Sanctuary

little about every damn thing.
    Her voice carried what he thought of as high-society New England. Or, when he was feeling less charitable, damn Yankee. She had those Yankee cheekbones, too. They set off sea-green eyes and a slightly turned-up nose. Her mouth was full—not too wide, not too small. It was just one more irritatingly perfect thing about her.
    He kept expecting to hear that she’d gone back to the mainland, closed up the little cottage she’d inherited from her granny and given up on the notion of running a clinic on the island. But month after month she stayed, slowly weaving herself into the fabric of the place.
    And getting under his skin.
    She kept smiling at him, with that mocking look in her eyes, as she pushed back a soft wave of the wheat-colored hair that fell smoothly to her shoulders. “Beautiful morning.”
    “It’s early.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. He never knew quite what to do with them around her.
    “Not too early for you.” She angled her head. Lord, he was fun to look at. She’d been hoping to do more than look for months, but Brian Hathaway was one of the natives of this little spit of land that she was having trouble winning over. “I guess breakfast isn’t ready yet.”
    “We don’t serve till eight.” He figured she knew that as well as he did. She came around often enough.
    “I suppose I can wait. What’s the special this morning?”
    “Haven’t decided.” Since there was no shaking her off, he resigned himself when she fell into step beside him.
    “My vote’s for your cinnamon waffles. I could eat a dozen.” She stretched, linking her fingers as she lifted her arms overhead.
    He did his best not to notice the way her cotton shirt strained over small, firm breasts. Not noticing Kirby Fitzsimmons had become a full-time job. He wound around the side of the house, through the spring blooms that lined the path of crushed shells. “You can wait in the guest parlor, or the dining room.”
    “I’d rather sit in the kitchen. I like watching you cook.” Before he could think of a way around it, she’d stepped up into the rear screened porch and through the kitchen door.
    As usual, it was neat as a pin. Kirby appreciated tidiness in a man, the same way she appreciated good muscle tone and a well-exercised brain. Brian had all three qualities, which was why she was interested in what kind of lover he’d make.
    She figured she would find out eventually. Kirby always worked her way toward a goal. All she had to do was keep chipping away at that armor of his.
    It wasn’t disinterest. She’d seen the way he watched her on the rare occasions when his guard was down. It was sheer stubbornness. She appreciated that as well. And the contrasts of him were such fun.
    She knew as she settled on a stool at the breakfast bar that he would have little to say unless she prodded. That was the distance he kept between himself and others. And she knew he would pour her a cup of his really remarkable coffee, and remember that she drank it light. That was his innate hospitality.
    Kirby let him have his quiet for a moment as she sipped the coffee from the steaming mug he’d set before her. She hadn’t been teasing when she’d said she liked to watch him cook.
    A kitchen might have been a traditionally female domain, but this kitchen was all male. Just like its overseer, Kirby thought, with his big hands, shaggy hair, and tough face.
    She knew—because there was little that one person on the island didn’t know about the others—that Brian had had the kitchen redone about eight years before. And he’d created the design, chosen the colors and materials. Had made it a working man’s room, with long granite-colored counters and glittering stainless steel.
    There were three wide windows, framed only by curved and carved wood trim. A banquette in smoky gray was tucked under them for family meals, though, as far as she knew, the Hathaways rarely ate as a family. The floor was creamy white tile, the walls white and unadorned. No fancy work for Brian.
    Yet there were homey touches in the gleam of copper pots that hung from hooks, the hanks of dried peppers and garlic, the shelf holding antique kitchen tools. She imagined he thought of them as practical rather than homey, but they warmed the room.
    He’d left the old brick hearth alone, and it brought back reminders of a time when the kitchen had been the core of this house, a place for gathering, for lingering. She liked