18

“Yes,” Allen said, agreeing with Diana, “it is a wonderful house.” He paused to listen, then rose from the table to pull the tea kettle from the burner before it could whistle. “And, as I suggested earlier, a house with a history.”

“Oh, yes, the promised history.” From behind, Diana noted the hair that bristled on his calves, the plaid of his bathrobe beginning at the crease of his knees.

He poured the steaming water into the teapot. The faint scent of orange filled the room. “Yes. This is Wendolyn House. Named after the fellow who once lived here. He either built this house or had it built. I’m not sure.”

“Is he famous?”

“Infamous.”

He turned and carried the pot to the table, watching Diana’s face. “Perhaps the story should wait,” he said.

“No, go on,” Diana assured him.