Every Perfect Gift Read Online Free

you know my name. Doesn’t seem fair that I don’t know yours.”
    Another lightning-quick smile. “Sophie Robillard.”
    He nodded. “Thank you. Ah, here comes tea.”
    He waited while O’Brien set down the tea tray and then quietly withdrew, shutting the door softly. “Shall I pour for you?”
    “Yes, please.”
    He filled their cups, passed lemon and sugar, and took a long sip. “Now I’m all yours. Ask away.”
    Twenty minutes later, he recanted his assessment of her reportorial skills. This girl . . . woman . . . extracted facts and figures about the resort from him that he hadn’t even realized he knew. By the time the teapot was empty, his mind swam with all he had told her. And with the intriguing realization that S. R. Caldwell was, in every significant way, more than his match.
    A train whistle sounded as another load of furnishings arrived via the railway that had been built to ferry men and materials up to the ridge from the station in town. He rose. “Shall we take that tour now? I don’t want you driving back down the mountain after dark.”
    “Oh, no need to worry about me. I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe.” Clasping her notebook to her chest, she rose and followed him from his office into the grand lobby.
    Something in her manner irked him. “Tell me, Miss Caldwell, are you always so sure of yourself?”
    “I don’t know what you mean.” Wide green eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, held his.
    “How can you be sure you’ll come to no harm? Bad things happen to people when they are least expecting it.”
    “I know that. But don’t you think it’s better to assume the best will happen?” She indicated the room with a sweep of her arm. “Perhaps we’d better get back to the tour.”
    “As you wish.” They continued along the broad hallway. “The ceiling was finished only last week. It was painted by Joshua Olmstead of New York. The flowers depicted in each panel are native plants that grow here on the mountain, and each is outlined in twenty-four-carat gold leaf.”
    Sophie Robillard flipped to a new page and made a quick sketch. If she was impressed with the paintings of blue gentians, yellow sunflowers, daisies, violets, and purple asters or with the carved moldings and the Oriental silk runners lying atop gleaming oak floors, she hid it well. She merely observed and scribbled.
    Ethan frowned. Granted, reporters were supposed to be objective and impartial. But would it kill her to express a little enthusiasm for his masterpiece?
    He led her from the lobby to the main ballroom and then to the east wing to see a suite of guest rooms. He took his time describing the antique furnishings, the expensive European linens adorning the canopied bed, the rosewood inlays in the fireplace mantel. She took in the brocade sofas, the Italian silk draperies framing the Palladian windows, her expression one of benign interest. Though his irritation persisted, he couldn’t stop staring at her. Perhaps if he talked long enough, darkness would overtake them and he’d have to see the beautiful young reporter home himself.

    Leaving her horse and rig at the livery, Sophie hurried to the inn as darkness fell. She was chilled from her long drive back from Blue Smoke, but at the same time she felt alive, energized. Ethan Heyward had been a very pleasant surprise. She’d detected some initial irritation at discovering her gender, but to his credit, he had taken her seriously and provided her with enough material for several stories. And there was no point in denying it: he was quite handsome—tall and well muscled, with thick brown hair and an engaging smile. Behind his thin, gold-rimmed spectacles were deep blue eyes that reminded her of the sky reflected in a clear mountain creek. He had about him an air of complete confidence. He moved easily between the hushed, rarefied atmosphere of the gilded resort and the rough-and-tumble army of men working to complete the buildings that were scattered