approached.
"A drink for now? We can order later."
She nodded and murmured, "White wine," then watched as Shane relayed their order to the waiter.
As the waiter left, Shane reached across the table to cover her hands with one of his. His smile suddenly faded. He lifted her left hand, frowning. "Take it off," he ordered.
"What?" She stared at him blankly, not understanding.
"When you're with me, you won't wear another man's ring," he told her tautly. "Take it off, Robyn... please."
She hesitated for a moment, then removed the ring and placed it in her purse. She knew the meek obedience was uncharacteristic, but she didn't feel up to making a stand on the subject of her ring-especially as she was already dreading the anger her confession would certainly provoke.
Still holding her left hand with his right, Shane leaned back in his chair and smiled. "That ring threw poor Eric for a loop," he murmured almost to himself.
"Eric?"
He nodded. "Eric. A friend of mine. He knew that I was tearing Miami apart to find a raven-haired, golden-eyed witch named Robyn, he just happened to stumble into your bookstore, and you were wearing a wedding ring. He didn't know whether to call me or just to hope I never found you."
"The man with red hair," she murmured, suddenly realizing why the customer had looked so familiar. "He was with you at the party." She flushed as his comment about tearing apart Miami sunk in, and dropped her gaze to the cream-colored tablecloth.
The waiter approached with their wine, and Robyn tried to pull her hand away from Shane's. She was suddenly aware that they must look like new lovers, and the image disturbed her.
But he wouldn't release her hand, holding it firmly as he smiled absently at the waiter. One of his fingers trailed across her palm in a strangely intimate little caress, and Robyn shivered, feeling nerves all through her body prickle to awareness.
After the waiter had deposited their glasses and left, Shane turned his full attention back to her, his green eyes warming almost as though the sight of her delighted him. "You look very beautiful today," he said softly. "Cool and calm-except for the slight trace of panic in your eyes."
Hastily, Robyn lifted her glass and took a sip of wine. She didn't want him to talk like that, flattering though it was. "Don't you want to know why I don't want to get involved with you?" she asked uneasily.
"Later," he answered easily. "You and I are going to have dinner and talk, get to know each other. Then we'll go back to my place, or yours, if you prefer. That'll be soon enough for explanations."
Somewhat to her surprise, Robyn found herself relaxing as the time passed. Shane, she found, was an interesting conversationalist, and he possessed a sinful amount of charm. He never once broached the subject of her marriage, but his casual questions covered practically every other phase of her life.
Astonished, she found herself telling him about her rootless childhood: about her mother, who'd died when Robyn was three; about her career-army father, whom she'd followed from base to base; and about Marty, who had raised her. Shane told her bits and pieces of his childhood in turn, confessing a love for animals and a powerful affection for his strong-willed mother.
It was a peculiar interlude, Robyn realized. Having leaped headfirst into the most intimate of relationships, they were now backtracking slowly, almost feeling their way.
She wanted to keep the conversation away from racing, but since that was a large part of Shane's life, the subject inevitably came up.
"My family wants me to settle down," he was saying now, casually. "I'm usually on the road from January through September, following the circuit."
"And the rest of the time?" she asked, toying with her wine glass.
"Wine." He smiled slowly at her puzzled expression. "The vineyards," he clarified. "Of course, I take care of a lot of the business even when I'm on the road. But I really get into the thick
"A drink for now? We can order later."
She nodded and murmured, "White wine," then watched as Shane relayed their order to the waiter.
As the waiter left, Shane reached across the table to cover her hands with one of his. His smile suddenly faded. He lifted her left hand, frowning. "Take it off," he ordered.
"What?" She stared at him blankly, not understanding.
"When you're with me, you won't wear another man's ring," he told her tautly. "Take it off, Robyn... please."
She hesitated for a moment, then removed the ring and placed it in her purse. She knew the meek obedience was uncharacteristic, but she didn't feel up to making a stand on the subject of her ring-especially as she was already dreading the anger her confession would certainly provoke.
Still holding her left hand with his right, Shane leaned back in his chair and smiled. "That ring threw poor Eric for a loop," he murmured almost to himself.
"Eric?"
He nodded. "Eric. A friend of mine. He knew that I was tearing Miami apart to find a raven-haired, golden-eyed witch named Robyn, he just happened to stumble into your bookstore, and you were wearing a wedding ring. He didn't know whether to call me or just to hope I never found you."
"The man with red hair," she murmured, suddenly realizing why the customer had looked so familiar. "He was with you at the party." She flushed as his comment about tearing apart Miami sunk in, and dropped her gaze to the cream-colored tablecloth.
The waiter approached with their wine, and Robyn tried to pull her hand away from Shane's. She was suddenly aware that they must look like new lovers, and the image disturbed her.
But he wouldn't release her hand, holding it firmly as he smiled absently at the waiter. One of his fingers trailed across her palm in a strangely intimate little caress, and Robyn shivered, feeling nerves all through her body prickle to awareness.
After the waiter had deposited their glasses and left, Shane turned his full attention back to her, his green eyes warming almost as though the sight of her delighted him. "You look very beautiful today," he said softly. "Cool and calm-except for the slight trace of panic in your eyes."
Hastily, Robyn lifted her glass and took a sip of wine. She didn't want him to talk like that, flattering though it was. "Don't you want to know why I don't want to get involved with you?" she asked uneasily.
"Later," he answered easily. "You and I are going to have dinner and talk, get to know each other. Then we'll go back to my place, or yours, if you prefer. That'll be soon enough for explanations."
Somewhat to her surprise, Robyn found herself relaxing as the time passed. Shane, she found, was an interesting conversationalist, and he possessed a sinful amount of charm. He never once broached the subject of her marriage, but his casual questions covered practically every other phase of her life.
Astonished, she found herself telling him about her rootless childhood: about her mother, who'd died when Robyn was three; about her career-army father, whom she'd followed from base to base; and about Marty, who had raised her. Shane told her bits and pieces of his childhood in turn, confessing a love for animals and a powerful affection for his strong-willed mother.
It was a peculiar interlude, Robyn realized. Having leaped headfirst into the most intimate of relationships, they were now backtracking slowly, almost feeling their way.
She wanted to keep the conversation away from racing, but since that was a large part of Shane's life, the subject inevitably came up.
"My family wants me to settle down," he was saying now, casually. "I'm usually on the road from January through September, following the circuit."
"And the rest of the time?" she asked, toying with her wine glass.
"Wine." He smiled slowly at her puzzled expression. "The vineyards," he clarified. "Of course, I take care of a lot of the business even when I'm on the road. But I really get into the thick
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