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Page 106
Chapter Seven
One hand on the smooth wooden doorframe, Thorn watched as Mariah bent her slender form to pick up a bundle of garments near the entry, then stood and walked from his house along the leaf-strewn ground.
There was a soft sway to her hips despite the almost masculine determination in her stride. She was his employee, yet there was nothing mincing or subservient about her.
Or compliant. She had participated fully in that ill-conceived, impulsive kiss. The kiss he still felt on his lipsand elsewhere.
She still remained clad in that soiled and wrinkled pink dress, but he had noticed, while returning to his house, that her laundry hung about the clearing: a small assortment of dresses, skirts, blouses, aprons . . . and a few white undergarments.
The latter articles were hung behind some branches with surprising modesty, considering the woman's bold ways. He had barely glanced at them; she deserved her privacy. Yet he had not been able to keep from wondering what the shape-

 
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