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face; you wouldn't leave him

here all by himself, would you?"

Zanita frowned; Tyber knew exactly which button to push. "Well…"

He turned the dragon to face him. "I told you not to worry, Tubbs," he said,

sotto voce. "Piece of cake."

After they had made their purchases and left the store, Tyber asked her where

she was going to hang her dragon. "In the kitchen window, I think."

"Perfect place—Blooey will love him."

Zanita glanced over at him. She had meant her kitchen window at her apartment,

not his. Perhaps he hadn't realized what he'd just said. After all, she was only

in his home temporarily, until they finished this LaLeche business.

She shrugged her shoulders, deciding to let the remark pass. But later she

thought about it again when he insisted on buying her an antique shawl. It was

an old-fashioned violet crochet with tiny pink rosettes.

"The parlor can get drafty in the winter," he said by way of an explanation,

"even with the fireplace going. For all I've renovated it, the house is still

over a hundred years old. And much as I'd like to, I can't cuddle you all the

time, Curls."

She was not going to let that comment go.

"Tyber." She gritted her teeth. "Let's get one thing straight—you are not my

boy—"

"You don't like it?" He seemed vaguely hurt.

"It's beautiful, but I am not—"

"It's perfect for you; I can picture you wearing it, curled up in the big Queen

Anne chair in front of the fireplace, reading a favorite book while Hambone

nestles at your feet."

Her fists clenched. "I do not belong in that picture! It sounds like something

out of Little Women. Besides which, I don't think the story is going to take

that long."

"It might. And why should you suffer a drafty house because of it?"

She blinked. He was doing it again—confusing her with his obtuse way of making a

point. "What does that have to do with—why should—it doesn't…"

He regarded her from under half-lowered lashes. "It has; you should; and it

does." Her mouth gaped. "Now say thank you and let's go into this fascinating

but incomprehensible art gallery."

Before she could think of a response, he had ushered her into the shop.

By the time they stopped for lunch, they were pretty much shopped out. Tyber had

purchased two large jugs of maple syrup for Blooey and a piece of Vermont

cheddar for Hambone. When the store owner found out they had driven a motorcycle

to town, he graciously offered to drop off the jugs at their inn on his way home

from work.

The Hungry Kitten revealed itself to be a very elegant restaurant. Zanita had

misgivings about entering the linen-draped dining room in her jeans and boots,

but Tyber just clutched her hand in his, half dragging her to their Limoges and

crystal-set table.

"Isn't this rather fancy for lunch?" She looked around at the other diners, who

seemed to be dressed for the occasion and speaking in very hush-hush murmurs.

"Better enjoy it while we can; I don't think we'll make dinner this evening at

the inn. I suspect LaLeche expects us to stay the entire day and well into the

evening. And from what I remember of the offerings of food laid out on that

rickety table last night—"

"I get your point." Zanita eagerly opened her menu. "Jeez Louise! Look at these

prices!" She gaped at the menu in awe.

"Zanita," Tyber said dryly.

"I was going to treat you to lunch." She raised her violet eyes to his. They

were suspiciously moist. "But I—I can't afford this, Tyber."

He put his menu down and covered her hand with his. "It's nice of you to want to

take me out, sweetheart, but it's not necessary. There's absolutely no reason

for us not to completely enjoy this weekend as long as we're here."

"But Tyber—"

His eyes locked implacably with hers. "Don't worry about it." He picked up his

menu again. "Now let's see what looks good here—How about the lobster pie?"

While Zanita viewed her menu, Tyber thoughtfully gazed down at her bent head.

She had absolutely no idea how wealthy he was, he mused. Imagine becoming

overwrought about what he considered a simple, although elegant, lunch.

As a reporter bent on getting an interview with him, she had to know he held

literally hundreds of patents. Not to mention the income from his teaching

seminars and the books he had written. Somehow Zanita had blocked this all off

from her consciousness, choosing instead to see him for the most part as just an

interesting, albeit eccentric physicist.

And he knew why.

As long as she could view him in that manner, he wasn't so threatening to her.

He understood how she would see him as threatening in terms of a relationship.

On one hand, he wanted her to feel threatened by him. It meant she recognized

that he was shaking up her nice, safe world. On the other hand, what good was

having anything in life if you didn't allow yourself the pleasure of it?

Tyber wasn't about to let her fear of commitment color their time together. In

the broadest sense, it had nothing to do with money; it had everything to do

with his philosophy of life.

He was an unconventional man who believed in enjoying all aspects of life to the

fullest. Whether it was traveling first class on the Orient Express, the joy in

creating a masterpiece, or the sheer beauty of discovery. It was about

excellence. It was about being alive.

And he wanted Zanita to share those life experiences with him.

Now and in the future.

Because of her background, he realized she hadn't had the opportunity to

experience the kind of life he lived, but he was in the process of changing

that. Tyber knew Zanita possessed not only the capacity for it, but also the

zest.

To make his point, he ordered an extraordinary chilled wine to accompany their

main course.

"Lobster pie sounds good," Zanita said to the waiter in a small voice, not

looking up from her menu. Twenty-eight-fifty for lobster pie a la carte. She

swallowed a sip of water from a crystal goblet. For lunch. Tyber needed to get a

handle on reality, she thought.

The Doc lived a secluded life, enclosed behind the walls of his mansion, his

mind wrapped up in arcane subjects; she really didn't think he had a clue. The

poor, sweet, misguided man.

Well, now that