where he would. âPlease, look as long as you like. If you have a question, or see something that interests you, my associate should be in shortly and can assist you.â
With that, Nicole Callison spun her seat back to her desk, ending any conversation. When he moved away, she gathered up a ledger and to her dismay discovered the entries might be gibberish for all the sense they made.
Still, she tried. Finally, counting it wasted effort, she admitted defeat. Leaning back in her chair, she yielded to impulse and watched him.
As he moved among the displays or paused to study a painting, he appeared quite ordinary. Granted, with broad shoulders and a body that was lean and fit, he was attractive. But no more than others of his sort who had wandered through her gallery. The sea port and the resorts, on islands that dotted the coastline like sandy jewels, drew them like magnets. They came in multitudes, handsome and charismatic, sailors and athletes. Until, by virtue of their number, their uniqueness became ordinary.
Her initial unease, if her reaction could be called that, was simply that heâd caught her unaware. Towering over her as he had, the advantage had been his.
âAdvantage,â she murmured, not unduly disturbed by her choice of words, or considering it unusual to think of a customer as having a controlling edge. Mollified by the rationalization, Nicole felt a bit foolish when she thought of the hard-bitten look of danger sheâd imagined when she first saw him.
First opinions werenât always right, were they? It had to be imagination. Right? If not, why hadnât it occurred to her to be afraid? If he was truly dangerous in his quiet way, why wasnât she afraid now?
Annoyed by the direction of her thoughts, she meant to resolve her nagging questions and dismiss him. Seeking whatever answers had eluded her, her covert stare ranged over him. From shaggy, sun-bleached hair that looked as if it wanted to curl but dared not, to the tips of his leather deck shoes, she inspected him as thoroughly as one would a stallion at auction.
Except she wasnât buying. Not today, and not this one.
As if sheâd spoken her disavowal, he looked up from a lithograph. A thoughtful smile teased the corners of his mouth, changing the planes and angles of his features, making them more than pleasant, and much, much more than attractive. And if it destroyed the myth that he was no different from so many others, it strengthened the conviction that any perception of danger in that look and that smile could only be the delusion of a mad woman.
Disconcerted that heâd caught her staring, she nodded curtly. As she resisted the temptation to sink farther into ignominy, a vague frisson of recall tugged at her memory, then flitted away.
Perhaps she was mad, after all, for there was still something about him. Something she couldnât dismiss so easily.
âNonsense!â The exasperated grumble accompanied a stubborn jut of her jaw as she returned to the work that waited. But work was a poor match for him. As she catalogued paintings and entered them into the ledger, a part of her resisted as another argued he was perfectly innocuous and just a customer. Summoning an elusive discipline she tried to quiet the notion there was anything familiar about him, and attend to the last details of the sale.
Five long, unproductive minutes later Annabelle Devereaux bustled in, her usual good-humored apology and bawdy explanation bursting from her before she realized Nicole was not alone.
âOops!â She clapped a hand over her mouth, hiding a grin as she looked from one to the other. âSorry!â she said, and was obviously anything but sorry. âThe French libido isnât exactly a proper topic with business afoot, but I didnât realize there was business afoot already this morning.
âWow!â She interrupted herself to lean over the desk. âWhat are these? No!â She