A Wish For Love (Gates-Cameron 2)

She moved toward him. He remained in the doorway, blocking her path out of the room. She paused only inches from where he stood, and looked up at him uncertainly. He was watching her with that shuttered, inscrutable expression, his dark eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that took her breath away.

She thought she saw a quick flare of desire cross his face, and she felt an answering flame ignite somewhere deep inside her. Bran backed away before she could be entirely sure of what had passed between them.

She took her time in the kitchenette, pouring a diet soda over ice. She needed that moment to regain her composure. When she turned around, Bran wasn’t in the sitting room where she’d expected him to be. Frowning, she went in search of him.

He was in the bedroom, standing beside the bed. Hands in his pockets, he studied the glowing screen of the portable computer, a puzzled expression on his face. “What is this?”

“I’m working on my résumé. I thought I’d start sending it out next week.”

“I was talking about this device. What do you call it?”

“Haven’t you ever seen a laptop computer before? Or is this one called a notebook? I can’t remember all the terms, the technology changes so quickly.”

Bran shook his head. “What does it do?”

She wondered if he was putting her on. “Everything a bigger computer does. C’mon, Bran, you must have used a computer before. Everyone born in this century has surely been exposed to one at some point or another.”

He lifted his head, looking rather offended by her skepticism. “Never mind.” He turned away from the computer before she could decide whether she should apologize—or figure out why.

His attention zeroed in on the slim brown covered book lying on top of the chest of drawers. “Where did you find this?” he asked without touching the book.

“In that box,” she replied, nodding toward the corner. “Aunt Mae found it in the attic of the inn and asked me to look through the books in it. So far, I’ve only glanced at the ones on top. They look old, but I haven’t seen anything of particular value.”

Bran seemed fascinated by the little brown book. His hand lifted, as though to pick it up, then fell to his side. “This looks like a child’s storybook,” he commented with a touch of gruffness.

“It is. Bedtime stories. I’ve been reading them—or trying to. The pages are in poor condition. I found your name in there.”

He looked quickly around at her. “My name?”

She nodded. “It’s a story about Prince Bran of Ireland. He sailed the southern seas and returned home a hundred years later, still a handsome young man. Do you know the tale?”

“Yes, my mother liked it,” he answered slowly. “She’d heard it as a child from her own mother.”

“Is that where you got your name?”

“Yes.”

He looked again at the book, and Bailey wondered at the expression in his eyes. Sadness? Nostalgia? Longing?

“You’re welcome to look at it, if you like,” she urged, wishing she could understand this mysterious, complex man.

But he’d already turned away from the book, his expression closed again. “I should go,” he said.

“Don’t go yet,” Bailey protested automatically. “Can’t you stay and talk for a few minutes?”

He eyed her warily. “What do you want to talk about?”

“About you,” she answered, exasperated. “Bran, I know nothing about you. Why did you come by tonight? Where are you staying? What’s going on between you and Anna?”

He surprised her with a faint smile. “You really are the curious sort, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. Compulsively,” she admitted frankly. “And, to be quite honest, you are driving me crazy.”

His smile dee

pened. “Am I?”

Oh, heavens, when he smiled…