She pursed her lips, jammed the key into the lock again, and shoved. The door slammed back against the wall and she nearly fell into the storeroom. She caught herself on a large box and straightened up, glanced at the wall clock and grimaced. It might be usual for some people to be late by seven minutes, but this twenty-eight-year-old was punctual and dependable always until today. The rain had slowed her, surely, but she should have allowed more time.

She hung her dripping umbrella by the door. If she wasn't losing her mind, how could she explain this strange craziness that had stalked her all morning an eerie feeling of tingly expectation? This was wild.

She checked to make sure she hadn't crushed the corner of the box she fell against and stepped gingerly around several large packages, delivered just before closing last night. Ordinarily, she would have ripped the boxes open, eager to check out the beautiful Wedgwood porcelain, but she was too tired last night to linger.

The room was stuffy, so she flipped on the switch of the dehumidifier, producing a familiar reassuring hum, yet she couldn't conquer a strange uneasiness. She took a quick glance around the rest of the storeroom and moved into the salesroom. The showcases of china rows of pale rounded shapes of teapots and cups touched with bright colors, the faces of the tiny pottery animals peeking from among the porcelain all seemed as it should be. The three small tables where she served her customers exotic teas and cookies, each with its crystal bud vase of late summer asters. Nothing looked disturbed. The drawers where she stored linens looked disgustingly normal.

Am I expecting mysterious drama on this wet fall morning in my quiet little shop and tea room? An armed robbery, perhaps? A camera-team of reporters from Sixty Minutes? Nonsense! She had one wild imagination. Joanna had left that sort of thing behind when she moved to Galax Falls, North Carolina, high in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

I'm just being theatrical. There's no room in my life for this craziness, and I simply won't allow it. She bit her lip, and calmed herself. In the huge mirror over the counter, her dark brown hair, neatly brushed into a French twist, looked no worse for the wind and rain. She studied herself a minute; she didn't look crazy. In fact, she admitted, she wasn't bad looking. She couldn't be, if she really looked like her handsome brother, as people suggested.

It wasn't a sense of apprehension she was experiencing, but an unfamiliar feeling of anticipation, as though something wonderful was about to happen. That would be interesting, she thought. She could handle a little excitement, for a change.

Sliding her purse under the counter, Joanna hurried to open her little establishment. She noticed a bare place on the wall and felt a little start until she remembered that she had sold one of Lila's paintings yesterday. The memory of the retired teacher's excitement about the sale made her smile.

I act as if I'm expecting a horde of customers. She leaned down to grasp the door shade. It was usually mid-morning before her first patron wandered in. She pulled lightly on the shade and, maintaining just enough pressure, steered it up nearly halfway to find herself staring at a pair of scuffed men's oxfords and jeans. She concentrated on the image outside the glass door.

Just my luck to leave a customer waiting the first time I'm late. She raised the shade higher.

A man crouched in front of the door, rain streaming down his cheeks. His eyes squinted at her just above the neatly gold-lettered sign:

The Gilded Teapot

Joanna froze, and the man did too. She straightened her shoulders, and he squared his.

She felt disconcerted, uncustomarily nervous. His movements seemed a mirrored counterpart of hers, but nothing in his manner indicated derision as he solemnly concentrated on her activity.

His intense brown eyes were on a level with hers, now.

Her fingers trembled. Nine inches from the top the shade stuck. She pulled gently to nudge it up, but it didn't budge. Frustrated, she jerked it, and the roller and shade crashed to the floor. She sputtered in embarrassment.

The stranger watched intently, but didn't laugh.

She could have released the spring-loaded foot lock with her toe, but she stooped to unlock it manually, to give herself time to regain her composure.

Observing as she pressed the release, the man turned his ear to the click when the lock disengaged. She rose to insert the key into the main lock, and he stood to his full height. She fumbled with her keys, almost dropping them, inserted the wrong one, jerked it out of the lock, and jammed in another. The key would not turn. What was it about her and locks today?

