Passion Read Online Free

A.M ., but she would spare a few minutes to bid them farewell in the hotel lobby.
    “Breakfast?” he suggested. “In the courtyard? At seven?”
    Inwardly wincing, she agreed, then immediately felt guilty, because that steely gaze of his could see her reluctance. She
     was convinced of it. Besides, it wasn’t as if he were a thoroughly unlikable person. He just had some rough edges that needed
     smoothing. He’d lived alone up there inhis mountains for so very long that he’d forgotten how to relate to people. Maybe he’d never been very good at it; maybe that
     was partly why he had locked himself in such solitude in the first place.
    Compensating, she offered a warmer acceptance. “I’d love to have breakfast with you. I’ll meet you there.”
    After another moment’s scrutiny, he nodded, broke the contact, and walked away, Sheila at his side, and Teryl gave a soft
     sigh of relief. The interview had gone as expected, it was a warm day, and she had the rest of the evening free. She was going
     down to the French Quarter, and she was going to have some fun. She was going to make the most of her last night in the city.
    She hadn’t gone more than twenty feet when someone called her name. Turning, she saw John once again. This time they were
     in the well-lit hallway, and she could see that he definitely was not wearing a wedding band—and, if his tan was anything
     to judge by, he never had worn one. At least, not in a very long time.
    “Where are you headed?”
    “The French Quarter.”
    “Alone?”
    She nodded.
    “Want some company?”
    She hesitated only a moment. She was a bright woman. She knew better than to go off with a strange man, but it was early June
     in New Orleans and the Quarter was crowded with tourists. They would never be alone, would never be away from a crowd. What
     could it possibly hurt?
    She accepted his offer, and they left the studio together. It was a six-block walk along Chartres Street to Jackson Square,
     a walk that he didn’t seem much interested in filling with conversation. She asked him questions, but his answers were vague
     and insubstantial. He’d lived in New Orleans a while, he admitted, and had come there from somewhere else. He had moved around
     a lot. She supposed in the TV business, that was often necessary.
    “Are you married?” she asked as they crossed yet another narrow and crowded street.
    He looked at her and, for the first time, smiled. It was slow and sweet—and, yes, his mouth was very definitely made for smiling.
     “No, never have been. Are you?”
    She shook her head.
    “Too busy with your career?”
    That made her laugh. “It’s a job, sweetheart, not a career. I’m a glorified receptionist and gofer.”
    “But it brought you to New Orleans. Not a bad job.”
    “No, it isn’t.” She pushed her hands into the pockets of her shorts. She had opted for comfort this afternoon—knee-length
     shorts in cream, a white silk blouse, and a vest woven in cream, crimson, and green. She was glad now that she had. The clothing
     was flattering and cool, and John’s looks were, sometimes when she caught them, hot.
    “So why aren’t you married?”
    They reached Jackson Square, and for a moment she simply stood motionless on the sidewalk. She could live down here, she decided,
     in one of those apartments that overlooked the square. She could have breakfast every morning at the Café du Monde, could
     sit on a bench every day and listen to the music, admire the artists, and watch the tourists. She could be totally lazy. Decadent.
     Dissolute.
    At least for a day or two, before her very small savings account ran dry.
    “I met a man,” she said at last as they began moving again. “He was handsome and charming, and he swept me off my feet. We
     worked together, cooked together, and played together. We slept together and, for a while, on a part-time basis, we even lived
     together. And then he asked me to marry him. I said yes.” She gave John a