A Love for All Seasons Read Free

even with fifteen people milling about. The outside wall—the bottom of the L— contained two sets of double windows, one at each end, with a Pullman kitchen neatly tucked into the opposite side. Between the kitchen and the window sat a small oblong cloth-covered table with rounded edges, holding an ice bucket, glasses, cocktail napkins, a large bottle of white Zinfadel, a half-dozen or so seven-ounce bottles of beer, and a tall martini pitcher.
    The joint of the L had been set up as a sitting area, with a small sofa, coffee table, and two compact rounded back chairs. The apartment seemed to have everything, despite its small size.
    Well, almost everything. Jack’s eyes narrowed in thought as he realized there didn’t appear to be a bed. He decided the sofa must open up.
    There might not be a visible bed, but guests had a variety of choices for seating. In addition to the corner sitting area, two matching oval-shaped chairs flanked a small maple wood Parsons table in the corner by the bar. Also, an odd-looking, oversize European-looking couch, reminiscent of the days of King Arthur and Queen Guinivere with its high wooden sides, stood opposite the Bombay chest near the entrance to the apartment.
    Jack finished his finger food and moved toward the kitchen, where he tossed the plate in the white plastic trash bin. He turned to see Alicia brush past him, watching with unabashed interest as she lifted a bag of ice from the sink and filled the brass ice bucket.
    Possibly feeling his eyes on her, she looked up and smiled at him. “Finding everything all right?”
    â€œYes, I am, thank you.”
    â€œCan I get you a drink?” she offered as she approached where he stood.
    â€œYes, I’d like that. What do you have?”
    â€œJust the basics. Wine, beer, soda, and the drink of the evening, which, by popular demand, is a Kamikaze. It’s in the pitcher.” She noted his surprised expression. “I’m afraid I’m a no-fuss hostess. I find that if I fix just one cocktail I can mix it up in advance and not have to worry about constantly replenishing this liquor or that mixer.” With a boldness that came from nowhere, she raised her lips toward his ear and lowered her voice. “Confidentially, when the drinks are pre-mixed as opposed to letting guests fix their own, the liquor goes a lot further.”
    He liked having her stand so close to him. How nice it would be to imagine her whispering something much more intimate than what she’d just shared with him. He felt his arousal form and kept his voice even. “I imagine it would. And I think that’s very wise.”
    She took a deep breath. Somehow—she didn’t know why—it mattered that Jack Devlin thought well of her.
    â€œWould you believe I’ve never had a Kamikaze? I don’t even know what’s in it.”
    â€œIt’s pretty simple. Vodka, triple sec and lime juice, all in equal parts.” She hoped she wasn’t talking too much, but he did ask. From the moment she saw Jack Devlin standing outside her door she felt ill at ease, like she didn’t belong in her own skin.
    All Alicia’s friends admired her hostess skills. They said she always knew the right thing to say, even to complete strangers. But something about this particular stranger made her nervous as a flickering flame. What could it be?
    Surely not his looks, which were undeniably well above average, but hardly extraordinary in a city where a woman could barely walk down a city block without passing someone who looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ . Jack had a nice rugged look about him, which she preferred over the pretty boys, with a medium brown complexion, sturdy build, perhaps four or five inches taller than her own five-seven, and close cropped haircut, brushed forward, framing expressive brown eyes. Unlike many African-American men, he was clean shaven, and she thought she spotted a smattering of