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excellent cook.”
    “So she tells me.” He spoke quickly, impassively. Whatever he was thinking, he was a master at hiding it.
    “So she tells you?” Nicole repeated. “Haven’t you ever tried any of the food she brings over?”
    “Of course. I just meant . . . that she’s proud of her culinary skills, and constantly reminds me of them.”
    “Oh.” She waited for him to invite her into the room, but he clearly had no such aim in mind. “I thought I might read,” she continued, mustering her resolve, “and you said I could borrow a book. So . . .”
    “Oh. Yes. Of course.” He hesitated as if this somehow presented a problem. “What kind of books do you like? I’ll bring one out for you.”
    “Can I just see what you’ve got?”
    He didn’t reply, obviously reluctant.
    “Oh for God’s sake,” Nicole said, losing patience. “I won’t take up too much of your precious time. I’ll just pick a book and be out of here.” Without further ado, she gave the door a shove, pushed past Michael, and swept into the room.
    Three steps inside the door she stopped, captivated. He had called it a study. Nicole had expected a cozy retreat with a
    It was an expansive gentleman’s retreat and a library. A fire blazed in another grand stone fireplace, and three walls were filled with floor-to-ceiling bookcases crammed with books. A comfortable-looking black leather couch and easy chair faced each other on one side of the room, opposite a mahogany coffee table and end tables that held small, elegant collectibles. On the other side stood a huge, L-shaped mahogany desk, on top of which rested stacks of papers and a state-of-the-art computer system.
    “Oh. Wow. This is really . . . nice.”
    “Thank you,” he said simply. He lowered the volume on the stereo with a remote.
    Nicole saw what looked like a document open on his computer. Noting the direction of her gaze, Michael quickly crossed to his desk and put the computer to sleep. The screen went blank.
    Nicole silently reminded herself not to be offended. He was a privacy freak; she already knew that. He dined alone, he worked alone, he didn’t want her to see what he was working on. Whatever.
    “I’ll just grab a book.” Nicole moved straight for one of the bookcases and studied the titles on the shelves. All the classics of British and American literature seemed to be represented: Daniel Defoe, Jane Austen, Charlotte and Emily Brontë, Edgar Allan Poe, Lewis Carroll, Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Louisa May Alcott, Bram Stoker, Arthur Conan Doyle. Many of the books looked very old and were beautifully bound in leather.
    “You have all my favorites,” she said with delight. Taking out and examining a stately edition of The Complete Adventures , Nicole quoted in her best Holmes impression, “‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’” Smiling, Nicole replaced it on the shelf. “Some of these look like collector’s items. Can I really borrow one?”
    “Whatever you like, Miss Whitcomb.”
    She heard something different in his voice—a quieter, mellower tone than he’d yet exhibited—and she turned to look at him. He was leaning up against his desk, his arms crossed over his chest, his long legs stretched out before him. His guard was down, and he was studying her with an expression that resembled something like tentative delight. It was the first time he’d looked at her that way—as if she might prove to be an interesting human being after all and not just an inconvenience. It wasn’t the most flattering look in the world, and yet the newfound warmth in his blue eyes made her heart skitter.
    “This isn’t Pride and Prejudice . You can call me Nicole.”
    “Nicole, then. Choose away.”
    “It’s not going to be so easy to choose.”
    “That’s all right. It’s a big library. Take your time.”
    The ice wall he’d built around himself was visibly thawing. Nicole wasn’t quite prepared