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finish line. She had done nothing extraordinary. She had none of the overt flirtatiousness of Georgette. Shehad no claim to a great beauty or figure that made men claim intrigue.
    She hadn’t acquitted herself as witty or wise. She was just Miranda. A girl who liked books.
    Which made his claim false and raised an unknown alarm.
    She shook her head free of any flights of fancy and held out the parcel. “Here you are, my lord. Intact and hand delivered.” She walked to the desk and placed it on the surface, the paper on top awaiting his signature slid forward. She pushed it an inch toward him. “I’ll be on my way after you sign this.”
    â€œWell, I can’t have that.”
    She stared at him. “You do not want the items after all?”
    â€œI do, but they will only be signed as delivered if I take possession.”
    She nudged the paper forward with raised glimmerings that perhaps she should question his sanity.
    His brow cocked, and the flash appeared again—not a benign twinkle, such as one given to mischief or hilarity—but one that a man might wear if he was about to have his wicked way with the woman on the receiving end. “I meant that I am not ready to sign your paper. What if the books are not the items requested? What if we once again have suffered a miscommunication?”
    She nudged the package this time. His other brow joined the first.
    She raised her own brows, the pepper that seemed to run through her veins when he was near spiced the flow once more, overriding her embarrassment and any feelings of inferiority. “The only miscommunicationwe have suffered is your purposefully misplacing your package,” she said. “Twice, I might add.”
    â€œTut, blaming the customer.” He slouched down in the chair, his hands clasped against his chest, even that action unable to mask his leaching virility. “I am completely a victim here.”
    â€œCompletely.” She waited, then tapped her finger. “Are you going to open the package and inspect the books?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWould you like me to open the package?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo? Then how am I to…” She took a deep breath, then smiled as calmly as she could manage within the unspecified game he was playing. He smiled back just as pleasantly.
    And said not a word. For an entire minute.
    He seemed perfectly content to watch her. She held his gaze unflinchingly, though the narrowed glimpse of a question within his eyes unnerved her, as if he couldn’t quite discover the answer to a riddle.
    Itchy fingers of warmth crawled up her limbs. She absently caressed the package. She had the vague notion that they might continue in this stalemate all day if she remained silent.
    â€œHow are you faring this afternoon, my lord?” she asked as gamely as she could manage over the flutters and confusion, the lingering embarrassment and anticipation.
    â€œBetter. But those close to me call me by my first name.”
    She stared at him.
    The edges of his mouth lifted farther. “And those acquaintances with whom I plan to become better acquainted.” He waved a hand to her in some gesture of encouragement.
    She stared at him some more.
    â€œWe might sit here all day.”
    She opened and closed her mouth, nothing emerging for a long moment. “Er, how are you this afternoon…Maximilian?”
    â€œIt’s quite a mouthful, unfortunately. Feel free to shorten it at will. And I’m doing quite well, Miranda.”
    She continued to stare, wondering when she’d wake to find the whole situation a strange imagining.
    â€œI asked.” He answered her unspoken question, even white teeth pulling into an appealing curve. “That is your name, correct?”
    She looked around her, at the glitter of the gold and silver, the shadows of the dark woods. At the quite fine specimen of masculinity across from her. She nodded to herself.