First Impressions

twit, I could make it easier for you. Let me try to explain.”
    “I don’t want anyone, not even you, to make it easier.” She gave him a fierce squeeze. “Please understand. All of my life I’ve been cute little Shane Abbott, Faye’s sweet, slightly odd granddaughter. I need to prove something.”
    Remembering how frustrating it had been to be known as Miriam Riverton Banning’s son, Vance sighed. Yes, he understood. And the understanding made him keep his silence on how simple it would be for him to help. “Well,” he said, wanting to hear her laugh, “you are kind of cute.”
    “Oh, Vance,” she moaned.
    “And sweet,” he added, tilting her face up for a kiss. “And slightly odd.”
    “That’s no way to endear yourself to me,” she warned. “I’ll wash, you dry.”
    “Wash what?”
    “The dishes.”
    He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms firmly around her waist. “I don’t see any dishes. You have wonderful eyes, just like a cocker spaniel.”
    “Watch it, Vance,” she said threateningly.
    “I like your freckles.” He placed a light kiss on the bridge of her nose. “I’ve always thought that Becky Thatcher had freckles.”
    “You’re heading for trouble,” she told him, narrowing her eyes.
    “And your dimples,” he continued blithely. “She probably had dimples too, don’t you think?”
    Shane bit her lips to hold back a smile. “Shut up, Vance.”
    “Yes,” he continued, beaming down at her, “I’d say that’s definitely a cute little face.”
    “Okay, that does it.” Putting a good deal of effort into it, Shane tried to wiggle out of his hold.
    “Going somewhere?”
    “Home,” she told him grandly. “You can do your own dishes.”
    He sighed. “I guess I have to get tough again.”
    Anticipating him, Shane began to struggle in earnest. “If you throw me over your shoulder again, you really are fired!”
    Hooking an arm behind her knees, Vance swept her up. “How’s this?”
    She circled his neck. “Better,” she said grudgingly. The smile was becoming impossible to control.
    “And this?” Softly, he placed his lips on hers, letting the kiss deepen until he heard her sigh.
    “Much better,” she murmured as he carried her from the room. “Where are we going?”
    “Upstairs,” he told her. “I want my shirt back.”

Chapter 10
    “Yes, of course you could convert it,” Shane agreed, passing her fingertip over the porcelain base of a delicate oil lamp.
    “That’s just what I thought.” Mrs. Trip, Shane’s potential customer, nodded her carefully groomed white head. “And my husband’s very handy with electrical things too.”
    Shane managed a smile for Mr. Trip’s prowess. It broke her heart to think that the sweet little lamp would be tampered with. “You know,” she began, trying another tactic, “an oil lamp is a smart thing to have around in case of power failure. I keep a couple myself.”
    “Well, yes, dear,” Mrs. Trip said placidly, “but I have candles for that. This lamp’s going to go right next to my rocker. That’s where I do my crocheting.”
    Though she knew the value of a sale, Shane couldn’t stop herself from adding, “If you really want an electric lamp, Mrs. Trip, you could buy a good reproduction much cheaper.”
    Mrs. Trip sent her a vague smile. “But it wouldn’t be a real antique then, would it? Do you have a box I can carry it in?”
    “Yes, of course,” Shane murmured, seeing it was useless to repeat that converting the lamp would decrease both its value and its charm. Resigned, she wrote out the sales slip, comforting herself with the thought that the profit from the lamp would help pay her own electric bill.
    “Oh my, I didn’t see this!”
    Glancing up, Shane noted that Mrs. Trip was admiring a tea set in cobalt blue. The sun slanting in the windows fell generously on the dark, rich glass. There was a contrast of delicate gold leaf painted around the rim of each cup and the edge of each saucer.
    “It’s lovely, isn’t it,” Shane agreed, though she bit the underside of her lip as the lady began to handle the sugar bowl. When she found the discreet price tag, she lifted a brow. “It goes as a complete set,” Shane began, knowing the price would seem staggering to someone unacquainted with valuable glass. “It’s late nineteenth century and . . .”
    “I must have it,” Mrs. Trip said decisively, cutting off Shane’s explanation. “It’s just the thing for my corner cabinet.” She