That Special Smile/Whittenburg

The first thing she noticed was the towel.

It was an ordinary blue terrycloth, slightly damp in places, but then so was the man who wore it draped casually around his waist.

A drop of water hit the concrete porch and splattered on the tip of her soft kid leather sandal in a cool bid for attention.

Sylvie looked down. If the rest of him matched his feet, she thought, she would have a long way to look up.

She saw no need to hurry, though, and leisurely brought her gaze up past hairy calves to muscled thighs, skipped the towel, and focused on the wet tangle of curls on his chest. Pursing her lips in an appraising frown, she lifted her eyes to a stubborn-looking chin, a mouth firmed with impatience, an almost straight and quite attractive nose, narrowed eyes that were a cool shade of blue – a deeper tone than the towel, she noted – dark brows and ebony hair that gleamed with moisture.

Now, who would have thought that a nice-looking, half-naked man would answer the door when
she
rang the bell?

“Good morning,” she said with a smile. “You must be Max.  Honestly, I was expecting someone dryer.”

One brow arched as he shifted his weight and adjusted the knot of the towel. “I would have been dryer, but someone was
leaning
on the doorbell.” His voice was rich and deep and added a nuance of intimacy to the warm September morning.

Interesting, Sylvie decided, but then Juliette’s men were always interesting in one way or another.

“I didn’t think it worked,” Sylvie explained cheerfully. “The way things have gone so far today, I thought there wasn’t a chance in ten that you’d be here. Juliette told me if she was gone when I arrived to ring the bell at the house next door.”

Men always smiled when Juliette’s name was mentioned. It was a phenomenon Sylvie had observed many times before and had come to expect, but Max didn’t smile. He frowned. And there wasn’t even a hint of wistful affection in his eyes — they really were a gallant shade of blue.

She wondered if there was trouble in her sister’s latest paradise.

Max rubbed a hand along the rough shadow of his jawline and dropped his gaze to the concrete and the ridiculously small, sandaled feet opposite his own. She had nice legs, although he couldn’t help thinking they would look better bare and with a higher hemline. From the tip of her high-heeled sandals to the fashionable green dress she wore – which showed off a very nice pair of legs – to the tortoiseshell glasses that framed wide, sea-green eyes, all the way to the graceful curve of reddish-blond hair against her shoulders, she looked very Boston – and very much out of place on his front porch.

This, of course, was Julie’s much-touted, multitalented sister.

What a hell of a way to begin the weekend, Max thought.

“Your sister didn’t happen to say what
I
might be able to do for you, did she?” His question was somewhat terse and won him a considering look.

“No, but I’m sure she knew you’d make me feel welcome.” Sylvie’s lips curved with friendly warmth. “Why would she have warned me that you make terrible coffee if she didn’t believe you’d offer me a cup?”

Which, Max thought, pretty much put his options into perspective.

“Well, if Julie told you to come over, then by all means, come in.” He invited her inside with a small sweep of his hand and stepped back, intending to vacate the doorway.

But Sylvie was a little too quick for him, and without knowing exactly how it happened, he found himself face to face with her, caught between the door and her more yielding form. There wasn’t enough room in the narrow entrance for any degree of polite distance, and Max sensed that his guest wasn’t the type to appreciate the humor – or any other positive aspect – of the unexpected closeness.

He retraced his step, but Sylvie obviously had the same idea, and their actions coincided again. This time, though, he felt the soft, rounded shape of her breasts against his chest and wasn’t in such a hurry to dispel the sensation.

After all, she was the one who rang the doorbell.

Sylvie lifted her chin and met his gaze. “I believe we need a plan of action here.”

“I could suggest one.”

“Oh, please, allow me.” With a haughty sort of confidence she placed her hand flat on the center of his bare chest and held him in place until she had moved past him into the house.

No, Max decided as he followed and closed the door behind him, she definitely did not appreciate the possibilities of the situation.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asked with what he considered admirable charm under the circumstances.

She turned from her curious perusal of the front room. “Is it as bad as Juliette said?” Sylvie’s smile appeared then, surprising him with its open sincerity. “No, I’m sure it couldn’t be. Considering the awful stuff my sister calls coffee, I have to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

If this was any indication of the way the conversation would run, Max thought, he was going to need a little caffeine himself. “Is that a yes or a no, Sylvie Anne?”

“Sylvie,” she corrected. “And yes, thank you.”

“What?”

“Yes, thank you, I’d love to have a cup of coffee and my name is Sylvie.” She pronounced each word crisply, as if she meant business.

Max eyed her speculatively. “But Juliette calls you Sylvie Anne.”

“As my younger sister, she feels entitled to call me any number of things. But I only use my middle name in extreme emergencies, and so far, in twenty….” She closed her lips around the revelation and kept her age to herself. There were certain things a man had no business knowing about a woman. “So far, there hasn’t been an emergency that extreme.”

Max felt an irrelevant amusement nudging his irritation as he observed her from a prudent distance.

She was twenty-nine, moving in on thirty. Julie had told him. So, he thought, there was at least one Achilles’ heel in Sylvie’s aura of perfect composure. His frustration with this interruption in his day took a subtle turn toward discovery. Maybe, with the right approach, he could salvage his sense of humor and still manage to enjoy the morning. After all, he’d done worse things on a Saturday morning than entertaining an attractive redhead.

