prefer the modem version, he admitted, allowing his eye to drift to the smooth length of leg left bare by the flippy little skirt of her sundress.
"I've got your baby running again," David said, moving over to stand next to her. Neill caught the look the other man shot in his direction and wondered if it was his imagination that put a warning in it. And was there something proprietary in the way David touched her arm as he explained the work he'd done on her car?
Neill was surprised to feel a twinge of disappointment at the thought that she might be spoken for. He was just passing through. If he was incredibly lucky and the mechanic could resurrect the Indian in the next couple of hours, he would be on the road before nightfall. If not, then tomorrow or the next day. One way or another, he wasn't going to be around long enough for it to matter whether Anne of the pretty gray eyes and soft smile was seeing someone.
Way too long without a social life, he thought as he watched her pull a checkbook out of the small purse she carried. If they were lovers, would she be paying him for working on her car? Not that he cared, Neill reminded himself as he turned restlessly away. Just idle curiosity, an occupational hazard for a writer. He tilted his head back and downed the last of the now lukewarm cola. Turned back when he heard the trunk slam. She was just sliding into the car, giving him a last glimpse of long, slim legs.
She pulled the door shut, looked at him through the open window and smiled shyly. "Good luck with your motorcycle."
"Thanks." Just as well she was leaving, Neill thought. Another few minutes and he might have found himself asking her out. Too many nights spent alone, too much time staring at a monitor with nothing but his own words for company. Still, he found himself walking to the garage door, watching the silly-looking little black car turn onto the main road.
"Forget it." Behind him, David Freeman's voice was dry as dust.
"Why?" Neill turned, his eyes holding both question and a faint challenge. He didn't pretend not to know what the other man was talking about. "Is she spoken for?''
"Not that I know of."
"Then why should I forget it?"
David shrugged, his dark eyes unreadable. "Just take my word for it. Or not. Doesn't matter much one way or the other, does it, since you're just passing through? I'll take a look at your bike now. See what the problem is."
He walked away, but Neill stayed where he was a moment longer, his eyes shifting back out to the road. The little black car was long gone and Freeman was right—it didn't matter.
Damned if he knew why he found that so irritating.
Chapter Two
The phrase "steel magnolia" could have been coined with Olivia Moore in mind. The only daughter of a wealthy Atlanta businessman, she'd been raised in a world of wealth and privilege. Her parents had expected her to make an appropriate marriage—a Southerner from her own social class—but she'd surprised herself no less than them by falling in love with John Moore, a country doctor of no particular social standing and a Yankee to boot.
When they couldn't talk her out of the marriage, Olivia's parents gave her a spectacular wedding, attended by the cream of Atlanta society. They also settled an equally spectacular sum of money on their daughter, to ensure that she could maintain the lifestyle to which she was accustomed, even in the northern hinterlands to which her new husband was taking her.
The money ensured that Olivia never had to worry about living on her husband's income, nor within the confines of the lifestyle she'd married into. She redecorated her new home— 3, rambling monstrosity with ridiculous Tudor pretensions— with fine antiques and made twice yearly trips to New York to refurbish her wardrobe. The local women, who had been perfectly willing to accept young Doc Moore's new wife into their social circle, soon found that Olivia wasn't interested.
In a town where nearly everyone knew
"I've got your baby running again," David said, moving over to stand next to her. Neill caught the look the other man shot in his direction and wondered if it was his imagination that put a warning in it. And was there something proprietary in the way David touched her arm as he explained the work he'd done on her car?
Neill was surprised to feel a twinge of disappointment at the thought that she might be spoken for. He was just passing through. If he was incredibly lucky and the mechanic could resurrect the Indian in the next couple of hours, he would be on the road before nightfall. If not, then tomorrow or the next day. One way or another, he wasn't going to be around long enough for it to matter whether Anne of the pretty gray eyes and soft smile was seeing someone.
Way too long without a social life, he thought as he watched her pull a checkbook out of the small purse she carried. If they were lovers, would she be paying him for working on her car? Not that he cared, Neill reminded himself as he turned restlessly away. Just idle curiosity, an occupational hazard for a writer. He tilted his head back and downed the last of the now lukewarm cola. Turned back when he heard the trunk slam. She was just sliding into the car, giving him a last glimpse of long, slim legs.
She pulled the door shut, looked at him through the open window and smiled shyly. "Good luck with your motorcycle."
"Thanks." Just as well she was leaving, Neill thought. Another few minutes and he might have found himself asking her out. Too many nights spent alone, too much time staring at a monitor with nothing but his own words for company. Still, he found himself walking to the garage door, watching the silly-looking little black car turn onto the main road.
"Forget it." Behind him, David Freeman's voice was dry as dust.
"Why?" Neill turned, his eyes holding both question and a faint challenge. He didn't pretend not to know what the other man was talking about. "Is she spoken for?''
"Not that I know of."
"Then why should I forget it?"
David shrugged, his dark eyes unreadable. "Just take my word for it. Or not. Doesn't matter much one way or the other, does it, since you're just passing through? I'll take a look at your bike now. See what the problem is."
He walked away, but Neill stayed where he was a moment longer, his eyes shifting back out to the road. The little black car was long gone and Freeman was right—it didn't matter.
Damned if he knew why he found that so irritating.
Chapter Two
The phrase "steel magnolia" could have been coined with Olivia Moore in mind. The only daughter of a wealthy Atlanta businessman, she'd been raised in a world of wealth and privilege. Her parents had expected her to make an appropriate marriage—a Southerner from her own social class—but she'd surprised herself no less than them by falling in love with John Moore, a country doctor of no particular social standing and a Yankee to boot.
When they couldn't talk her out of the marriage, Olivia's parents gave her a spectacular wedding, attended by the cream of Atlanta society. They also settled an equally spectacular sum of money on their daughter, to ensure that she could maintain the lifestyle to which she was accustomed, even in the northern hinterlands to which her new husband was taking her.
The money ensured that Olivia never had to worry about living on her husband's income, nor within the confines of the lifestyle she'd married into. She redecorated her new home— 3, rambling monstrosity with ridiculous Tudor pretensions— with fine antiques and made twice yearly trips to New York to refurbish her wardrobe. The local women, who had been perfectly willing to accept young Doc Moore's new wife into their social circle, soon found that Olivia wasn't interested.
In a town where nearly everyone knew
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