He still hadn’t made eye contact with his visitor.Ĭabot understood that was deliberate. With a tilt of his head, Sinclair indicated the rosewood box that lay open at the end of his workbench. Besides, I didn’t realize that was a gun. Out of practice, I guess, Griff acknowledged, his mouth relaxing into a smile. I would think you, of all people, would know that. You should never sneak up on a man who’s holding a gun, Rafe Sinclair said without glancing up. The striking blue eyes were hidden, intent on whatever he was shaping, but the austere, almost forbidding features were exactly as he had remembered them. When he lifted his gaze from the workman’s hands, he realized with a sense of shock that the passage of six years had had as little effect on the face of the man he was watching as on those hands. When no one had answered his repeated knocks on the front door, Cabot had been drawn around to the back by a sound he hadn’t then been able to identify. The workshop where he was working had been attached to the back of a small log cabin, which sat in a clearing on the side of Sinclair Mountain. Dark, long-fingered hands handled the object with a skill that was nearly graceful, despite the strength and masculinity that was apparent in their every movement. The man Griff Cabot had come to find was carefully turning a piece of wood on a spindle sander.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |