Taste of Love: A Romance Sampler

by Susan Connell

  * * *

  Steve eased open the tall oak door already ajar and stepped into the foyer. The first thing he saw was Gwen staring at a sled on the pink marble floor. Because of the screeching sounds coming from the radio, she hadn't heard him enter. He took full advantage of the moment to drink her in. Her sophisticated appearance replaced the elf image he couldn't get out of his mind for the last twenty-four hours. The gray lace dress tracing her slender curves was as inviting as a leafy shadow on a hot August day. Hell, from her upswept cloud of shiny dark hair down to her shimmering stockings, everything about her was inviting. She feathered her fingertip over her ear and he found himself imagining what it would feel like if she touched his ear like that. And then his neck and mouth. Closing his eyes for an instant, he gave a quick shake of his head. He could only guess, but of one thing he was certain. More seductive than a lingerie and perfume advertisement combined, she had the power to send him up in smoke. And he was looking forward to the ignition.

  He started smoothing his tie but stopped his hand halfway down when he realized the gesture was one of his brother's. Holding back a chuckle, he closed the door and stepped forward. "Thinking about taking that sled out for another ride?" he asked above the loud music.

  Looking up, she stared at him for a moment, then fluffed her bangs and gave a too-relaxed shrug. "I don't know. It's right here if I want to, though," she said, stepping over it. "Welcome to Scarborough Hall. Here, let me take your coat."

  He was on guard immediately. Something about the way she avoided looking at him made him wonder what she was up to. He slipped out of his coat and handed it to her. While she carelessly tossed it on a pile of old lumber, Steve reached to turn down the radio.

  "Was that too noisy? Sorry about that, but I try to keep a party atmosphere going around here at all times. I never know when enough's enough until I get a complaint."

  Before he could do more than nod, he heard a door opening down the hall. A second later a boy ran toward them.

  "My mom says, if you're done with the radio, she wants it back. She said that kind of music makes her want to pray double hard for you."

  Fluffing her bangs again, Gwen stooped down to pull the plug from the wall. She wrapped the cord around the radio and handed it to the boy. "Tell your mom thanks, Marlin."

  "Okay. She says anything else she can help you with tonight, just let her know," he said, setting it on the sled then dragging them both back to his apartment door.

  "Colorful place," Steve said.

  "Maybe you'd like to take a look at that apartment now. It's upstairs." She pointed toward the staircase, the size and grandness of which he hadn't seen since Gone With the Wind. "Make a right at the landing. It's the only apartment up there on the east side. It's unlocked. I'll join you as soon as I mop up this puddle."

  As he started up the steps Gwen disappeared down a corridor. Halfway up he took a moment to view the tall, stained-glass window overlooking the landing. Doves holding olive branches in their beaks, beautifully rendered in milky-white glass, evoked in him a mood of serenity that was instantly broken by the deepest and loudest barking he'd ever heard. Before he had time to turn around, he took a body check from something large and furry. The energetic animal stood on its hind legs, planted two enormous paws on Steve's shoulder, and began licking the back of his head and ear.

  "Bambi, down, girl," Gwen said pleasantly.

  Instantly, the Great Dane pushed off Steve, then bounded up and down the stairs, effectively corralling him there. As Steve wiped his ear with his handkerchief he took care to hide his smile. If Gwen Mansfield thought she could scare him off with her sideshow of messiness, noise, and confusion, she had another think coming.

  "Bambi didn't hurt you, did she?"

  He cleared his throat. "No permanent damage."

  "Bambi, come," she said, letting the mop in her hands fall against her crooked arm.

  Leaping across four steps, the dog landed inches from Gwen, where it hunkered down to gaze up adoringly at her. "She's little Marlin's puppy. I don't know what we'll do with her when she gets bigger."

  "Hmmm." After swiping the back of his head and neck again, he shoved the handkerchief into his back pocket. "When I asked to see the apartment, I didn't realize you allowed pets."

