friend of mine, Marc Talbot. Dr. O’Neill is a—” For the life of her, Serena couldn’t remember exactly what Martha had said the “old Doc” did. “He’s a—”
“Psychologist,” Justin O’Neill offered dryly. “Clinical psychologist.”
The two men shook hands somewhat warily. Serena was aware that Marc’s reaction to O’Neill was not dissimilar to her own. The man had no right being any type of an intellectual. He should have been driving a semi-truck, or wielding a hockey stick—or fighting off lions with his bare hands in a Roman arena.
“Sorry to have interrupted you,” O’Neill apologized with a sarcasm only Serena seemed to notice. “I forgot to take the main door key with me.” He released Marc’s hand, and his piercing hazel eyes with their sardonic depths turned to Serena.
“You weren’t really interrupting anything, Dr. O’Neill,” Serena returned with what she hoped was a cool nonchalance. She kept wondering how Marc didn’t sense the tension in the small hallway, tension that was so thick it might be cut with a knife.
But Marc didn’t seem to think anything. After a moment he appeared to accept the psychologist/jogger with little thought. His appearance, in fact, seemed providential.
“A clinical psychologist, eh?” Marc queried, and Serena winced inwardly, as she knew what was coming by his self-satisfied tone. “A man of science—just whom I’d like to see at the moment.” He beckoned to Justin O’Neill to come around to see the painting. “Take a look at the picture, and then take a good look at our Mrs. Loren. What do you say?”
O’Neill stared at the picture for a long time. Then he turned his fathomless gaze back to Serena. “I say it’s a bit of a resemblance,” he remarked, then shrugged. “An extraordinary resemblance, Mrs. Loren.”
“Extraordinary,” he said, but not “uncanny.” Despite the fact that she still wished the man might disappear into a hole in the earth, she was suddenly grateful for his tone. Yes, it was extraordinary—but interestingly so, nothing else.
She didn’t know she had been holding her breath until she expelled a long sigh. Then she closed her eyes momentarily. She was in the middle of an “extraordinary” turmoil, trying to control the shiver that had come over her since he had come near, but if she didn’t get herself together, she was going to be up an “extraordinary” creek; the chamber of commerce would be revoking their endorsement if she didn’t get her business opened on schedule this morning in the height of the summer tourist season.
“Well,” she murmured, lowering her eyes from both men, “if you’ll excuse me, I want to get some breakfast and get out of here.”
“Think Martha will feed me?” Marc inquired hopefully.
“She never refuses you,” Serena said dryly, biting her lip as she realized she had just informed her intimate stranger that this other man was a frequent guest. What difference did it make? She didn’t even know if he had realized yet that she wasn’t an adulteress.
What do I care what he thinks? her mind shrieked. He seduced me and disappeared and then had the utter gall to reappear.
The stranger passed her with his infuriating smile, and she dimly realized that he had excused himself to shower for breakfast. She had to blink to come back to life once more, and coming back to life was misery. She was so physically aware of him again as he brushed her, aware of his very masculine scent, aware of the glistening bronze muscles.
He didn’t get them just from jogging, she thought resentfully. How had a city college professor become so darkly tanned, so incredibly sinewed? It wasn’t fair.
“Serena, I swear I don’t know what is wrong with you lately. You’re continually off in some kind of dream—”
“Oh, sorry, Marc,” Serena murmured, whirling around quickly. “Come on, let’s go to the dining room.” Once more she was moving like a whippet, having realized
“Psychologist,” Justin O’Neill offered dryly. “Clinical psychologist.”
The two men shook hands somewhat warily. Serena was aware that Marc’s reaction to O’Neill was not dissimilar to her own. The man had no right being any type of an intellectual. He should have been driving a semi-truck, or wielding a hockey stick—or fighting off lions with his bare hands in a Roman arena.
“Sorry to have interrupted you,” O’Neill apologized with a sarcasm only Serena seemed to notice. “I forgot to take the main door key with me.” He released Marc’s hand, and his piercing hazel eyes with their sardonic depths turned to Serena.
“You weren’t really interrupting anything, Dr. O’Neill,” Serena returned with what she hoped was a cool nonchalance. She kept wondering how Marc didn’t sense the tension in the small hallway, tension that was so thick it might be cut with a knife.
But Marc didn’t seem to think anything. After a moment he appeared to accept the psychologist/jogger with little thought. His appearance, in fact, seemed providential.
“A clinical psychologist, eh?” Marc queried, and Serena winced inwardly, as she knew what was coming by his self-satisfied tone. “A man of science—just whom I’d like to see at the moment.” He beckoned to Justin O’Neill to come around to see the painting. “Take a look at the picture, and then take a good look at our Mrs. Loren. What do you say?”
O’Neill stared at the picture for a long time. Then he turned his fathomless gaze back to Serena. “I say it’s a bit of a resemblance,” he remarked, then shrugged. “An extraordinary resemblance, Mrs. Loren.”
“Extraordinary,” he said, but not “uncanny.” Despite the fact that she still wished the man might disappear into a hole in the earth, she was suddenly grateful for his tone. Yes, it was extraordinary—but interestingly so, nothing else.
She didn’t know she had been holding her breath until she expelled a long sigh. Then she closed her eyes momentarily. She was in the middle of an “extraordinary” turmoil, trying to control the shiver that had come over her since he had come near, but if she didn’t get herself together, she was going to be up an “extraordinary” creek; the chamber of commerce would be revoking their endorsement if she didn’t get her business opened on schedule this morning in the height of the summer tourist season.
“Well,” she murmured, lowering her eyes from both men, “if you’ll excuse me, I want to get some breakfast and get out of here.”
“Think Martha will feed me?” Marc inquired hopefully.
“She never refuses you,” Serena said dryly, biting her lip as she realized she had just informed her intimate stranger that this other man was a frequent guest. What difference did it make? She didn’t even know if he had realized yet that she wasn’t an adulteress.
What do I care what he thinks? her mind shrieked. He seduced me and disappeared and then had the utter gall to reappear.
The stranger passed her with his infuriating smile, and she dimly realized that he had excused himself to shower for breakfast. She had to blink to come back to life once more, and coming back to life was misery. She was so physically aware of him again as he brushed her, aware of his very masculine scent, aware of the glistening bronze muscles.
He didn’t get them just from jogging, she thought resentfully. How had a city college professor become so darkly tanned, so incredibly sinewed? It wasn’t fair.
“Serena, I swear I don’t know what is wrong with you lately. You’re continually off in some kind of dream—”
“Oh, sorry, Marc,” Serena murmured, whirling around quickly. “Come on, let’s go to the dining room.” Once more she was moving like a whippet, having realized
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