Warm Hearts Read Online Free Page A

six feet. She liked feeling petite and protected, though she hadn’t had much experience in being either. She’d always been the protector, it seemed. Granted, it was a psychological distinction, but it wouldn’t hurt to set the stage right.
    He’d be dark. She fancied that their coloring would be similar. She rather liked the idea that people might take them for brother and sister, while they shared secret smiles at the truth. Her own hair was dark brown, often mistaken for black. His would be the same. And it would be on the long side. There was something rakish about a man with long hair. She could see that it was thick, because it capped his head well, but the shadows on his neck hid its length. Which was okay, because she was only dreaming.
    He’d be handsome. His features would be well-defined and boldly cut, giving him a distinctly aristocratic look. Mmm. An aristocratic look. She liked that. She’d never mingled with the aristocracy. Her parents were solidly upper middle-class, but aristocratic? Not quite. Not that she had aspirations of running with the hounds or boogying with the jet set. She’d be bored to death—not to mention the fact that she thought the hunt was cruel and discos gave her a headache. Still, it’d be nice to know that he could have had that and had opted out.
    But she was getting away from looks, and she hadn’t finished with handsome. His nose would be straight, his cheeks lean, his jaw firm and his lips expressive. She could read a lot in people’s lips—relaxed or tight set, chewed or sucked or pursed, curved up or down or drawn into straight lines. Not that she’d have to rely on his mouth to convey his feelings, because he’d have the deepest, most inviting and eloquent brown eyes.
    The last thought surprised her. She had brown eyes. She’d never thought them particularly gorgeous. But his would be, she knew, because of all that went along with them.
    Oh, and he’d have a heavy five-o’clock shadow. That was because he’d just come in from work or from running. She pictured him a runner. Of course, if he were coming to pick her up, he’d shower and shave first. He’d want to look his best for her. She’d have to tell him that he looked fantastic all grubby and sweaty.
    She brought the glass of tea to her cheek and rubbed wet against wet. Tall, dark and handsome. That was what he’d be. People would look at them when they passed, thinking what a stunning couple they made.
    She smiled in self-mockery. She wasn’t stunning. Attractive, yes. But with him, she’d be stunning. Or she’d feel it, and that would be all that mattered.
    Having dispensed with physical attributes, she moved on to other vital statistics. He’d be in his late thirties, just about right for her thirty-one years. She wanted someone older than she was, someone more experienced. If he was in his late thirties, even early forties, he’d be well established in his chosen field. He’d be successful, of course, but more important than that, he’d be confident. She needed a confident man, because she was, overall, a confident woman. She was also introspective and insightful, qualities that intimidated a man who was less sure of himself.
    She intimidated Elliot, who compensated by artificially inflating his strengths and successes. To some extent she’d intimidated Ben. At least, she’d assumed that was what she’d done, because she couldn’t find any other reason why he’d always felt the need to come on so forcefully. She was by nature a watcher and a listener; when she spoke, she had something pertinent to say. Some men found that to be a threat.
    He wouldn’t. He’d be a strong man but one who welcomed her opinions. He’d appreciate the fact that she thought about things, that she was fascinated by her own motives and those of others. He’d be able to listen without getting