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succinctly.
    She frowned, still clutching
Valley
. "What about it?"
    He smiled again. "I'd like to take you to dinner. It's the least I can do under the circumstances."
    "That's not necessary."
    "It would be my pleasure."
    "Don't you have to get back to Oregon?"
    "Not this evening. I'm staying at an inn here in town tonight."
    "Oh."
    He gave her a few seconds to absorb that and then pushed gently. "Do you have other plans?"
    "No. Tomorrow is a workday. I have to get up early."
    Croft nodded. "I'll have you home early. I give you my word."
    She looked at him with an odd curiosity, as though she were searching for something in him. It wasn't the first time she'd studied him in such a manner. There had been those few moments back in her shop when he had told her she was safe with him.
    She had had the same strange curiosity in her eyes then. It had been followed by a clear acceptance of his words. That expression of acceptance was in her eyes again now. She probably didn't even realize the full implications, but Croft did. She trusted him on some basic, feminine level, whether she knew it or not.
    He liked that. And he could use it.
    "I was going to have dinner here this evening," Mercy said finally, as if feeling her way through a mine field. "I bought some buckwheat pasta. I planned to open a bottle of zinfandel I've been saving. After all, it's Friday."
    "Fine." Croft nodded equably.
    She blinked warily. "I beg your pardon?"
    "I said that sounds fine. I like buckwheat pasta and I like zinfandel."
    Mercy stared at him. She looked as though she didn't know whether to laugh or scream in outrage.
    Croft smiled to himself. Mercy was quickly falling right into the palm of his hand.

    Twenty minutes later Mercy still couldn't decide whether to laugh or scream. She ceased rinsing broccoli, picked up her wineglass and leaned back against the counter to take a sip. Her guest, whom she had decided fell into the uninvited category, was straddling one of the diamond shaped, black wire mesh kitchen chairs, his arms resting easily along the back. He held his own wineglass lightly cradled in his hand.
    The rich, deep, near purple color of the zinfandel looked right clasped within those strong fingers. It was another example of darkness suiting him, Mercy decided.
    Whatever else could be said about the man, he didn't appear to have a drinking problem. He was savoring his wine, but he sipped with great restraint. Mercy had a hunch Croft Falconer did everything with restraint. She wondered if that applied to making love and decided it probably did. He might be very skillful at it, but he would also be very much in control. It was hard to envision this man surrendering to any kind of strong emotion.
    She still wasn't quite certain how she had come to let him stay for dinner, but she had the distinct impression there had been a certain inevitability about the situation from the start. She was too aware of him, too intrigued by him, too curious about him for her own good and she knew it. But he was there and she was the one who had let him stay.
    "How long have you owned the schools of self-defense?" she made herself ask casually. Mercy had been doing her best for the past twenty minutes to keep all conversation light and superficial. She wanted the time to think about and evaluate him as well as her own unfamiliar reactions.
    "I opened the first one nearly three years ago. The second one a year after that and the third six months ago."
    "Where did you pick up the expertise?"
    "I've studied. And traveled."
    "Do you do a lot of traveling in your, uh, field?" she pressed.
    "No, not anymore, except when I visit my schools to teach special courses or give demonstrations."
    "Who teaches the regular classes?"
    "Friends. Former students. They handle the day to day management of the schools."
    "Leaving you free to sit by the shore and twiddle your thumbs in Oregon?" She smiled.
    "You could say that."
    "Nice work if you can get it," she declared with