Surrender To A Playboy. Renee Roszel

      Taggart walked toward the main boulevard, paying little heed to the side street shops. Suddenly someone exited a store directly in front of him and he couldn’t avoid a collision. In a mental flash, he realized he’d run into a woman, and she was falling. Instinctively, he grabbed her by the shoulders to halt her tumble. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have been more care—”

      The woman he’d collided with cleared long, dark hair out of her eyes and looked up at him. He could tell by the near-smile on her face she’d been about to say something like “No problem,” or “I’m fine.” But when she recognized him, her expression mutated into a glower. He released her, since the anger in her eyes made her desire to be free of his contaminating touch quite clear. After some brief, knife-sharp eye contact, she dropped her attention to the sidewalk. His gaze followed hers down to notice a package he’d obviously knocked from her hand. He bent to retrieve it just as she did, his fingers closing over hers.

      “I have it,” she said, in a tone that meant “Don’t touch me!”

      He let her go and straightened. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he repeated, meaning it. “I didn’t see you.” He had no idea she would be in town. She must have dashed through the kitchen, out the back door, then struck out toward town in a dead run.