Carrera's Bride. Diana Palmer
like that,” he agreed. “Go on. You’ve had all the hard knocks you’re going to get for one night. I’m the last person who’d hurt you.”
That made her feel guilty. Usually she was a trusting soul—too trusting. But it had been a hard night. “Thanks,” she said.
She closed the door and slid out of the dress, leaving her in a black slip and hose with her strappy high heels. She put on the robe quickly and wondered at her complete trust in this total stranger. If he was a security guy, he must be the head guy, since he’d told the other guy, Smith, what to do. She felt oddly safe with him, for all his size and rough edges. To work in a casino, a man must have to be tough, though, she reminded herself.
She went out of the bathroom curled up in the robe that had to be five sizes too big for her. It dragged behind her like the train of a wedding gown.
Her rescuer was seated on the desk, wearing a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses. Beside him was a sewing kit, and a spool of black thread. He was already threading a needle.
She wondered if he’d been in the military. She knew men back home who were, and most of them were handy around the house, with cooking and mending as well. She moved forward and smiled, reaching for the needle at the same time he reached for the dress.
“You sew?” she asked.
He nodded. “My brother and I both had to learn. We lost our parents early in life.”
“I’m sorry.” She was. Her father had died before she was born. She’d just lost her mother to stomach cancer. She knew how it felt.
“Yeah.”
“I could do that,” she said. “I don’t mind.”
“Let me. It relaxes me.”
She gave in with good grace and sat down in a chair while he bent his dark head to the task. His fingers, despite being so big, were amazingly expert with the needle. And his stitches were short, even, and almost invisible. She was impressed.
She looked around the huge office curiously, and on an impulse, she got to her feet when she spotted a wall hanging.
She moved toward it curiously. It wasn’t a wall hanging after all, she noted when she reached it. The pattern was familiar. The fabric was some of the newest available, and she had some of it in her cloth stash back home. Her eyes were admiring the huge beautiful quilt against one wall, hung on a rod. It was a symphony of black and white blocks. How incredible to find such a thing in the security office of a casino!
“Bow tie,” she murmured softly.
His head jerked up. “What’s that?” he asked.
She glanced at him with a sheepish smile. “It’s a bow tie pattern, this quilt,” she replied. “A very unique one. I could swear I’ve seen it somewhere before,” she added thoughtfully. “I love the variations, and the stark contrast of the black and white blocks. The stitches are what make it so unique. There are stem stitches and chain stitches…”
“You quilt.” It was a statement and not a question.
“Well, yes. I teach quilting classes, back home in Jacobsville, Texas, at the county recreation center during the summer.”
He hadn’t moved. “What pattern do you like best?”
“The Dresden Plate,” she said, curious at his interest in what was primarily a feminine pursuit.
He put her dress down, opened a drawer in the big desk, pulled out a photo album and handed it to her, indicating that she should open it.
The photographs weren’t of people. They were of quilts, scores of quilts, in everything from a four-patch to the famous Dresden Plate, with variations that were pure genius.
She sank back down in the chair with the book in her lap. “These are glorious,” she exclaimed.
He chuckled. “Thanks.”
Her eyes almost came out of their sockets as she gaped at him. “You made these yourself? You quilt?”
“I don’t just quilt. I win competitions. National and even international competitions.” He indicated the bow tie pattern on the wall. “That one won first prize last year in a national competition in this country.” He named a famous quilting show on one of the home and garden channels. “I was her guest in February, and that quilt was the one I demonstrated.”
She laughed, letting out a heavy breath. “This is incredible. I couldn’t go to the competition, but I did see the winning quilts on the Internet. That’s where I remember it from! And no wonder you looked so familiar, too. I watch that quilting show all the time. I saw you on that show!”
He cocked a thick eyebrow. “Small world,” he commented.
“Isn’t it just? I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name. But I do remember your face. I watched you put together a block from the bow tie quilt on that television show. Well, I’m impressed. Not that many men participate, even today.”
He laughed. “We’re gaining on you women,” he said with a twinkle in his dark eyes. “There’s a Texas Ranger and a police officer who enter competitions with me these days. We travel together sometimes to the events.”
“You’re good,” she said, her eyes going back to the book of photos.
“I’d like to see some of your work,” he remarked.
She laughed. “I’m not quite in your league,” she said. “I teach, but I’ve never won prizes.”
“What do you do when you’re not teaching?”
“I run an alterations shop and work with a local dry cleaner,” she said. “I do original fashions for a little boutique as well. I don’t make a lot of money at it, but I love my work.”
“That’s more important than the amount of money you make,” he said.
“That’s what I always thought. One of my girlfriends married and had a child, and then discovered that she could make a lot of money with a law degree in a big city. She took the child and went to New York City, where she got rich. But she was miserable away from her husband, a rancher back home, and she had no time at all for the child. Then they filed for divorce.” She shook her head. “Sometimes we’re lucky, and we don’t get what we think will make us happy. Anyway, I learned from watching her that I didn’t want that sort of pressure, no matter how much money I could make.”
“You’re mature for your age. You can’t be more than twenty…?” he probed.
Her eyebrows arched and she grinned. “Can’t I?”
Chapter Two
“I’ll bite, then,” he murmured, going back to pick up her dress and finish his neat stitches. “How old are you?”
“Gentlemen are not supposed to ask ladies questions like that,” she pointed out.
He chuckled, deep in his throat, his eyes on his fingers. “I’ve never been called a gentleman in my life. So you might as well tell me. I’m persistent.”
She sighed. “I’m twenty-three.”
He glanced at her with an indulgent smile. “You’re still a baby.”
“Really?” she asked, slightly irritated.
“I’ll be thirty-eight my next birthday,” he said. “And I’m older than that in a lot of ways.”
She felt an odd pang of regret. He was handsome and very attractive. Her whole young body throbbed just being near him. It was a new and unexpected reaction. Delia had never felt those wild stirrings her friends talked about. She’d been a remarkably late bloomer.
“No comment?” he queried, lifting his eyes.
“You