“Changing the subject. I want to talk about you.”
He smiled, a slight curve of his lips that sent a warm ripple of response coursing through Bailey’s middle. She swallowed.
“I find you so much more interesting,” he said.
She gave him a look of reproval. “Tell me what happened between you and Anna,” she said, deciding she could be as blunt as he was. “She seemed so unhappy when she mentioned you. Did you quarrel? Is there anything I can do to help?”
His smile faded. He cocked his head and spoke coolly. “Are you rummaging through my baggage now, Bailey?”
Her cheeks burned. “I’m just trying to help,” she muttered.
“I thought you said you had given that up.”
“Not when it comes to people I truly care about. Anna’s part of my famil
y now. I don’t like seeing her unhappy.”
“Neither do I,” Bran assured her flatly. “If there were anything I could do to change the situation, I would. But believe me about this, Bailey. There is nothing you can do.”
“I could listen,” she suggested. “Maybe it would help if you talk about it.”
“No. It wouldn’t.” He shifted on the chair. “I really should be going. It’s very late.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Not far away,” he said, standing.
He glanced around the cottage, as though in curiosity. Bailey knew he noticed the lack of furnishings. There were no tables to accompany the love seat or two armchairs, no lamps to soften the overhead lighting, no chairs or stools pulled up to the small eating bar that separated the sitting room from the tiny, equally bare kitchenette. No prints hanging on the freshly painted walls.
“Dean hasn’t had a chance to decorate this cottage yet,” she said, hoping Bran wouldn’t assume that the inn was as meagerly furnished. “It was finished only a few days before I arrived. I told him I’d keep my eye out for some tables and things while I’m here. I can talk to some of the local antiques dealers about a job while I’m shopping for Dean.”
“Does it bother you to be out here alone?”
“It hasn’t before tonight,” she admitted, suddenly frowning again. “I didn’t realize how easy it would be for someone to get in. How did you get in, Bran?”
“Make sure you check the door locks next time,” he murmured.
He seemed to be implying that she’d left the front door unlocked. She bit her lip, knowing Dean would have yelled at her for such carelessness.
She must have been lulled by the comfortable rural setting of the inn, she thought. She would never have been so lax about her safety back in Chicago.
But still, Bran was hardly in a position to criticize her. “You can be sure that I will. I don’t want anyone else barging in without waiting for an invitation,” she said pointedly.
He acknowledged the hit with another faint smile. His dark gaze drifted downward, taking in her bare legs and feet beneath her shorts. “You aren’t exactly dressed for unexpected visitors, are you? Not that I’ve minded the view,” he added.
She stalked past him, suddenly self-conscious. She tried to hide the surge of heat that rushed through her in response to the way he’d just looked at her. It had been a long time—if ever—since she’d reacted this dramatically to a suggestive look.
“Good night, Bran,” she said, twisting the dead-bolt lock to open the door. He must have locked it after he entered, she thought, though she didn’t know why he would have bothered. “Next time, knock.”
He was still smiling when he walked past her. Even annoyed with him, she couldn’t help admiring the way he moved. The image of a sleek, silent, lethal black jungle cat popped into her mind again.
She shivered in response.
She’d always had a weakness for black cats—even the dangerous kind.
Since it was after midnight, the grounds were quiet and deserted outside the cottage. A thin fog shimmered and swirled beneath the security lighting, and a cool autumn breeze drifted in through the open door, chilling Bailey’s exposed flesh.
“You’d better be careful out there,” some mischievous impulse made her murmur. “Looks like a night when the ghosts could be out.”