On Wings Of Love. Ashley Summers
for the tray last night. It truly was a godsend, I didn’t really feel like going out,” she confessed. “I realize I may have been a little ungracious about that.” She paused, shifting under his keen gaze.
“Why was that?” He motioned her to sit down at the table.
Obliging him, she replied, “I suppose it’s because I don’t enjoy being ordered around. You were just a trifle bossy, Mr.... Thomas.” Why was it so hard to say his name? Because it implied an intimacy she didn’t want? And did want?
“Sorry about that,” he said, looking not in the least sorry about that. “Force of habit, I suppose.”
“Oh? Your women like to be bossed around, do they?” she asked, then could have bitten her tongue.
“Sometimes.” He grinned at the berries he began rinsing. “When it’s by me.”
She nibbled back a smile—he was impossible!
Unfolding her napkin, she inquired, “Am I your only guest?”
“Thus far. An older couple are coming in this weekend. Friends of my folks, so I couldn’t say no.”
“Oh.” Intrigued, she asked, “Did you want to say no?”
Apparently her question caught him by surprise; Thomas glanced at her, then slowly shook his head as if perplexed.
“I suppose guests can be a bother at times,” she mused.
“At times.” His quick glance was accompanied by a grin this time. “Present company excepted. Help yourself.” Dumping the berries into a ceramic colander, he set it on a plate then on the table. “I’ll just reheat these muffins and we can eat. Did you sleep well?”
“Very well, thank you. That goose-down comforter is marvelous. And I love that old-fashioned fan. In fact, I love your house. Ah.” She sighed as he took the muffins from the microwave and emptied them into a cloth-lined basket. Everything he did was done with an expert’s ease. Glancing at the tall figure in navy blue slacks and shirt, she commented, “You seem to be an old hand at this.”
“Oh, I’ve cooked for myself for years. Even before I took up the bachelor’s life in the Big Apple, in fact.” Bringing the coffeepot with him, he sat down beside her.
“You lived in New York?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Why are you so surprised at that?”
“Oh! Well, from Baltimore to a rustic little island is a big stretch, not to mention New York City.” Katy fought a brief and unsuccessful battle with her curiosity. “Were you a pilot before you moved here? I noticed the hallway pictures,” she hurriedly explained. “T. L. Airlines. Yours?”
Thomas nodded. “Mine. And yes, I flew planes before, but just for pleasure. When I decided to make this my permanent home, I needed something to keep me busy. There was already a small charter service on the island, so I bought it, added two more planes and voila! T. L. Airlines: offering commuter service between San Juan Islands and SEA-TAC as well as private charters.”
She smiled, touched by the pride in his voice. “How many planes do you have?”
“Five in all.”
“And you run this B&B, too? My, you are a busy man!” She tasted her coffee. “Umm, good coffee. You said your grandparents owned the house. Have they passed on?” she asked with exquisite delicacy.
“Heck, no! They just moved on. To Florida, where it’s s warm and sunny all year round. I was fed up with New York and they were tired of rain and cold, so I bought this place from them, and they flew off like two lovebirds escaped from their cage!”
Katy laughed delightedly, her spirits lifting as her laughter ignited his. Something warm and sparkling had entered the atmosphere. Her heart, her body, even her soul responded to its effervescent magic.
“You really like this house, hmm?” he said.
Her eyes veiled. “Yes.”
“Me, too.” Sensing her unease, Thomas swallowed his probing questions and cast about for something that would bring them close again. “You ever lived on a farm?”
She laughed. “Certainly I have. A whole summer, in fact. I loved it”
“You’re kidding!” He squinted at her. “A working farm?”
“Yes. I milked cows, baled hay, fed pigs, drove a tractor, you name it.” She took a bite of buttered muffin. “Mmm, this is good. The butter, too.”
“The butter is made by the nuns on the next island. They have the smallest dairy in the world, three cows. They also make cheese.”
Somewhat bemused, he stared at her. Unbelievable that those elegant hands had ever milked a cow. And baled hay? She must not be as fragile as she looked.
He ate a handful of strawberries while he examined her heart-shaped face. Her wide, generous mouth was a delicious contrast to the aristocratic little nose. Her hair was tamed today, firmly caught in a knot that was already spilling curls down her neck. Silver earrings graced her ears, and a wide, matching bracelet clamped one thin wrist.
Why was she so thin? Because that was the style now, all skin and bones and sharp angles. Although she didn’t look to have too many sharp angles. None at all, in fact.
He put another muffin and two strips of bacon on her plate. “You a vegetarian?” he asked.
“Not entirely. Not with bacon this good. Organic?”
“Yeah, friend-grown pork. No chemicals, no growth hormones. I sure wouldn’t have figured you for the farm life. What are you doing in California?”
“I’m a writer and photographer-travel books, scenic tours, that sort of thing, for magazines.”
Without thinking, she poured him a cup of coffee and took pleasure in the small service.
It pleased him, too, inordinately. He shook his dark head. “Fascinating. But I’d have guessed you for an actress.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Hardly.”
“How’d you get started in photography?”
“Just came naturally, I guess. I loved taking pictures even as a girl. I had one of those cheap little cameras that took fuzzy pictures, but I thought they were great.” Katy stirred her coffee round and round as the past crowded in with surprising force. “You’re lucky to have such a close relationship. with your grandparents,” she said softly.
“You don’t?” Thomas watched her spoon make another lap around the cup before she answered.
“No. Dad married Mother against his parents’ wishes. So there was very little communication between them. It’s ironic, really,” she said musingly. “That they inherited us, I mean. After our parents died, we lived with Grammy Rose, Mom’s mother, for three years. A lovely, loving woman... Then she died, and we were passed on to our paternal grandparents in Boston. None of us were very happy about the situation.”
Katy halted, chagrined at her loose tongue. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for this to get so personal.”
“No! Don’t be sorry,” Thomas protested. He was aware of her discomfort, but his need to know the forces that had molded and shaped this beguiling woman had become incredibly strong. “Why weren’t you happy?” he asked urgently. “How old were you?”
“Seven.” Her voice thinned. “Our grandparents were...well, they were old. Even though they were only in their sixties, they were old, quite incapable of reorganizing their life-style around two little girls.”
“I see.” Suddenly, nebulously angry, Thomas hunched over his coffee mug. “What was their solution?”
“Boarding schools. The very best, of course. But we did spend the holidays at home.”
“That