She gave a deep sigh, avoiding the brown eyes that studied her through the glass door. In spite of the steady drizzle that plastered his hair against his forehead and soaked his plaid shirt, he waited patiently. He didn't seem annoyed, nor did he laugh at her.

On the third attempt she finally inserted the right key. The lock turned, and with deep relief she opened the door.

He stepped quickly across the threshold and stood before her, dripping rainwater on her new floor mat.

Joanna caught her breath.

Together they said, "I'm sorry . . ."

" . . . about the floor," he added.

" . . . about being late," she murmured.

They both laughed.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked. She hadn't had time to prepare it yet, but he looked cold.

"No, thanks. I'll tell you why I'm here."

He shook his arms, and rainwater pelted her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drown you. My old dog Charlie used to do that when I took him for walks in the rain. I thought he did it just to aggravate me."

She felt uneasy under his scrutiny as she brushed some of the rainwater from her hair, reminding him that she was already wet.

He said, almost as to himself, "I'll bet you like to take long walks in the rain."

She smiled. He was, after all, a customer a potential customer, anyway. What makes some men so arrogant? I've had my fill of that type. Actually taking long walks in the rain sounded like a glorious, romantic thing to do on a nice warm day, but she wouldn't admit it to this man whose name she didn't know.

She had been fooled by his athletic build, judging him to be of college age. Up close he looked older than the rain-blurred face that had lurked outside the door. His large nose and square jaw rescued his face from being classically handsome. He had a friendly mouth, poised for a smile, it seemed. That put her more at ease, but she was wary of that flirtatious velvet voice.

"The movers lost a box of my favorite cassettes," he said, "and my landlady said you'd be the only one in town who might have the ones I'm looking for."

He glanced at her wet hair, a sympathetic smile hovering around his lips. He was saturated by the storm, his shirt clinging to broad shoulders.

I'll remain impervious to his charm, she determined, feeling as self-conscious as a convent schoolgirl in her first encounter with the opposite sex.

"I hate to disappoint you, but I have only a few old tapes. The owner of the building left them, along with some boxes of old books. You're welcome to go through them. I'll show you." She led him to the far side of a counter. "I haven't the space to display them and haven't had time to sort through the books."

She pointed toward a small stool, and he pulled it toward the tapes, settling down with an expectant sigh, then focused on the tapes. She watched him a moment and when he didn't look up again, she felt that he had dismissed her.

Reluctantly, she returned to the front counter, brushed water from her raincoat, and was unbuttoning it when the front door slammed back against the wall.

"Edward!"

Edward Westmoreland maneuvered an oversized blue-and-orange golf umbrella into the shop, cradling a huge bouquet of peach-colored roses wrapped in green tissue paper. He sported a classic trench coat and rain hat. His plastic-framed glasses had slipped down on his nose, giving him the appearance of an overdressed owl.

Joanna reached for the umbrella, but he yanked it back and thrust the flowers toward her.

"I was rude and domineering last night." He used his middle finger to push his glasses back up on his nose. "I deserve another chance. It took me some time to locate the Virginia Roses that have the fragrance you like."

"Ed," she said, and took a deep breath, "I don't like to be rude either, but my answer holds. I'm sorry."

He stared at her. A scowl crossed his broad forehead.

"Give me time," he insisted. "I came on too strong. I'm aggressive and often too forceful. Joanna, I want you to be my wife. Please."

She studied the floor and saw the muddy puddle spreading, soaking the welcome mat and sloshing against his polished black shoes. The overpowering fragrance of the roses dominated the small space. She felt like tossing them back, but he leaned the umbrella against the door facing and folded his arms across his chest.

Romance was not his forte.

Pompous ass."We'll discuss it later." With the tip of his umbrella he nudged the roller and shade on the floor. "Better fix that. A customer could trip over it, and you'd have a lawsuit on your hands."

A rebuttal stuck in her throat as he frowned, checked his watch, and said tersely, "I'm late for court. I'll come take you to lunch."

"No, Ed."

He adjusted his glasses, pulled his hat low over his eyes, and stepped outside to ease open the umbrella, totally disregarding her refusal.