  "Oh, yes," she said, clapping her hands. The dog was on its feet instantly, maneuvering itself to the heel position beside her. "The more the merrier. Right, Bambi?" With an emphatic "woof!" Bambi lunged playfully against Gwen, knocking the mop from where it rested inside the circle of her arm to the floor.

  "Well, I'm glad I found this out now," Steve said, keeping a straight face by locking his jaws together and lowering his chin.

  "Then you don't want to see the apartment?" she asked, reaching down for the mop.

  "Are you kidding? I can't wait."

  Bambi lunged again, bouncing an already startled Gwen against the wall.

  Steve grabbed the railing to start down the stairs, but stopped himself when Gwen appeared more surprised than anything else. By then, the dog had taken off down the corridor with the mop.

  "Playful little thing," he said, watching Gwen repinning a lock of hair that had spilled to her shoulder.

  "Hmmmmm?"

  "I've wanted a big dog for ages," he continued in a friendly tone. "If I take the apartment, and as long as you don't mind a few more puddles here and there, I'd like one I can train myself."

  Pretending he didn't hear her sputter and groan as she took off after the dog, Steve continued up the stairs to the landing. The area was big enough to park a Hummer, with room left over for a dozen Christmas carolers. He stopped to run his hand over the rococo detailing on the frame surrounding the stained-glass window, then looked up at the vaulted ceiling. Despite a few needed repairs, Scarborough Hall was a spectacular showcase of old-world artistry. If he needed inspiration for his architectural work, this was the perfect place to look for it. The attention to detail, the smooth carry-through on the eclectic theme, and the sense of grandeur spoke to the architect in him. He was going to love exploring every inch of the place. But not now, he reminded himself. There would be plenty of time to do that after moving in. Walking across the worn Oriental carpet and up the next short flight of stairs, he smiled as he heard Gwen scolding the dog somewhere below. Had he really believed he'd been happy living in that stone-and-steel tower in Philadelphia?

  Stepping inside the dark apartment, he felt the wall for a switch. A single bulb in the entryway's chandelier glowed dully, shadowing the burnished silk wallpaper with added texture. He flipped a second switch and headed across the marquetry floor toward the set of French doors. Opening them, he walked into the partially furnished living room. The tall windows and massive fireplace were enough to impress any prospective renter, but the frescoed ceiling had him swearing with admiration. He'd lived within a fifty-mile radius of King's Crossing all of his life. Why hadn't he known about this place before now?

  Gwen hurried to the French doors, then stopped dead in her tracks when she saw him. Like any prospective renter, he was examining the room from every possible angle. A jolt of guilt twisted in her stomach. She was wasting his time and hers on this shameful charade. Rubbing her thumb over the antique silver rings she wore, she flicked her thumbnail over the garnets. Maybe she should tell him the truth about why she didn't want him living at Scarborough Hall and why she wasn't going to date him. How much more of a fool could she make of herself in one night anyway?

  "Find that mop?" he asked, dutifully checking for drafts around the windows.

  "Yes... well, what was left of it. How dangerous is it for a dog to eat mop string?"

  "For most dogs? Pretty dangerous." Straightening up, he took off his suit jacket and laid it on a straight chair. "For Bambi? Consider it a little extra fiber in her diet."

  Nodding, she watched him striding slowly around the dim room, his sure moves filling it with a vital masculine presence. Plopping into the overstuffed armchair, he stretched ou
t his body and shifted his backside to find the comfort zone. When he found it, he slapped his hands on the rolled arms, leaned his head on the back of the chair, and closed his eyes. "Ahhh, just right."

  What was that old saying? she asked herself while riveted to the sublime expression on his face. Something about having a man around the house. Tilting her head, she studied the way the tip of his tongue touched his lip. She licked at hers as her blood thickened to the consistency of warm honey. Living across the landing from him would never be dull.

  "You're a little short on electrical outlets in here, but I can fix that."

  His relaxed moves had relaxed her guard, but the moment his voice rippled through her body, she remembered why he couldn't live there. She crossed her arms around her middle, held on to her sides, and lied again. "The apartment needs rewiring. Maybe I'll get to it in the spring... if the noises stop." She held her breath as he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her.

  "What noises?"

  Dropping her gaze to the floor, she kept it there. It wasn't that she minded telling a white lie or two; she simply wasn't very good at it. "Strange noises. They're..." she said, shaking her hands in a helpless gesture, "difficult to explain."

  "Strange noises," he repeated, standing up.

  "I'm sure it's not true," she said as she moved through the living room toward the dining room, "but those who've lived at Scarborough Hall longer than I swear it's Mrs. Graham's ghost. You see, she lived here with her husband since 1958. She's been dead for ten years."

  "What does she want?" he asked, casting an interested glance around the room.

  "She wants Mr. Graham," Gwen said, leading him into the kitchen, "but he's not here."

  "Where is he?" Steve asked as he scanned the appliances and the tall, glass-fronted cupboards.

  "In a cemetery in Ohio."

  "I see. So this place comes with a six-burner stove, frescoed ceilings, and its own resident ghost," Steve said, looking around and nodding. "There's no blood oozing from the walls, and I haven't heard any strange moaning." He beamed at Gwen. "I think she likes me. What do you think?"

  I like you too, she thought, but I'm not, repeat, not going to let you know that. "Why don't I show you the rest of the place instead?" Leading Steve down an adjoining hall, she waved her hand toward the opposite end of it. "Those are just guest bedrooms down that way," she said, hoping he didn't feel the need to see every square inch of the place. Pushing open the door at the end of the hall, she motioned for him to enter. "The master-bedroom suite."

  He walked past her into the room, then stopped in his tracks and whistled. "Outstanding," he murmured, walking toward the raised area where the four-poster stood. "Eighteenth-century English, isn't it?"

  Standing outside the door, she stuck her head in and shrugged. "It's just an old bed."

  "Just an old bed," he repeated with a shame-on-you look in her direction.

  Avoiding his gaze, she moved into the room toward the windows. The last subject she wanted to discuss with Steve was a bed. She cleared her throat. "All of the furniture stays unless the new tenant wants to move it to the attic," she said, tugging aside one panel of the tapestry draperies. "Have a look at the dressing room and its walk-in closet. The bath's on the other side." Hoping to catch the breath he'd stolen with his last look, she turned her attention to the window and the scene outside.

  With the aid of the floodlights, she could make out the tracks from Marlin's sled on the snowy east hill. Down the hill, below the tracks, the unused, snow-covered carriage house resembled a Christmas card minus lighted windows and a smoking chimney. She frowned. What was wrong with her? Hadn't she gotten over believing life could parallel a fairy tale? Weren't four broken engagements proof of that? Pressing her fingertips against the glass, she relaxed her frown. At least she had Scarborough Hall, and when she remembered that, she knew she had a reason to dream. She simply had to work harder to realize that dream. One day she would be able to repair the carriage house and rent that out too.

  Lifting her other hand to the windowpane, she pressed it next to the one already there. Sometimes the magnitude and complexities of her situation got the better of her. She had so many plans, but until she located Brian Flanagan and bought his share of Scarborough Hall, major improvements were at a standstill. Somehow she'd make things work out, but finding Brian was first on her agenda. The problem was that no one seemed to know where he was.

  Lifting her gaze, she looked out the window again. No matter the season or time of year, there was something magical about the slope of the land, the curving swath of river wrapping moatlike around it, and the charming town of King's Crossing on the opposite bank. She strained to see the river barges coming into view. When she sensed Steve approaching, her body stirred with warm excitement. She let it, telling herself it was Scarborough Hall, the lighted parade on the river, and a spark of hope for the future rekindling in her heart.

  "Kind of like make-believe out there in the dark. The barges look like lighted toys," Steve said, moving close behind her. "And that part of King's Crossing reminds me of the village under Bixby and Mellon's Christmas tree. Especially with the church steeple there in the middle. See it?" he asked, leaning in so that his face was next to hers.

  He smelled as wonderful as he had the first time he'd been so close. The solid sense of him made her weak at the knees and wishing she were someone else. Someone with a little luck when it came to men. She also wished she wasn't so acutely aware of his hand resting on the small of her back and his thumb touching her flesh. If she turned her head, his lips would be pressing against hers. Her mouth began aching with a hunger that scared her back to reality. She had to keep her focus on the things that mattered. Keeping Scarborough Hall and keeping away from Steve Stratton.

  "You pay for a view like this," she murmured more to herself than to him.

  "How do you mean?"

  "I'm afraid it's stays cold in here at night all during the winter," she said, taking hold of the edge of the drapery with both hands. "You see, this bedroom catches the wind off the river."

  "Are you cold?" he asked, moving closer and somehow managing not to kiss her.

  Staring into his eyes, she moved her head from side to side. "Not a bit," she whispered.

  "I see." He appeared to straighten up as he brushed his hand over his head. "That building down there," he said, gesturing toward the carriage house. "Is it for rent too?"

  "Not yet. It needs renovating. Why?"

  "I'm an architect, and I'm looking for new office space. If I see that the space could work for me, maybe we could come to an agreement over the rent in exchange for the cost of the renovations."

  Brian aside, Steve's offer was incredibly tempting. Who knew when she'd be able to make the carriage house habitable? "I'll have to think about it."

  "While you're thinking about it, maybe I could have a look at it tomorrow."

  "Maybe."

  Crossing the room, he stooped to take a look at the fireplace. Reaching inside he worked the damper back and forth, then stood up as he brushed off his hands.

  "Needs a sweep, but it appears capable of radiating a good amount of heat." Stroking the mantelpiece, he studied the grain of the wood. "Just beautiful. How'd you come to own this place?"

  "My grandfather left some money to each of his grandchildren."

  "But why did you buy Scarborough Hall?"

  "Grandpa lived down River Road, and when we visited him as children, we'd play in Scarborough Hall's pear orchard. My sister and I made up stories that we were princesses, this was our palace, and we were fighting to recapture it. A few years after Grandpa's death this place came up for sale because of unpaid taxes. Of course, this isn't a palace by most people's standards, but sometimes when I squint, I think I see one again." Rubbing her thumb against one of her rings, she pretended to check the garnet's setting as she avoided Steve's stare. She wasn't about to mention that her inheritance had covered only half of the sale price. Why invi
te embarrassing questions about her ongoing link with Brian? "Sentimental sounding or not, that's how I came to own it."

  "I understand," he said as he continued to watch her with a knowing smile. "A special moment presents itself, and no matter what happens, you have to act. Seize the moment and all that."

  Tilting her head to one side, she stared at him in disbelief. "Yes. That's exactly how it happened."

  When he moved to the upholstered armchair and punched up a down-filled cushion, she gave in to the urge to be closer to him, telling herself she was drawn by his sheer enthusiasm over Scarborough Hall. She'd done exactly the same things the first time she'd seen it. She remembered the tactile pleasures of stroking, touching, smoothing, and fluffing. She'd even pressed her cheek against the draperies when she was certain that no one was looking.

  Leaning his elbows on the back of the chair, Steve motioned with one hand. "I can see it now. Amaretto bottle on the table. Adele on the CD player. My arm around, say, a beautiful..." She held her breath. He winked shamelessly. "Great Dane."

  He didn't miss the pulse of a smile that she tried to hide behind her hand.

  "I sleep in on Sunday mornings."

  "So do I, whenever—" She stopped abruptly. He'd eased in the non sequitur, catching her off guard with his matter-of-fact tone. Switching to her no-nonsense attitude, she silently swore he wasn't going to do it again. "The sun hits this room first, so you'd be awake at the crack of dawn whether you like it or not."

  "Uh-huh." Stepping up next to the bed, he pushed on the mattress with both hands. "Of course, I could always close the drapes, couldn't I?"

  "Yes, I suppose you could," she said, moving quickly out of the room. It wasn't his enthusiasm over Scarborough Hall that had drawn her across the room to him. It was Steve Stratton himself. And he wasn't even pretending to be annoyed by her flimsy attempts to discourage him.

  "So how much are you asking?"

  "Twenty-five hundred."

  "Is that about average for one of these apartments?"

  "No, but the rent-control ordinance doesn't apply to new tenants. And I haven't mentioned the security deposit is also twenty-five hundred."

  He followed her down the hall, but before he could say anything more, she quickly opened another door. "Here's the second bathroom."

  He came in behind her, resting his hip on the edge of the pedestal sink, effectively blocking her exit. He dutifully turned the porcelain handles. Nothing happened. Raising his head, he caught her eye in their mirrored reflection. "And where will you be when I need my plumbing worked on?"

  "Right across the landing, the west side," she said, sidestepping him to shut off the faucet. A rattling vibration emanated from somewhere below them. "You should know up front that the plumbing in this apartment isn't always reliable." Brushing by him, she moved into the hallway and hurried down it.

  "What's in here?" he asked, stopping at a door she'd pointedly ignored twice.

  "There? Nothing much. Just an unused..." Her voice trailed off as he opened the door. If she ever had a chance of discouraging him from wanting to live at Scarborough Hall, she'd lost it now. Retracing her steps, she sighed in anticipated defeat. "Go on in."

  Pushing open the door, Steve stepped into the solarium and held his breath. Light from a full moon spilled through the glass ceiling above him and the glass wall opposite him. Crossing the bare wood floor, he caught his first glimpse of what once must have been the centerpiece of the grand old mansion. His architect's eye took in the cast-iron supports, arched buttresses, and the delicate-looking web of metal that gave shape and strength to the glass dome above. His palms itched for his drafting tools as he pictured himself reconfiguring the dimensions for a series of different exteriors. Rubbing the back of his neck, he tried unsuccessfully to stop the prickles of excitement. The space was affecting him on both a personal and business level. Turning to look behind him, he knew immediately where he was going to place his drafting table.

  "Do you want me to turn on the light?" Gwen asked from the doorway.

  He studied her from across the narrow room. "No. Not right now," he said, watching her through the moonlight. The stronger light from the hall silhouetted her, casting a nimbus around her hair and warming the lace near her hem. He could tell by the tilt of her head and the stillness in her posture that she was straining to make out his reaction to the apartment's solarium and, beyond it, Scarborough Hall's conservatory.

  He motioned for her to come to him, and when she did he tried not to stare. It was the hardest thing he tried doing all evening. He looked down into the conservatory, its contents coated in sugary light. Broken lawn furniture, stacks of planters, and an odd assortment of ground-maintenance machines were lying helter-skelter around the floor. A child's abandoned fort made from two refrigerator cartons defended the weed-filled center fountain.

  "Were you trying to keep this a secret?"

  Lacing her fingers together, she held them at the juncture of her thighs and stared at them. "If I'm trying to do anything, it's not to think about it at all."

  "It must have been a jewel in its time."

  Clearing her throat, she kept her eyes downcast. "The original owner had this part of Scarborough Hall designed for his lover. They say she was from Brazil and missed the tropical climate. He filled it with plants from there. He even had exotic birds flying around." Lifting her eyes, she stared up at the glass dome and shook her head. "Banana trees and a fountain with stone angels. A piece of paradise under glass. Can you imagine?"

  The glimmer of wild hope he saw flicker across her face sent pleasure and pain racing through his chest. Steve swallowed, shaken by his reaction. How had he fooled himself into believing living next to her was going to be nothing more than a fanciful experiment before he went on with the rest of his life? "This man..." He coughed. "This man must have loved her very much."

