Page 3 of The Mad Marchams

He held out his hand. “I didn’t get your name in all that noise. I’m Colin Marcham.”

She shook it. “Mabel Howard. I suppose I should be asking if you’re a murderer, too.”

He kept hold of her hand, his smile deepening. He had a dimple on his right cheek. “I’m English. Even if I was going to kill you, I’d have to ask very politely if it was all right with you before I did it.”

“Then I think we’ll both be safe for the ten minutes we’ll be together,” Mabel said demurely.

He held open the door, and they stepped onto the sidewalk. It was brutally hot despite the late hour, and the streetlights cast a yellow glow on the still-crowded sidewalk and street. She bumped into Colin as he tried to switch sides with her.

“Sorry, old habit.” He fell into step beside her. “My father always told me to walk on a lady’s right side so that if I needed to use my sword hand it would be free.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I told him it was ridiculously old-fashioned, but I still find myself doing it.”

“You’re actually on my left.”

“That’s because I’m a left-handed swordsman and this is America.”

She found herself smiling at him with the feeling that she’d stumbled into a Hugh Grant movie and was just managing to keep up her end of the jaunty banter

“Rick said you’re a software developer.”

“Kind of.”

“That’s great.” He paused. “I have no idea what that actually entails.”

“I’m a computer nerd. A geek.”

“Like Bill Gates?”

“Yes, but without the billions of dollars.”

He glanced down at her. “And much prettier.”

“That wouldn’t be hard.”

They arrived at an intersection, and he casually reached for her hand. She didn’t stop him. His fingers were warm, and an unexpected tingling sensation shot up her arm.

“You’re holding my hand.” God, did that breathy voice belong to her?

“Yes, I am.” He sounded as if he was equally startled by what he’d done. “Is that okay?”

“I’m not five years old.”

“God, I hope not, or I wouldn’t be able to do this.” Still holding her gaze, he brought her fingers to his lips and briefly kissed them. “Now that felt great.”

“Is this a British thing? Kissing hands and charming the pants off complete strangers?” Mabel tried for a flirtatious tone, but she wasn’t quite sure she pulled it off because, hell, she wanted to know the answer more than she wanted her next breath.

One of his eyebrows rose. “I’m good, Mabel, but I doubt I can charm you out of your knickers with one kiss.”

“Pants, as in, trousers.” She mock-frowned at him. “I wasn’t talking about panties.”

“Ah. I did wonder, as you appear to be wearing a skirt.”

“With panties underneath,” she said firmly.

“I’m glad to hear it.”