A Convenient Affair. Leigh Michaels
to know you better.”
Hannah rolled her eyes. She was almost disappointed; she’d have expected a little more subtlety from Ken Stephens’s daughter. But it was clear there was no need for Hannah to hurry in order to avoid Cooper—he’d be tied up for hours if Kitty had anything to say about it.
Hannah glanced at her watch. She might as well get a sandwich and start looking at the ads for apartments before she went back to work.
Traffic was heavy, and Hannah had to wait for a bus to move before she could cross the street to the deli. Finally, with a whoosh of exhaust, the monster pulled away from the stop, and she darted across.
She was stepping onto the opposite curb when she heard her name called. Surprised, she turned and watched in fascinated disbelief as Cooper dodged between cars—ignoring traffic signals, horns and angry shouts—to follow her.
“You don’t have to try to figure it out,” he said as he came up to her. “Give me a chance, and I’ll tell you why I want that box.”
CHAPTER TWO
COOPER felt as if he was shouting in order to be heard above the roaring engine of the bus that had just stopped at the curb, less than three feet away.
Hannah looked thoughtfully at him, and then her gaze slid past him to the bus. For a moment Cooper thought in disbelief that she meant to walk around him and get on it. But just as she sidestepped him, the bus pulled away with a roar and a blast of diesel exhaust.
Relief trickled through him, followed by irritation at the very idea of feeling pleased because she was sticking around to talk to him. As if she didn’t have plenty of reason not to rush onto that bus! Her timing was impeccable, though, he had to admit. She’d actually made it look as if she was doing him some sort of favor by staying to listen.
His voice held a sharp edge. “I’d just as soon the rest of the world didn’t hear this conversation, so let’s go where we won’t have to shout. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
She looked up at him, her green eyes wide and challenging. “Coffee? Aren’t you at least going to offer me lunch?”
Cynicism swept over him, and for a split second he considered walking off without a word and leaving her standing there. Then she turned slightly and he caught a glimpse of the Lovers’ Box tucked securely under her arm. “I suppose you want to go to the Flamingo Room.”
“No,” she said pleasantly, “but only because I’m going there tonight. For right now, I’d settle for a hot dog from the stand around the corner. I’m hungry, and it’s enough of a sacrifice to actually try to have a conversation with you without attempting to do it on an empty stomach.”
Cooper didn’t bother to answer. He thrust out a hand to hail a passing cab and helped Hannah in with chilly politeness. “Cicero’s,” he told the cabbie.
“Italian? Does that mean you don’t like hot dogs?” she asked with obviously feigned interest.
Did she have to look at him that way? Her eyes were not only wide now but so incredibly clear that if he didn’t know better he’d think he could see her soul…
Knock it off, Winston, he told himself. He knew from firsthand experience how sharp the woman could be, especially when she was looking innocent. Besides, no relative of Isobel’s, especially one that had actually been close enough to live with her, was likely to have a soul any more than the old woman herself had. And even if she did, a little voice in the back of his brain murmured, that wouldn’t be the part of Hannah Lowe you’d be interested in, anyway.
He smothered the thought. Hannah Lowe—attractive? Some men would no doubt think so. Men who didn’t know her as well as he did.
What a puritanical sort of name it was, for a woman who was anything but. Her scent, the same sort of musky perfume that Isobel had fancied, gave the lie to that all-American front she tried to put on. Even when she was dressed for a walk with that incredibly bad-tempered dog, she was sexy enough to melt the sidewalk. A hot dog in the park—he almost wished he’d bought her one, just to see what she’d have done with it.
As the maître d’ showed them to an alcove at the far side of Cicero’s main dining room, Cooper slowed his pace a little, dropping back just far enough to watch the way her silky skirt shimmered as she moved. He’d seen some intriguing walks in his day, but Hannah Lowe’s put them all to shame.
Which was exactly what he ought to be feeling right now, he told himself firmly. Shame, for not keeping his mind on the business at hand.
He held back until the maître d’ had helped Hannah with her chair, and then he sat down across from her, watching as she placed the Lovers’ Box carefully on the corner of the table, as far as possible from him. Which wasn’t far, really, because under the narrow table his knee was brushing hers. She didn’t pull away, merely looked at him with narrowed eyes.
He gave an order to the waiter and settled back in his chair to watch her fiddle with the Lovers’ Box.
Finally it appeared she had it settled to her satisfaction. She looked across at him, and a faint flush crept over her almost-transparent skin. “You look as jumpy as if I was handling dynamite,” she said. “What’s so special about this box?”
“It’s certainly not dangerous. And it wouldn’t be anything special to most people. It’s important to me only because one of my ancestors was a sea captain who brought it back from an around-the-world voyage close to two centuries ago.”
“Sentimental value,” she said thoughtfully.
“Exactly.” The waiter brought two glasses of red wine and a basket of bread sticks. Cooper pushed the basket invitingly close to her and said abruptly, “I’ll give you five hundred dollars for the box, right now.”
“Five hundred,” she mused. She slowly turned the stem of her wineglass between slim fingers. “I thought you said it was special.”
He felt a tinge of reluctant admiration for her negotiating skills. “Don’t let Ken Stephens’s comments about its value deceive you. On the open market it would bring only a fraction of that. As Isobel knew quite well, the value of that box is precisely what I’m willing to pay for it, and not a dime more.”
“But it’s so difficult to define sentiment in monetary terms,” Hannah said.
“Don’t try to blackmail me into a higher offer.”
She tilted her head a little to one side. “And don’t growl at me. I was simply thinking that it must have every bit as much sentimental value for me as it has for you.”
“Because it’s the only thing left you by your dear departed aunt? Don’t be ridiculous.”
She said, sounding almost weary, “She wasn’t my aunt, she was my grandfather’s cousin.”
“Even less of a connection. And less of a reason for you to want to keep it.”
“That,” Hannah said lightly, “depends entirely on the point of view. Why is it called the Lovers’ Box?”
“Agree to sell it to me, and I’ll tell you.” He watched the light from the sconce above her head play against her hair, bringing out red highlights in the chestnut brown. “How much do you think it’s worth?”
“I thought you weren’t willing to go above five hundred.”
Cooper shrugged. “There are limits on what I’m willing to pay, of course. But humor me, Hannah. Give me an idea of what your estimate is. How much?” Come on, sweetheart, he urged. Once you set a value, no matter how outlandish it is, I’ve got you. You’re committed to making the sale. Then it’s just a matter of haggling over the final price.
“I’ll have to think about it,” she countered. “Why do you want it so badly?”
He had to admit