He took his time wandering. Furniture was meticulously arranged for traffic patterns. A settee here, an occasional table there. Lamps, bowls, vases, all doing double duty as display and decoration. A dining room table was gracefully set with china and glassware, candles and flowers, as if guests were expected any moment. An old Victrola stood open beside a cabinet filled with 78s.
There were three rooms, each as polished and organized as the last. Nowhere in her inventory did he notice a single speck of dust. He paused by a kitchen hutch filled with white stoneware dishes and blue-tinted mason jars.
"It's a nice piece," Regan said from behind him.
"We have one like this in the kitchen at the farm." He didn't turn. He'd known she was there. "My mother kept the everyday dishes in it. White ones, like these. And glasses. Thick ones that didn't break easy. She threw one at me once when I sassed her."
"Did she hit you?"
"No. Would have if she'd meant to." Now he turned and flashed that killer grin. "She had a hell of an arm. What are you doing in the middle of nowhere, Regan Bishop?"
"Selling my wares, Rafe MacKade."
"Your wares aren't half-bad. How much for the dragon in the window?"
"You have excellent taste. It's five-fifty."
"That's steep, Regan." Reaching out, he slipped open the single gold button of her navy blazer.
She found the little gesture oddly intimate, but refused to comment on it. "You get what you pay for."
"If you're smart, you can get more." He tucked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and began to wander again. "How long have you been in town?"
"Three years last summer."
"From?" When she didn't answer, he glanced back, lifted one of those sexy black brows. "Just making conversation, darling. I like to get a handle on the people I'm doing business with."
"We haven't done any business, yet." She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled. "Darling."
His laugh erupted, quick and charming. Little ripples of response skidded up her spine. He was, she was sure, the man every mother had ever warned her daughter about. As tempting as it was, business was business. And it always came first.
"I think I'm going to like you, Regan." He tilted his head. "You sure are a looker."
"Making conversation again?"
"An observation." With a smile hovering around his mouth, he glanced down at her hands. She wore rings, pretty, glittery stones and twists of gold. "Any of those mean anything that's going to get in my way?"
Her stomach fluttered. Her spine stiffened. "I'd say that depends on which way you're heading."
"Nope," he declared. "You're not married. You'd have tossed that in my face. So." Satisfied, he sat on a red velvet love seat, tossed his arm over the curved back. "Want to sit down?"
"No, thanks. Did you come in to do business, or to talk me into bed?"
"I never talk women into bed." He smiled at her.
No, she thought, he'd just have to flash that smile and crook his finger.
"Business, Regan." Relaxed, he crossed his booted feet. "For now, just business."
"All right. Then I'll offer you some hot cider."
"I'll take it."
She moved through a doorway, into the back. Alone, Rafe brooded for a moment. He hadn't meant to be so obvious, hadn't realized he was quite so attracted. There had been something about the way she stood there, in her tailored blazer and tasteful jewelry, her eyes so cool and amused, her scent just short of hot.
If he'd ever seen a woman who announced a thorny road, it was Regan Bishop. Though he rarely chose the smooth path, he had too much on his plate to take the challenge.
Then she came back in on those long, glamorous legs, that pretty swing of hair half curtaining her face.