So it would be business, she told herself. Straight, impersonal business as long as he determined to stay. She’d put the rent money aside until she could manage the down payment on the aqua bikes. Jonas sat at the table with a plate of eggs that sent steam rising toward the ceiling.

“Your key.” Liz slid it over to him. “And your receipt for the first week’s rent.”

Without looking at it, Jonas tucked the paper in his pocket. “Do you usually take in boarders?”

“No, but I need some new equipment.” She rose to pour another cup of coffee and wash her plate. The radio announced the time before she switched it off. She was ten minutes ahead of schedule, but as long as she continued to get up early enough, they wouldn’t have to eat together. “Do you usually rent a room in a stranger’s house rather than a hotel suite?”

He tasted the eggs and found himself vaguely dissatisfied with his own cooking. “No, but we’re not strangers anymore.”

Liz watched him over the rim of her cup. He looked a little rough around the edges this morning, she decided. It added a bit too much sexuality to smooth good looks. She debated offering him a razor, then rejected the notion. Too personal. “Yes, we are.”

He continued to eat his eggs so that she thought he’d taken her at her word. “I studied law at Notre Dame, apprenticed with Neiram and Barker in Boston, then opened my own practice five years ago in Philadelphia.” He added some salt, hoping it would jazz up his cooking. “I specialize in criminal law. I’m not married, and live alone. In an apartment,” he added. “On weekends I’m remodeling an old Victorian house I bought in Chadd’s Ford.”

She wanted to ask him about the house—was it big, did it have those wonderful high ceilings and rich wooden floors? Were the windows tall and mullioned? Was there a garden where roses climbed on trellises? Instead she turned to rinse out her cup. “That doesn’t change the fact that we’re strangers.”

“Whether we know each other or not, we have the same problem.”

The cup rattled in the sink as it slipped from her hand. Silently, Liz picked it up again, rinsed it off and set it in the drainer. She’d chipped it, but that was a small matter at the moment. “You’ve got ten minutes,” she said, but he took her arm before she could skirt around him.

“We do have the same problem, Elizabeth.” His voice was quiet, steady. She could have hated him for that alone.

“No, we don’t. You’re trying to avenge your brother’s death. I’m just trying to make a living.”

“Do you think everything would settle down quietly if I were back in Philadelphia?”