Sanctuary Read Online Free PDF Page B

path of crushed shells. “You can wait in the guest parlor, or the dining room.”
    â€œI’d rather sit in the kitchen. I like watching you cook.” Before he could think of a way around it, she’d stepped up into the rear screened porch and through the kitchen door.
    As usual, it was neat as a pin. Kirby appreciated tidiness in a man, the same way she appreciated good muscle tone and a well-exercised brain. Brian had all three qualities, which was why she was interested in what kind of lover he’d make.
    She figured she would find out eventually. Kirby always worked her way toward a goal. All she had to do was keep chipping away at that armor of his.
    It wasn’t disinterest. She’d seen the way he watched her on the rare occasions when his guard was down. It was sheer stubbornness. She appreciated that as well. And the contrasts of him were such fun.
    She knew as she settled on a stool at the breakfast bar that he would have little to say unless she prodded. That was the distance he kept between himself and others. And she knew he would pour her a cup of his really remarkable coffee, and remember that she drank it light. That was his innate hospitality.
    Kirby let him have his quiet for a moment as she sipped the coffee from the steaming mug he’d set before her. She hadn’t been teasing when she’d said she liked to watch him cook.
    A kitchen might have been a traditionally female domain, but this kitchen was all male. Just like its overseer, Kirby thought, with his big hands, shaggy hair, and tough face.
    She knew—because there was little that one person on the island didn’t know about the others—that Brian had had the kitchen redone about eight years before. And he’d created the design, chosen the colors and materials. Had made it a working man’s room, with long granite-colored counters and glittering stainless steel.
    There were three wide windows, framed only by curved and carved wood trim. A banquette in smoky gray was tucked under them for family meals, though, as far as she knew, the Hathaways rarely ate as a family. The floor was creamy white tile, the walls white and unadorned. No fancy work for Brian.
    Yet there were homey touches in the gleam of copper pots that hung from hooks, the hanks of dried peppers and garlic, the shelf holding antique kitchen tools. She imagined he thought of them as practical rather than homey, but they warmed the room.
    He’d left the old brick hearth alone, and it brought back reminders of a time when the kitchen had been the core of this house, a place for gathering, for lingering. She liked it in the winter when he lighted a fire there and the scent of wood burning mixed pleasurably with that of spicy stews or soups bubbling.
    To her, the huge commercial range looked like something that required an engineering degree to operate. Then again, her idea of cooking was taking a package from the freezer and nuking it in the microwave.
    â€œI love this room,” she said. He was whipping something in a large blue bowl and only grunted. Taking that as a response, Kirby slid off the stool to help herself to a second cup of coffee. She leaned in, just brushing his arm, and grinned at the batter in the bowl. “Waffles?”
    He shifted slightly. Her scent was in his way. “That was what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
    â€œYeah.” Lifting her cup, she smiled at him over the rim. “It’s nice to get what you want. Don’t you think?”
    She had the damnedest eyes, he thought. He’d believed in mermaids as a child. All of them had had eyes like Kirby’s. “It’s easy enough to get it if all you want is waffles.”
    He stepped back, around her, and took a waffle iron out of a lower cabinet. After he’d plugged it in, he turned, and bumped into her. Automatically he lifted a hand to her arm to steady her. And left it there.
    â€œYou’re underfoot.”
    She eased