Sylvie tapped one restless foot and wondered why Max was staring at her with the hint of a smile hovering about his mouth. He certainly seemed relaxed for a man who was wearing nothing more than a towel in front of a complete stranger. She touched the tortoiseshell rim of her glasses, settling them more securely on the bridge of her nose and thereby settling her own odd feelings about his lack of appropriate attire.

“If you want to change towels or something, I’ll be glad to get the coffee for myself. Just point me toward the kitchen.”

His jaw tightened. Max had been about to make the same suggestion, but it annoyed him out of all proportion that
she
had done so. Sylvie Anne was very pushy for an uninvited guest, and he’d be damned if he’d let her make herself at home, even if he was wrapped from waist to mid-thigh in damp terry cloth.

“I’ll get the coffee,” he said, motioning her toward the sofa as he moved toward the doorway and the kitchen beyond. “You can wait here. Just make yourself….” He caught the
at home
as it was about to escape. “…comfortable. I’ll be back in a minute.” Pushing the swinging doors apart, he entered the kitchen.

Sylvie sank onto the sofa, feeling a bit out of sorts with the greeting she’d received. Why hadn’t Juliette stayed home this morning? Sylvie sighed with the knowledge that there would be an explanation. Not a reasonable one, of course, but Juliette always had an explanation.

With a rueful look at her surroundings, Sylvie came to the conclusion that she should have accepted Juliette’s offer to meet her at the airport in Little Rock.

But if she had, she’d still be waiting there. On top of that she’d be dependent on her sister’s pedal-to-the-metal method of driving during the entire length of her stay.

No, Sylvie reaffirmed her original decision as the only sane course of action. It was better that she’d made arrangements to lease a car, and the trip from Little Rock hadn’t actually been that bad.

If only Juliette could, just once, be where she was supposed to be when she was supposed to be there.

But maybe Max had a key to Juliette’s house....

The thought trailed into futile wishing.

Juliette had lived in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, for almost five months now. If she had ever given Max a key to her house, she would long since have borrowed it back and forgotten to return it to him. Juliette was forever locking herself out. Or in.

Sylvie gently rubbed her cheek with a fingertip, absently checked the fit of her glasses, and relaxed against the rough-woven fabric of the sofa. Her gaze circled the room once and then again, looking for something

Information, she supposed.

Little details about Max McConnell that Juliette might have forgotten to mention, as impossible as that seemed. In the past few weeks every conversation she’d had with Juliette had fairly hummed with his name.

Now that she’d met him, though, she had to admit a certain amount of curiosity.

He wasn’t at all what she’d expected.

Nothing like the men Juliette usually fell for. Physically, there were no standards. Juliette showed no prejudice against or preference for any certain height, weight, or eye color.

But Sylvie had a vague idea that Max’s basic philosophy was different from that of most of the men Juliette had dated, and he certainly seemed to possess a more casual attitude than the men she herself knew.

Sylvie searched her memory and couldn’t think of anyone in her acquaintance, male or female, who would have answered the door wearing a towel.

But Max had done so. And he hadn’t shown even a respectable degree of embarrassment. In fact, he’d motioned her inside and then tried to hold her hostage in the doorway, watching her throughout as if he thought the whole incident had been
her
fault.

Crossing her ankles, Sylvie smoothed the sleek cut of her hair and then began tracing a
fingertip over her palm, remembering the warm, rough texture of his chest and the faint rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her touch.

He was a large man and, if she was honest, she’d have to admit he had a considerable amount of sex appeal.

She could understand Juliette’s attraction. Max was worth a second look, especially dripping wet.

He wasn’t
her
type, of course. But, then, she was very particular.

Examining a tiny nick in the polished sheen of one oval fingernail, she was glad brawn and muscle no longer impressed her.

She was past all that nonsense.

On her twenty-seventh birthday she had decided her life was full and happy without a man and she had simply stopped looking for Mr. Right. It had been surprisingly easy – perhaps because her past experiences with men hadn’t been especially satisfying.

Over the years, most of the men she had felt a strong attraction to had considered her merely a good friend and confidante, but the men from whom she wanted only friendship seemed intent on sweeping her off her feet.

Someday, someone....

Sylvie had heard those words too many times to be fooled and she had long since accepted that marriage was not in her future.

It didn’t even matter anymore.

She wasn’t sure it ever really had.

She was happy. She liked being independent and she didn’t think about what she might be missing.

Except once in a while when it occurred to her to wonder what it might be like to share life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness — maybe even a faded blue bath towel — with a man.

But she never allowed herself to wonder very long.  She was too busy for that.

A muffled sound of frustration came from the kitchen and a wry smile settled on her lips. Max was probably wishing her a dozen miles away. It really was rather rude to impose on him this way.

Still, she had wanted to meet him, and she’d blithely assumed he’d be delighted to have an opportunity to quiz her about Juliette.

In the past Sylvie had counseled a number of prospective suitors for Juliette’s affections. It had been annoying at times, entertaining at others, but she hadn’t minded. Not really. It was just a part of being Juliette’s sibling.

Besides, Sylvie felt it contributed a sense of objectivity and humor to her own view of love and its inevitable stages.

The thought of Max McConnell needing romantic counseling from her was amusing. He didn’t seem the type to badger her with questions about baby Juliette and how she grew.  But he would. Every man did at one time or another. The bigger they were, the harder they fell; Max must have taken a real tumble. He was probably in the kitchen right now planning how to broach the subject.

There was a clatter of china against china as he pushed open the swinging doors and backed carefully into the living room. In each hand he balanced a cup and saucer, and he was dressed.