What am I to do with dozens of roses in this cramped space? "Men!" she spat out in disgust. I'll take the roses to my dad at lunchtime. She would close the shop and wouldn't be here when Ed returned.

Hunting a container for water, she was startled by a diplomatic cough. Good heavens! She had forgotten her customer.

He heard it all! She knew her face must be turning crimson.

"Er . . . ah, I found some cassettes that I want," he said, "but I'm far more interested in the books. Did you know that you have some valuable volumes here?"

He was gracious enough to not mention her visitor.

"I know there are some first editions."

"You don't have them priced."

"I have no idea what they're worth."

"Old books are a hobby of mine," he said. "Let me do a little research."

As she fumbled with the tissue paper around the unwieldy bouquet, she wondered if she was still blushing. She hated being embarrassed.

"Don't you like roses?" he asked, his voice steady but his eyes dancing with merriment, his lips twitching with repressed laughter.

"Are you making fun of me?"

"No. Just thinking of the consternation in your boyfriend's voice. Perhaps he should have chosen violets." He placed several cassettes on the counter, including My Fair Lady.

"I am not Eliza Doolittle," Joanna informed him, "and he isn't my boyfriend."

"Well, he either has been, or badly wants to be. You don't seem to think much of men."

His voice carried an irritating tone of indifference that belied the teasing mischief in his eyes. "Can I help you with your raincoat?" he asked as he stepped uninvited behind the counter.

She had chosen the yellow coat to complement her dark eyes and hair, but as she turned her back to him, she felt garish, self-conscious. He slid the raincoat off her shoulders and hung it on a hook behind the door, then slid his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

"How much do I owe you?" He brushed the hair back from his forehead, and she noticed that it dried to the color of sand.

Joanna's hand was unsteady as she added the tab. "I'm glad you found something you like. What kind of tapes did you lose?"

He tapped the cassettes rhythmically against the edge of the counter.

"Oh, Vivaldi . . . Tchaikovsky." Raising his eyes to the ceiling, he seemed to be listening to the music. "My favorites were Bach and Handel's organ concertos."

A tickling of pleasure rippled through her. She smiled. "I like those also."

His boyish grin made him look years younger.

"Really? Great." He pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket and tore a page from it. "I'm Russell Benenson, the new English teacher at the high school. Here's my phone number." He leaned over the counter to scrawl a number on the sheet.So why did she need his phone number? She shared his taste in music, but . . .

"Hope you won't sell those books until you hear from me. If you get a buyer, would you please call me before you let them go?"

"Ben. Call me Ben. Everyone does."

"I'm Joanna Jerome." Her face felt hot.

"Joanna Jerome," he repeated, pronouncing it in a deep, resonant bass. "Musical."

"Would you like a cup of tea now?"

"I'm not much of a tea drinker, but it smells wonderful in here. Almost enticing enough to get me to try some tea."

"Coffee?"

His eyes brightened with interest, and he nodded. She felt weak behind her knees and knew she was clinging to an excuse to keep him in the shop for a while.

"I'm afraid it will have to be . . . instant," she said. "The coffee pot is broken. Is that okay?"

"Blah!" He shuddered, headed for the door, and turned around grinning. "Anyway, I mustn't be around when Romeo comes to take you to lunch."

She made a face at his retreating back, feeling so frustrated that she would have liked to throw something at him. At the moment though, the only thing available was the dumb bouquet of roses and lots of very expensive porcelain.

"Ben," she called behind him, "don't you have an umbrella?"

"Umbrella? Not my style. I love walking in the rain. My mother told me a long time ago that my skin is waterproof. You need a gentle summer rain to produce rain dust."

"Rain dust? What's that?"

"You don't know about rain dust? I'll tell you about it some time."

He paused at the door, shoved his cassette tapes into his pocket, picked up the shade and roller, adjusted the brackets, and deftly rehung it, then raised the shade.

"We don't want a lawsuit on our hands," he said and turned to salute her. "See you later, Joanna Jerome."