  "Yes, I guess he did," she said, crossing her arms and looking away.

  He moved closer. "What happened?"

  She shrugged as she reached to pull on a few escaped curls dangling near her ears. "He wouldn't marry her. No one seems to know why. Anyway, she left him and went back to Brazil."

  "And?"

  "Remember what happened in The Secret Garden? The same thing happened here. The owner closed up the conservatory and never went in it again. The subsequent owners of Scarborough Hall made attempts," she said, unable to resist the impulse to turn back to the three-story glass room, "but no one has brought it back to its former glory days."

  "It wouldn't be difficult to put it right." He shook his head in dismay. "A place like that ought to be enjoyed."

  "When everything's settled... when the time is right—" Breaking off, she ran her fingertips down the windowpane then rested her forehead against it.

  If those poignant gestures hadn't sealed his fate, her lopsided smile did. "Seems like restoring it would be a priority to anyone with the least bit of a romantic streak."

  "A romantic streak? Is that all it would take to fix this?" Looking up at the moon, she snorted indelicately. "Then it's going to be a long time before I'll see birds and banana trees down there. Don't you know it takes more than a little romance to guarantee anything?"

  If the moonlight hadn't provided him license to kiss her, it was her cool tone and his need to warm it. Skimming her lips with his, he whispered, "But sometimes a little romance can inspire great things."

  Stiffening, she pulled back and swiped at her lips. "Do you think that's what I need? A little romance?"

  Whatever little demon she was fighting hadn't sapped her spirit or extinguished her spark. If he was reading her correctly, that fixed stare of hers was daring him to disprove her.

  "What's wrong with a little romance?" he asked, moving closer as he slid his thumb down her nose and across her lips. Before she could answer, he brushed his lips against hers again. She held back, protesting his move with a throaty moan and an odd little shiver.

  "We—you shouldn't do that," she
said, reaching for her lips but not quite touching them this time.

  "I'm one of the last romantics, remember." Closing his fingers over hers, he moved her hand away and invited her closer with the whisper of her name. This time she melted into his light embrace, letting the kiss blossom into a splendid affair. With her body close to his and the moonlight spilling past them into the conservatory, he had the strange sensation of them floating above the world, surrounded by pearly light, her perfume and... the tinkling of little bells.

  "Do you hear that?" he asked, lifting his head in astonishment.

  "Hear what?" Gwen asked, slowly opening her eyes.

  Suddenly a clanging noise erupted from across the hall.

  "What is that?" he asked.

  "The plumbing," she said, pushing away from him and hurrying across the hall to the bathroom. He was behind her every step.

  The noise continued, louder and more insistent with every passing second. Bracing her hand on the porcelain rim, she reached in back for the shutoff. "This gets harder every time I—" She felt the oval handle give and a second later come off in her hand. When she tried to force it back, she realized the threaded fitting had snapped in two. The pipes continued rattling with ominous intent.

  "Can you shut it off?" Steve asked. "Try—" he began, but stopped when she held up the handle. "Uh-oh."

  "Is it that bad?" she asked, backing away from the deafening noise. A minor explosion sent her scurrying into his arms with a scream. Water shot out from behind the sink, soaking her legs and the lower back of her dress.

  Steve set her aside and scrambled under the sink. After denouncing the heritage of the plumber who'd installed the pipes, he pulled back and stood up. With pant legs dripping, his shirt sticking to his chest, and his tie on his shoulder, he managed two words. "Basement. Quick."

  "This way." Kicking off her high heels, she led him out of the apartment and across the landing.

  "Does this happen often?" he asked, catching up with her as they headed down the staircase.

  "Yes."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Okay, okay," she said, slightly breathless. "Not that often and not this bad."

  Hitting the marble floor of the foyer, she grabbed his hand and took off down the hall behind the staircase. "This way, and I hope you know what you're doing."

