The little crinkles at the corners of his eyes spoke of countless smiles, and rainwater dripped off his dark hair onto his leather jacket.
When she caught a whiff of his warm woodsy cologne, Lane wanted to inhale deeply. Instead, she said, “The rain, the curve off Bay street and a slick road are to blame.”
He grinned. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?” he said softly.
That smile lit something inside her and made her pulse jump hard. Her chilled skin was suddenly warmer, and ignoring the way she reacted to him wasn’t as easy as she expected. He probably knew exactly the effect he had on a person. “Do you need my forgiveness?”
“No, but I’d like to have it. Being neighborly and all.”
That smile came again and she hurried into the shop and set the box on the counter before looking at him again.
“Then, yes, you’re forgiven. But I reserve the right to needle you.” She smoothed her hair back off her face. Her glasses steamed up and slid down her nose. “Although since I didn’t put any change in the parking meter, with my luck I’ll be getting the ticket.”
“You won’t. I promise.”
She arched a brow. “Falling on your sword for me? Now that’s gallantry.”
He smiled and Lane felt her insides shift and bow. This was so not good, she thought.
“And your name is?” he asked.
“Lane Douglas.” It tripped easily off her tongue after nearly two years, she thought. Sad that lying about who she was had become second nature. He held out his hand. She shook it once, quickly, then jerked back. Okay, so his skin was delightfully warm, and though she might have expected smooth and pampered, it wasn’t. She’d felt at least one callus. He probably got that golfing.
She turned her back to him, inspecting her sodden books and mentally calculating the cost to replace them.
“Nice place,” he said. “Is it new?”
“It’s been here for 150 years, Mr. McKay,” she said, although she knew he meant newly remodeled.
“Call me Tyler, please. Mr. McKay is my dad.”
She hunted in her purse. “I don’t want to get that personal. I may have to sue.”
His gaze narrowed. “I will make full restitution, Miss Douglas.”
She faced him, holding out her driver’s license and insurance card. “Good. Why don’t you hail the cops?” She nodded to the windows. The blue lights of the police car flashed against the watery glass.
Tyler stared at her for a second, then, with a sharp nod, took her information and stepped out onto the covered porch. She wasn’t worried about the police, for Lane Douglas had nothing to hide. While he talked to the officers, Lane tried to salvage the books, but there really was no hope. A water-damage sale was in order, and she’d just cut her losses as usual.
Like she’d done with her family.
Stay a Giovanni and live in a cage. Become Lane Douglas and live like a normal human being.
Hmm.
Tough choice.
Heiress to a winery or not.
Now if she could just get Tyler McKay out of her store without piquing his curiosity, she’d be fine. She’d spent the past year avoiding McKay—and anyone else in his family. There were quite a few, and they attracted the attention of the media like the Kennedys. And like the Giovannis. Tyler McKay was wealthy enough, affluent enough, to have traveled in the same social circles as her family. Not to mention that her face had once been plastered over every newspaper and tabloid in the country, and someone might recognize her.
Her identity had to stay a secret.
With the exception of her father, even her own family didn’t know where she was. She’d do just about anything to keep it that way.
The woman couldn’t be more chilling, Tyler thought, glancing back into the shop as the deputy filled out the report. She was rummaging in a box of books, and his gaze traveled from the round glasses and the reddish-brown hair falling out of its tight bun and drooping onto the collar of her sweater to her skirt, wet and hanging to ankles, hidden by what looked like combat boots.
She reminded him of a spinster schoolteacher, but there was something about her that was far from spinsterish. He couldn’t put his finger on it yet, but she had incredible eyes, deep-set, long-lashed and the color of Irish whiskey that those glasses couldn’t shield.
She was reserved, businesslike, but he had the feeling she was trying too hard. Tyler had never seen her before, which was strange. He’d thought he knew everyone in Bradford.
“I need to speak to Miss Douglas,” the cop said.
Tyler nodded and they stepped back inside. Cold rain turned the sky a little darker gray and dreary, but inside the house-turned-bookshop, it was warm and smelled like cinnamon. She wasn’t visible now, and he called her name.
She appeared from the back of the store with a tray of steaming coffee and cups.
“To take the chill off.” Lane told herself she didn’t have to invite friendship or anything, but she didn’t have to be rude to McKay. He knew everyone and everyone read books. So it was good for business.
Tyler took a cup, warming his hands.
The cop declined, asked her a few questions, then handed them each a copy of the report and left. Tyler tucked his copy in his jacket and sipped coffee.
Lane wished he would leave, too. The man unnerved her, and if the FBI’s constant questions about what she knew about her brother Angel’s alleged illegal business deals hadn’t done that, it was saying something. She’d just as soon not listen.
“How come I haven’t seen you around before?”
“Well, I sell books. Do you read?”
“Of course I do.”
A smile teased her lips and she peered at him through the round glasses. Tyler was struck again by the beauty of her eyes.
“Apparently not enough, Mr. McKay.”
Tyler grinned. “You’re still upset about the car.”
“No, not really,” she said. “Maybe I can get a new one out of it.” He liked the little smile she was trying not to show.
“It would have to be totaled for that.”
“Well, I could leave it there, and if you go driving again, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
He laughed, a soft rumble that matched the thunder outside. Just then the little bell above the door tinkled as a boy of about twelve entered the shop, shaking off the rain. Lane smiled at him.
“Man, what a downpour,” he said. “Hey, Mr. McKay.”
“Hi, Davis.”
The kid frowned out the window, inclining his head. “Is that your car all smashed up out there?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Aw, man, that’s an insult to a car like that.”
“It can be fixed.”
Lane glanced between the two. “Can I help you with something?”
The boy held up a plastic packet of flyers. “Winter Festival flyers. Can I put one in your window?”
“Sure.”
Setting down her cup, she crossed to the boy, gathering tape and a small towel as she went. She handed him the towel to dry his face and chatted softly with him as she put the flyer in the front window, asking him if the location was what he needed.
Tyler saw a different woman just then, one with kinder eyes