ” “I never had a concern until tonight,” she answered, as if accusing him. Richard shrugged. ” She stormed up to him, raising her hand as if to slap him for his effrontery, but then seemed to realize she was too petite to do much damage. Instead, she glared up at him with a look that would have done the meanest governess proud.

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