visage.
'How old are you?' she asked irrelevantly.
His firm lips quirked into a wider smile. 'Thirty- three.'
'You seem older,' she told him, cocking her head to one side in an
attitude of perusal, appraisal. 'It's not exactly your features, but that
look you wear when you aren't aware of being watched. You—look
more mature, as if you've lived a lot.' Suddenly aware of how
personal she had become, she flushed quickly and said, 'But it's none
of my business, I shouldn't have made such a comment.'
She was looking down, afraid of a rebuff and worrying that perhaps
she had earned it, when a large hand came to her small chin and tilted
her face up. There was a gentle look in his eyes as he told her, 'You
don't look as if you could be twenty-one, let alone twenty-eight. Are
you pulling my leg?'
Again she flushed, but this time it was with pleasure, and she gave a
little laugh. 'No, unfortunately not, I am twenty-eight. I used to wear
a lot of make-up so that I looked older, because I've always looked
more immature than everyone else my age, and it made me self
conscious. Now I don't care any more.'
Greg let his eyes travel over Sara's face, and a look of puzzlement
crossed his. 'I can't figure out why you look so familiar to me,' he
said almost to himself. 'It keeps coming to mind. Why are you, Sara
Carmichael?'
She dropped her eyes, at once happy and yet unhappy. If he was
being truthful right now, then her suspicions of last night were
invalid. She so hoped that he was being truthful. 'Who are you, Greg
Pierson?' she countered lightly.
The hand at her chin moved in a caressing gesture. It felt so good that
she swallowed, afraid to move and break the contact. 'Why did you
run away last night?' he asked gently.
A frown creased the smooth wide expanse of her forehead, and her
eyes fluttered up to touch on his quizzical gaze, then fell away. Then,
with an honesty that sounded so totally real and unfaked, she
shrugged and said, 'You scared me. I don't know, I might have scared
myself a little. You seemed so—big and menacing all of a sudden,
and I just ran away.' Then, with a hint of desperation colouring her
voice, she whispered, 'I only met you yesterday!'
'I know,' he murmured, his hand still at her throat and almost
encircling it, and yet she felt no uneasiness at her own vulnerability,
for his touch was so gentle and light, the thumb moving in a small
circle on the pulse at the base of her throat. 'I'm sorry for being so
nasty to you last night. I've been off balance for a while and took out
my uncharitable feelings for mankind on you.' The hand was lifted
away abruptly and her eyes flew to his at the sudden movement. 'My
hands are so dirty, I've just made your neck all smudged.'
She suspected that, in that small apology and confession, Greg had
told her a great deal about himself, and she realised that it couldn't
have been easy for him. Not easy at all, if he had to climb over that
great wall he had around himself that excluded the world. He must
have been badly hurt at one time, so badly hurt that he'd had to
defend himself with hostility, lashing out to avoid ever being that
badly hurt again. It was all conjecture on her part, based on a two-
sentence speech and a certain look of pain in his eyes, but it made her
voice soften to him as she replied, 'I'll wash clean, don't worry. Can I
help you?'
'Not in that pretty sweater,' he told her. 'If you could go and open that
door to the living room, I'll carry in some wood for you. Do you have
a wood box?'
'Yes.' She moved away as she spoke. 'And it's probably totally empty
except for a few spiders. I'll go and get the door.'
She ran lightly inside and passed through the cabin to unlock the
front door. Then she cast a quick glance around her as she did so; the
living room looked charming, though small, and there wasn't
anything she needed to tidy up. She called out to Greg, then went to
see if there was anything in
'How old are you?' she asked irrelevantly.
His firm lips quirked into a wider smile. 'Thirty- three.'
'You seem older,' she told him, cocking her head to one side in an
attitude of perusal, appraisal. 'It's not exactly your features, but that
look you wear when you aren't aware of being watched. You—look
more mature, as if you've lived a lot.' Suddenly aware of how
personal she had become, she flushed quickly and said, 'But it's none
of my business, I shouldn't have made such a comment.'
She was looking down, afraid of a rebuff and worrying that perhaps
she had earned it, when a large hand came to her small chin and tilted
her face up. There was a gentle look in his eyes as he told her, 'You
don't look as if you could be twenty-one, let alone twenty-eight. Are
you pulling my leg?'
Again she flushed, but this time it was with pleasure, and she gave a
little laugh. 'No, unfortunately not, I am twenty-eight. I used to wear
a lot of make-up so that I looked older, because I've always looked
more immature than everyone else my age, and it made me self
conscious. Now I don't care any more.'
Greg let his eyes travel over Sara's face, and a look of puzzlement
crossed his. 'I can't figure out why you look so familiar to me,' he
said almost to himself. 'It keeps coming to mind. Why are you, Sara
Carmichael?'
She dropped her eyes, at once happy and yet unhappy. If he was
being truthful right now, then her suspicions of last night were
invalid. She so hoped that he was being truthful. 'Who are you, Greg
Pierson?' she countered lightly.
The hand at her chin moved in a caressing gesture. It felt so good that
she swallowed, afraid to move and break the contact. 'Why did you
run away last night?' he asked gently.
A frown creased the smooth wide expanse of her forehead, and her
eyes fluttered up to touch on his quizzical gaze, then fell away. Then,
with an honesty that sounded so totally real and unfaked, she
shrugged and said, 'You scared me. I don't know, I might have scared
myself a little. You seemed so—big and menacing all of a sudden,
and I just ran away.' Then, with a hint of desperation colouring her
voice, she whispered, 'I only met you yesterday!'
'I know,' he murmured, his hand still at her throat and almost
encircling it, and yet she felt no uneasiness at her own vulnerability,
for his touch was so gentle and light, the thumb moving in a small
circle on the pulse at the base of her throat. 'I'm sorry for being so
nasty to you last night. I've been off balance for a while and took out
my uncharitable feelings for mankind on you.' The hand was lifted
away abruptly and her eyes flew to his at the sudden movement. 'My
hands are so dirty, I've just made your neck all smudged.'
She suspected that, in that small apology and confession, Greg had
told her a great deal about himself, and she realised that it couldn't
have been easy for him. Not easy at all, if he had to climb over that
great wall he had around himself that excluded the world. He must
have been badly hurt at one time, so badly hurt that he'd had to
defend himself with hostility, lashing out to avoid ever being that
badly hurt again. It was all conjecture on her part, based on a two-
sentence speech and a certain look of pain in his eyes, but it made her
voice soften to him as she replied, 'I'll wash clean, don't worry. Can I
help you?'
'Not in that pretty sweater,' he told her. 'If you could go and open that
door to the living room, I'll carry in some wood for you. Do you have
a wood box?'
'Yes.' She moved away as she spoke. 'And it's probably totally empty
except for a few spiders. I'll go and get the door.'
She ran lightly inside and passed through the cabin to unlock the
front door. Then she cast a quick glance around her as she did so; the
living room looked charming, though small, and there wasn't
anything she needed to tidy up. She called out to Greg, then went to
see if there was anything in
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