"Roberts, Nora - A Matter of Choice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

"I'm James Sladerman. Miss Winslow's expecting me."

The woman scrutinized him with cautious black eyes. "You'd be the
writer," she stated, obviously not overly impressed. Stepping back, she
allowed him to enter.

As the door closed behind him, Slade glanced around the hall. The floor
was uncarpeted, a gleaming blond oak that showed some wear under the
careful polishing. A few paintings hung on the ivory-toned wallpaper. A
pale green glass bowl sat on a high round table and overflowed with fall
flowers. There were no overt displays of wealth, but wealth was there.
He'd seen a print of the painting to his right in an art book. The blue
scarf that hung negligently over the railing of the steps was silk.

Slade started to turn back to the housekeeper when a clatter at the top
of the steps distracted him.

She came barrelling down the curved staircase in a flurry of swirling
blond hair and flying skirts. The hammer of heels on wood disrupted the
quiet of the house. Slade had a quick impression of speed, motion, and
energy.

"Betsy, you make David stay in bed until that fever's broken. Don't you
dare let him get up. Damn, damn, damn, I'm going to be late! Where are
my keys?"

Three inches away from Slade, she came to a screeching halt, almost
overbalancing. Automatically he reached for her arm to steady her.
Breathless, she brought her eyes from his shirt front to stare at him.

It was an exquisite face--fair skinned, oval, delicate, with just a hint
of cheekbone that added a rather primitive strength. Indian? Viking? he
wondered. Celtic? Her eyes were large, the color of aged whiskey, set
below brows that were lowered in curiosity. The faintest line appeared
between them. A stubborn line, Slade reflected. His sister had one. She
was small, he noted. The top of her head barely skimmed his shoulder.
Her scent was reminiscent of fall--something musky--blossoms and smoke.
The arm beneath his hand was slender under a thin wool blazer. He felt
the stir inside him--man for woman--and hastily dropped his hand.

"This is Mr. Sladerman," Betsy announced. "That writer."

"Oh yes." The smile cleared away the faint line between her brows.
"Uncle Charlie told me you were coming."

It took Slade a moment to connect Uncle Charlie with Dodson. Not knowing
if he was smothering an oath or a laugh, he accepted her extended hand.
"Charlie told me you could use some help, Miss Winslow."

"Help." She rolled her eyes and cleared her throat. "Yes, you could call