month, surely. Besides, Nora had plenty to occupy her what with closing out a three-story house crammed with the belongings of four generations of Hardissons and Pennfields. Nora would have plenty of time, now that her father was gone.
She seized her parasol from the oversize vase in the corner and swung open the front door. Perhaps she would have enough of the flower-sprigged wallpaper left over to—
“Mornin’, Miss Hardisson,” a rich voice drawled. Clayton Black rose from the top porch step and tipped his hat.
“Mr. Black! What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Waitin’ for you. Information. And breakfast, in that order.”
“Breakfast!” Her stomach rumbled annoyingly, as if to reinforce the thought. “You’ll get no breakfast here, I assure you.”
“Thought not. You said you eat at the hotel.”
Irene blinked. “And so?”
“So, I’ve got a notion to accompany you, if you don’t mind.”
Irene pointed the tip of her parasol at the sky and released the catch. “As a matter of fact, I do mind.”
The mere sight of the man on her front porch chased away her appetite.
The ruffled silk dome opened in an arc over her head, and for one insane moment she gazed up at the metal ribs and wondered if what she had just uttered was true. The thought of Clayton Black looking at her across a table made her toes tingle. What was it about the man she found so unnerving?
She decided she didn’t want to know. “I prefer to eat alone. I think about my schedule for the day, and often plan—”
“Schedule!”
“—tomorrow’s schedule as well. Today being Friday, Saturday, too, will be allocated to productive activity.”
“Productive activ—? Good gravy!”
She swept on, undeterred by his interruption. “And of course Sunday is the Lord’s Day, and I shall rest.”
“I should damn well think so. Don’t you ever take any time for fun?”
“Fun?” She gave him a blank look. “You mean as in frivolity? The answer is no. My profession is my satisfaction in life. ‘Fun,’ as you put it, is for—”
“Normal people,” Clayton interjected. “Ma’am, you’ll forgive me for sayin’ so, but you’re in sorry shape.” He advanced a step toward her and captured the hand holding the parasol. “Now just come along quiet-like, and we’ll work this all out at breakfast. I’m half-starved. Another thirty minutes on your porch and I’d ’a taken a bite outta my hat, so hurry it up.”
Irene stared up at him. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she announced. She planted her black laced-up walking shoes flat on the porch planking.
“Sure y’are.” Clayton ran his forefinger over the hand clutching the parasol. “I notice you like to make wagers, Miss Hardisson. I’m bettin’ you’ll follow me when I tell you what I found out this morning.” He stepped back.
Irene took a hesitant step forward. “What?” she demanded.
“Good girl,” Clayton murmured. He stepped back again.
She followed him. “What did you find out?”
He did not reply. Instead, he slid his left arm under hers and drew her forward, down the porch steps and along Park Street.
Nelda Gerstein lifted her wicker flower basket in greeting as they passed. “Lovely morning,” she sang.
Clayton nodded at the sweet-faced older woman and touched his hat brim. “That it is, ma’am.”
“A bit hot for July, but then my Thomas always says…” Her voice receded as they moved down the board sidewalk.
“Mr. Black,” Irene huffed as he hurried her along. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m takin’ you to breakfast, Miss Hardisson.” His fingers wrapped over hers on the parasol handle as he guided her across the street toward the hotel. Irene found it difficult to breathe normally with his hard, warm hand on hers.
“And then—” he paused while they ascended the three wide wooden steps at the hotel entrance “—we’re goin’ on a picnic.”
“Picnic! Right after breakfast? What on earth for?”
“Reconnaissance,” he said quietly. “You can ride, can’t you?”
“Most certainly I can ride.” She closed the parasol with a snap. “I was named equestrienne of the—”
“Good.” He propelled her into the dining room, selected a table by the front window and pulled back her chair. “We’ll have ham and eggs, over easy,” he said to the waitress. “And half-a-dozen cold chicken sandwiches. For lunch,” he added.
Irene bristled. “Now just one minute.”
“Certainly, sir,” the waitress breathed. She stood stock-still for a moment, staring at Irene, then she bobbed an awkward curtsy.
Clayton chuckled.
“I prefer to order my own meals,” Irene hissed across the table. She turned to the wide-eyed girl. “I would like ham and two eggs, over easy.”
He laughed out loud.
“And some tea, if you please.” She worked to keep her voice even, but in spite of her efforts it rose alarmingly. The man was maddening. Over-bearing. He acted as if he owned the hotel, the town—even her! Well, she’d soon set him straight on that score.
But you like it a little, don’t you? a voice nagged. Perhaps even more than a little?
She most certainly did not!
Liar.
Clayton studied her face. “You look kinda funny, Miss Hardisson. Something wrong?”
Everything was wrong, she thought in exasperation. Except for one thing, the voice countered. Him. You feel alive when he’s near.
“Nothing is wrong,” she lied. “I am not accustomed to frittering away a perfectly good workday on picnics and such nonsense.”
He nodded. “That figures.”
“Consequently, I have no intention of accompanying you anywhere, much less on horseback.” She flipped the white linen napkin open and settled it across her lap.
“I’ll hire a buggy instead.” His voice was calm, without the slightest inflection. His nonchalance made Irene clench her hands.
“No buggy,” she enunciated clearly. “No horse. And no picnic.” She dumped two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into her tea before she realized what she was doing.
Clayton signaled the waitress. “Better make it a dozen sandwiches. The lady will have quite an appetite.”
The girl giggled. “Certainly, sir.”
Irene gritted her teeth. “I will have no appetite whatsoever.”
He tilted his chair back and gazed at her. “I think you will.” Amusement and something else colored his voice, along with an undercurrent of steely determination that made her apprehensive.
“For one thing, with no buggy and no horse, that leaves us on foot.” He tipped his chair forward. “I know from experience that walkin’ works up a powerful hunger.”
“Never!”
“Right after breakfast,” he contradicted.
Irene squirmed on the straight-backed dining chair. “What makes you think I would even consider—”
“Because, Miss Hardisson, you still haven’t told me