Hastily, he reached for the door. He tore his gaze away, aware of the quickening of his heartbeat. “Want one?” Michelle deadpanned. ‘Very wise,’ commented Gerald. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape.
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