Christmas in Whitehorn Read Online Free PDF Page B

physical intimacy … right up until she'd laid eyes on Mark.
    Something about the man set her body to humming. She sort of enjoyed the sensation of being faintly aroused without him actually doing anything. At least it was a change from her usual worry and exhaustion.
    He'd surprised her by being a pleasant guest. She'd thought he might not talk at all, which had made the thought of just the two of them at the table fairly horrifying. For a few minutes he'd seemed to withdraw into himself, but he'd recovered and had continued with his questions. Speaking of which…
    "I think it's my turn to play detective," she said teasingly. "You learned everything about me at dinner, so now I should learn about you."
    "Ask away."
    She shifted so that she was facing him. "How did a man born and bred in
Montana
end up in
New York
? As a detective, no less?"
    "It's something I wanted from the time I was a kid. I never got the rodeo bug, so I wasn't interested in steer wrestling or bronc riding. I spent my time reading police procedurals. When I graduated from college, I headed for
New York
where I got a job on the police force. I worked my way up from there."
    His expression didn't change as he spoke and Darcy had a difficult time figuring out if the memories made him sad.
    "What brought you back?" she asked.
    "I was shot."
    She nearly spilled her wine. "In the line of duty?"
    "A murder suspect didn't like the way the investigation was going. She took out her temper on me."
    Darcy stared at him in shock. "She? A woman shot you?"
    "I suppose."
    She studied him, looking for healing scars or hints that he'd been hurt. There weren't any – nothing was visible and he didn't walk with a limp. She'd seen him out jogging so he must be doing better. She thought about asking where he'd been wounded, but the question felt too intimate. "I don't think of the average woman as being a violent person."
    "She isn't. But there are always exceptions."
    "Do you miss the work?"
    He shifted uncomfortably, as if he didn't want to answer the question. "Some."
    "Do you miss the city?"
    "It sure ain't Whitehorn ."
    She laughed. "You have that right. I re- member growing up in Chicago . We were always going into the city on weekends to different restaurants and plays. Or to the museums."
    "There's a great western museum not too far from here."
    "Gee, thanks. Next you'll be telling me that the Hip Hop Café serves international cuisine."
    "They do offer an Oriental chicken salad on the menu."
    She took another sip of wine. "I actually knew that."
    He picked up his glass from the coffee table. "Okay, so Whitehorn doesn't exactly have the same amenities. I'll admit I do miss
New York
. The ethnic foods were great, as was the idea that I could get anything I wanted at any time of the day or night. Detective work isn't nine-to-five, so we appreciated the late hours the restaurants were open." He drank from his glass. "I was never much of a museum guy, but I did enjoy theater." He frowned slightly. "I don't think I ever saw the end of a play. I nearly always got called to a crime scene."
    She leaned her head against the sofa back. "I can't begin to relate to your experiences."
    "I wouldn't want you to. Sometimes they make it hard to sleep at night."
    She waited, but he didn't say more. Did he have trouble sleeping? Did he pace long into the night? Lamplight highlighted the strength of his jaw. He had a well-shaped mouth, she thought dreamily. She would bet ten bucks that Detective Mark Kincaid was one fine kisser. Not that she was going to find out, but a girl could dream. She smiled at the thought of telling him kissing might make sleeping easier … or not.
    "You're not married," she said before she could stop herself.
    His eyebrows rose slightly. "No. Never have been."
    "Me, either."
    "No surprise there. You're barely old enough to be legal."
    "I'm twenty-five."
    "A baby."
    She straightened. "You're hardly in your dotage."
    "It's not the miles. It's the wear and