The Pride of Jared MacKade by Nora Roberts

was really screaming.” Excited by the memory, Bryan nearly forgot to bother with a glass—until he caught his own mother’s steely eye. “It wasn’t broke. Just smashed real good.”
    “We’re going to work on that grammar tonight, Ace.”
    Bryan rolled his eyes. “Nobody talks like the books say. Anyway, I got a B on the spelling test.”
    “Drinks are on the house. Math?”
    Bryan swallowed juice in a hurry. “Hey, I gotta clean up,” he declared, and dashed for the stairs in a strategic retreat.
    Recognizing evasive action, Savannah winced. “We hate long division.”
    “Who doesn’t?” Jared handed her a bottle of wine. “But a B in spelling’s not chump change.”
    Neither, she thought, was the fancy French label on the bottle. “This is going to humble my spaghetti.”
    Jared took a deep, appreciative sniff of the air. It was all spice and bubbling red sauce. “I don’t think so.”
    “Well, at least take off that tie.” She turned to root out a corkscrew. “It’s intimidating. You can—”
    He turned her by the shoulders, lowered his head slowly and covered her mouth with his. The top of her head lifted gently away.
    “Kiss,” she finished on a long breath. “You can sure as hell kiss.” After picking up the corkscrew that had clattered to the counter, she opened the wine with the quick, competent moves of a veteran bartender. “Fancy wine and fancy flowers, all in one day. You’re going to turn my head.”
    “That’s the idea.”
    She stretched for the wineglasses on the top shelf. “I’d have thought, after the condensed version of The Life and Times of Savannah Morningstar, you’d have gotten the picture that I’m not the wine-and-flowers type.”
    He brushed a finger over the petals of the roses she’d set in the center of the table. “They seem to suit you.”
    As he folded his tie into his pocket, loosened the collar of his shirt, she poured the wine. “It was rude ofme not to thank you for them. So…” She handed him a glass. “Thanks.”
    “My pleasure.”
    “Bryan’s going to hide out until he thinks I’ve for gotten about the math. More fool he. If you’re hungry, I can call him down.”
    “No hurry.” Sipping wine, he wandered into the front room. He wanted a better look at the paintings.
    The colors were bold, often just on the edge of clashing. The brush strokes struck him as the same—bold sweeps, temperamental lines. The subject matter varied, from still lifes of flowers in full riotous bloom, to portraits of vivid, lived-in faces, to landscapes of gnarled trees, rocky hills and stormy skies.
    Not quiet parlor material, he mused. And not some thing it was easy to look away from. Like the artist, he decided, the work made a full-throttle impression.
    “No wonder you turned your nose up at what’s hanging in my office,” he murmured.
    “I’ve never thought art was supposed to be cool.” She moved a shoulder. “But that’s just my opinion.”
    “What’s it supposed to be? In your opinion?”
    “Alive.”
    “Then you’ve certainly succeeded.” He turned back to her. “Do you still sell?”
    “If the price is right.”
    “I’ve been thinking about having Regan do some thing about my office. My sister-in-law,” he reminded her. “She’s done an incredible job with the inn she andmy brother are rehabing. Would you be willing to handle the art?”
    She took it slow, watching him, sipping wine. The idea had an old, deeply buried longing battling for air. Painting was just a hobby, she reminded herself. What else could it be, for a woman with no formal training?
    “I’ve already told you I’d sleep with you.”
    He managed a laugh, though it nearly stuck in his suddenly dry throat. “Yes, you have. But we’re talking about your painting. Are you interested in selling some?”
    “You want to put my art in your office?”
    “I believe I’ve established that.”
    One step at a time, Savannah reminded herself. Don’t let him see just how