Fire and Ice. Diana Palmer
a thin, fabulously expensive gold watch nestled in the thick hairs at the back of his wrist. Margie wondered if the rest of his sensuous body was covered in that same dark hair, and she caught her breath at her uncharacteristic thought.
Cannon’s thick hair gleamed almost black under the light; his deep-set brown eyes glared at Margie.
“Shall we go?” he asked brusquely. “I’d like to get an early night.”
“God forbid that we should hold you up, Mr. Van Dyne,” Margie said sweetly as she picked up her shawl and threw it around her shoulders.
“Don’t worry, you won’t,” he said quietly, watching her. “I didn’t picture you in a Victorian house, Mrs. Silver.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “I can imagine what kind of house you did picture me in,” she said with a faint smile. “Sorry to have shocked you.”
“It will take more than your surroundings to convince me that my first impression wasn’t more accurate,” he replied.
“Why, Mr. Van Dyne, honey,” Margie murmured, batting her long eyelashes, “how you do go on.”
“You go on,” he replied, standing aside to let her lead them through the door, “before I lose what little patience I have left.”
Jan threw a worried glance her way, but Margie didn’t see it. She was already rushing to get out the door Cannon held open. She had a vague notion that he’d enjoy slamming it in her face.
* * *
The restaurant was crowded, but Cannon immediately attracted the attention of the ma;afitre d’, who seated them at a table beside an imitation waterfall, complete with lush vegetation.
“My God, the swamp,” Andy muttered as Cannon ordered from the wine steward.
Margie grinned. “Did you think to bring mosquito netting?” she whispered.
“We may need one of those sticky strips to catch the bugs….”
“Would you two children mind behaving while we’re in public?” Cannon asked curtly, glaring from one to the other.
“Yes, Daddy,” Margie said demurely, lowering her eyes.
Cannon seemed to swell with indignation as the waiter handed him a glass of wine from the bottle he’d ordered. He took a sip and nodded, waiting until the waiter filled the other glasses and left their menus before he spoke.
“You two may not be wildlife enthusiasts,” Cannon commented gruffly, while Margie almost burst out laughing at the misapprehension, “but you might at least appreciate the engineering that was responsible for this waterfall.”
Margie didn’t dare look at Andy; it would have been disastrous. Instead, she buried her nose in the menu. “It’s very nice,” she agreed, with a straight face. “If they forget to bring water and glasses, we can always dip in here.”
“Oh, Margie.” Jan groaned, burying her face in her hands.
A smothered, strangled sound emerged from Andy’s mouth before he slapped his napkin against it and faked a cough.
Cannon’s big hands were crushing a part of the menu. “If either of you order anything with alcohol in it, I’ll walk out and leave you,” he told Andy and Margie. “My God, are you already high on the scent of the wine?”
Margie lifted her composed face and glared at him.
“Margie,” Jan squeaked, “you did promise….”
Margie nodded, moving the wineglass toward Cannon. “You’re absolutely right, darling, I did. I won’t even wade in the fountain this time,” she added.
Cannon scowled at her. “How old did you say you were? Twelve?”
She lifted her eyebrows. “No fair,” she said. “This is supposed to be an opportunity for us to learn to get along.”
“It will take more than this,” he said flatly.
“Amen,” she agreed. “But I happen to be hungry, if you don’t mind not spoiling my appetite. I skipped breakfast and lunch.”
“That typewriter is going to be the death of you,” Jan murmured, and caught herself barely in time. She’d begged Margie not to mention her profession just yet. Cannon had enough against the flamboyant brunette without putting such a weapon in his hands.
“Typewriter?” Cannon caught the word immediately and stared pointedly at Margie.
Margie thought fast. “I do a political opinion column for our local weekly newspaper,” she said.
“And you skipped meals because that took all day?” he asked suspiciously.
“I do a political opinion column every week,” she returned, “and I have to keep at least two weeks ahead in case I decide to run away to Bermuda with my latest boyfriend.”
“God help your poor husband,” he growled.
“My husband is dead, Mr. Van Dyne,” she said quietly, sobering at once. “He was killed in an airplane crash five years ago. Now if you don’t mind, it’s a subject I’d rather we closed. It’s very painful.”
He looked embarrassed, studying her for a long moment before turning his disconcerting gaze to his menu.
Margie studied her own. Even though she could now afford the prices at better restaurants, these staggered her. Nothing was under twenty dollars and the least expensive item was a simple chicken breast stuffed with a ham and cheese filling. She wasn’t fond of chicken, but she wasn’t going to allow herself to be obligated to Cannon Van Dyne, even for a meal.
“Shall I translate for you?” Cannon asked with grudging politeness when the waiter returned and stood beside her.
She smiled with studied sweetness. “How kind,” she murmured demurely, “but I think I can struggle through it.” She looked up at the waiter. “Je prends la poule cordon bleu, s’il vous pla;afit,” she said in flawless French, “des pommes de terre Louis et des choux de Bruxelles.”
The waiter grinned at her, writing it all down. “Avec plaisir, madame,” he replied. “Monsieur?”
Cannon shot her a glare while he ordered himself a steak, a baked potato, and a green salad. The order was given in clipped English and he was still glaring at her when the waiter went around to take the rest of the order from Andy.
“Not bad,” he said coolly, studying her. “Your French is quite good. Do you speak other languages?”
“Spanish,” she told him. “Italian. A little Arabic and some Hebrew. I love languages. They were my passion when I went to college.”
“What was your major?”
“Journalism,” she said. “I only went for two years, though.”
He frowned. “Why did you leave?”
Her face closed. “I got married.”
“Margie’s a gourmet cook,” Jan told Cannon when the silence lingered after the waiter had departed. “She’s quite good at it.”
“Is she?” Cannon asked, glancing toward Margie. “What’s your specialty?”
“Goose,” she shot back.
Something flared briefly in his dark eyes. “Thinking of mine?” he murmured softly. “Forget it, honey, that’s been tried by experts.”
Her green eyes sparkled. “I do pretty well with buttered toadstools and deadly nightshade,” she added. “But you’d probably thrive on that kind of diet.”
“Margie!” Jan groaned.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cannon told the younger woman. “She can handle herself, and so can I.” His dark