Remember When Read online

  “We can eat on our laps,” he said, ruling out the desk in his bedroom as an unsuitable locale.

  “I’ll figure something else out,” she called, already turning the corner into the corridor.

  While the chicken and vegetables were heating, Cole finished unpacking the groceries; then he filled his plate with the delicious leftovers and stepped into the main hall from the small kitchen.

  “All set,” Diana said, straightening and reaching for the light switch. “But a little less light will make this look a whole lot better, believe me.” As she spoke, she turned off the bright corridor lights, and Cole was startled by the effect she’d achieved.

  In less than ten minutes, Diana had turned three bales of hay and a piece of plywood into a lamplit table covered with a red, yellow, and orange beach towel from the trunk of her car and a makeshift L-shaped bench. In the center of the table, between two kerosene lamps, was an old stainless steel bowl filled with lush hibiscus leaves and its vivid orange blossoms. “This is very nice,” he said.

  Diana dismissed that with a smiling shrug. “My mother and grandmother are convinced that atmosphere and presentation are seventy percent of what makes a meal taste good.”

  “They’re probably right,” Cole said as he put his meal and a plate of cookies on the makeshift table and slid onto his bale of hay. The entire concept of “presentation” as it applied to dining was completely unknown to him. He had a great deal to learn about the hundreds of little niceties and refinements that went with being wealthy and successful, but he was more concerned right now with acquiring wealth than the social polish he’d need later to go with it. “I’m awed,” he added, stretching his long legs out beside the table. She sat down on the bale at his left.

  “Why?” she asked, breaking off a small piece of cookie.

  “Because you’re remarkable.” Cole hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but it was true. Among other things, she was very bright and very poised. She was soft-spoken and amazingly witty, but her wit was so subtle and her voice so softly musical that her sense of humor either caught him off-guard or almost slid by his notice. But what he liked most about Diana Foster was the democratic impartiality she showed to him, a lowly stable hand.

  She spoke to him with a friendly interest that was genuine and yet devoid of any hint of flirtatiousness. In the years he’d worked for the Haywards, nearly all of Barbara’s teenage girlfriends had made some sort of romantic overture toward Cole, all of which he wisely and carefully dodged.

  Their tactics were often blatant, usually transparent, and frequently amusing. What he found most irritating was that these wealthy, young femme fatales seemed to think they could attempt to seduce an “inferior being” without the slightest risk of repercussions. What they needed, in his opinion, was a sound spanking, though it was too late now for such parental discipline, even if their parents had been so inclined.

  In this, as in everything else, Diana Foster was a delightful exception. She had been a constant surprise almost from their very first meeting, and now she surprised him more than ever before, because his honest compliment had made her shy and self-conscious. In what he knew was an attempt to avoid his scrutiny, she called out to one of the kittens she’d helped him deliver, and it bounded over to her.

  “Just look how you’ve grown, Samantha!” she exclaimed as she scooped the tan cat into her arms and gave it a piece of cookie. A short black-and-white dog with long hair and no discernible link to any known pedigree on earth had been at her heels all evening, and she broke off a piece of cookie for him, too. “Sit up, Luke,” she ordered, and when the dog eagerly obeyed, she gave him his reward.

  “How many dogs and cats of your own do you have?” Cole asked, watching her fingers lovingly stroke the dog’s matted fur as if it were sable instead of canine.

  “We don’t have any of either.”

  Cole was dumbfounded. When the litter of kittens was born, she’d fussed over them, played with them, and then managed to find homes for all but Samantha, whom she’d persuaded Cole to keep. Last winter, she’d appeared with a scroungy stray dog in her arms and managed to persuade him to keep that at the barn, too. “I’ll help you name him,” she’d volunteered while Cole was still arguing against keeping the animal. “How about calling him Luke?”

  “He looks more like a Rover,” Cole had argued. “Or a Fleabag.”

  “He’ll look like a Luke when he’s cleaned up.”

  Cole hadn’t been proof against those big green eyes of hers. Taking the dog by the scruff of its neck, he’d held it away from himself and gone in search of flea soap and a metal tub. Naturally, he’d assumed she’d already inflicted the maximum quota of homeless beasts on her own family.

  He seized on that subject as a way of getting her over her sudden attack of shyness. “Kitten, didn’t anyone ever tell you that charity begins at home?” he asked dryly, using the nickname he’d teasingly begun calling her after she’d persuaded him to take in Luke and Samantha.

  She put Samantha on the floor and picked up Luke, cradling him in her lap; then she shot Cole a quizzical glance. “What do you mean?”

  “Why did I end up playing surrogate parent to that mangy waif of a dog, instead of you? I naturally assumed you had already done your fair share of providing a ‘home to the homeless’ before you turned to me.”

  She curled one tanned leg beneath her and turned sideways, so that Luke and Sam could both enjoy her petting. “My father’s terribly allergic to dogs and cats. Otherwise,” she told the adoring dog, “I’d have taken you straight home with me! You could have slept in my bed . . .”

  Lucky dog. The words drifted so softly through Cole’s mind that he didn’t notice at first what direction his thoughts had taken. He watched the lamplight dancing on the wall behind her, casting cheerful shadows to dispel the gloom. Diana had that same ability to brighten and beautify her surroundings simply by being there. She was going to be a very special woman someday . . . and also a very beautiful one, he decided.

  She had hair the color of dark copper and the texture of heavy silk, and soft, dewy skin. Every time he had seen her during this past year, she seemed to have grown prettier, her skin fairer, her eyes greener. She was no more than five feet two inches tall, barely reaching his shoulder, but in yellow knit shorts and a matching V-neck top, she had the figure of a petite goddess, with long shapely legs, full breasts, and a tiny waist. She also had a way of looking at him that made him feel mesmerized by her eyes. His gaze slid from her russet eyelashes to the gentle swell of her breasts, pausing to contemplate the curve of her smooth cheek and the softness of her lips . . .

  Realizing that he was inventorying the feminine assets of an innocent child, Cole diverted them both with a question, but he was furious with himself for what he’d been thinking . . . and wanting. “It’s ridiculous that you keep refusing to ride a horse!” he said brusquely. His voice made the dog, the cat, and the girl all look at him in consternation, but Cole was so angry at himself for thinking like a pervert that his tone remained harsh. “Don’t you have any guts?”

  Diana couldn’t believe he was speaking to her like this. Simultaneously she felt the desire to cry and had the impulse to leap to her feet, put her hands on her waist, and demand an explanation. Instead of doing either, she gave him a long look and said quietly, “I’m not a coward, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I didn’t mean that at all,” Cole said, feeling like a complete bastard. Inch for inch, Diana Foster was undoubtedly one of the most courageous, kind, independent females he’d ever known. “As a matter of fact, I cried my eyes out the first time I got thrown,” he lied to make her feel better.

  “I didn’t cry,” Diana said, helplessly beguiled by the image of a little boy with dark, curly hair crying with his fists pressed to his eyes.

  “You didn’t?” Cole teased.

  “Nope, not me. Not when I broke my wrist and not while Dr. Paltrona was setting it.”

  “Not even one tear?”