|
|
|
|
|
|
After a while, though, he began talking conversationally, confusing her. How had his anger dissipated so quickly? |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
"The offices are in Beverly Hills," he said, as though certain she knew where that was. "Aunt Myra pushed me into it soon as I'd a little success, though my first space was tiny. Myra thought panache was everything." |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Panache? Abby took a guess at what that meant and nodded. "Sometimes an appearance of confidence is as important as truly feeling it." She had learned that as a healer; if she acted certain of a cure, it was more likely to work. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
He turned to her, his eyes like hard granite. "I don't give a damn for appearance," he said coldly. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Abby swallowed hard, brushing her unbound hair away from her face; once more she had triggered his irritation and as usual did not know why. Again he became quiet. The thrust of his broad jaw and deepening of the hollows at his cheeks indicated that he had retreated yet again into his disquieting thoughts, and Abby longed to smooth the uneasy wrinkles on his forehead, take away whatever hurt pierced him so cruelly. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
She soon understood why the words Beverly Hills would have meaning to anyone who knew of it. Buildings and hotels in this area were sometimes 20 or more stories tall. People here strolled self-confidently on sidewalks, many in clothing much like Mike had worn on the desert: both men and women in Levi's and clinging |
|
|
|
|
|