  "So do I," he said, catching a glimpse of the conservatory through a set of glass doors, "or we're in for one hell of a mess."

  Twenty minutes later they were wading through four inches of water in the basement.

  "I don't know how I could have forgotten where I put that part of the sump pump. I'm sorry it took so long," she said, wringing her hands in an attempt to warm them. "Can I help you with that?" she asked, feeling a double dose of guilt. How had her plan to sabotage their evening gotten so out of hand? And why was she enjoying the sensual spectacle of his clothes plastered to his body as he set up a sump pump?

  "Next time don't turn or twist anything until I ask you to."

  She gave him a weak smile. "At least when I drained the hot-water heater, it warmed up the water."

  "Yeah, that was a real plus," he said, his voice anything but convincing. Wiping his brow with his knuckles, he pointed to her. "If you can answer a question for me, I'd appreciate it."

  "Of course," she said, ready to do calculus equations in her head or sing "O Christmas Tree" in German if he liked. He'd saved her the price of a service call plus labor from a plumber she was already in debt to for seven hundred dollars.

  Turning on the sump pump, he sloshed over to her. "Why don't you want me to rent the apartment?"

  She looked everywhere but at him. She didn't want to tell him the truth. She didn't want to think about it either. Then he spoke, his voice rich with the promise of understanding.

  "Gwen?"

  "Because of what happened up there."

  He did a double take on her as he jabbed his thumb in the air. "Because the water pipe burst in the bathroom?"

  "No, up there in the solarium."

  "Because I kissed you?" he asked, twisting his head as if he hadn't quite heard her. He smiled slowly. "Or because you let me?"

  Shoving her hair back, she sloshed a few feet away from him. "Please don't push this. It would be better for both of us if you would find another place to rent. I'm not interested in you... in that way."

  "What way?"

  Dropping her shoulders, she turned to face him squarely. "You know what way. I—I guess I was embarrassed about accidentally switching the rings, and in order not to make any more waves, I allowed you certain liberties."

  "Sacrifice, was it?"

  Rubbing her forehead with her fingertips, she dragged them over her face. "I appreciate everything you've done here tonight, but that doesn't mean I'm going to pretend certain things." This wasn't working at all. He'd been offering exaggerated nods during her explanations, each nod more insincere than the last. "Are you listening to what I'm saying?"

  "You know," he said, wiping his hands on the last dry spot on his clothing as he stared at the side of her head, "you almost had me convinced." Reaching over with both hands, he flicked the tiny bells hanging from her earlobes. "Almost."

  Her hand flew up to stop him, but it was too late to stop the heat rising in her cheeks.

  "Why those earrings, Gwen?"

  Faking astonishment over the question, she lowered her hand and opened her palm. "Because they go with this dress."

  "Don't believe her," said a voice from the stairs. "She has black pearls she could wear with that dress. Who are you?"

  Both Gwen and Steve turned toward the voice. Seven people looked back. Six of them held coffee mugs and all seven wore interested or concerned expressions on their faces.

  Wading toward the step, Steve wiped his hand again and began offering it to each of the people perched on the steps. "Steve Stratton. I'm trying to rent the vacant apartment on the second floor. You know, the one with the bad plumbing and the resident ghost."

  After introductions, the comments began.

  "Let him take the apartment, Gwen. Next time my sink leaks, you won't have to call Charlie the Mad Plumber."

  "Mrs. Macleod, I haven't decided," Gwen said, instructing the woman with her frowning eyebrows to back off.

  "Girl, are you crazy? He knows how to work the sump pump and I bet he won't charge you. You've got to let him stay."

  "Seems a shame, with Christmas approaching. All that no-room-in-the-inn sentiment flying around."

  "Fantastico! El senor es muy fuerte y tan guapo. Por que no, senorita?"

  "What did she say?" Steve asked Gwen.

  "She said you're big and mean and scary-looking and—"

  "Teresa didn't say that, Gwen," Marlin said. "She said he's fantastic and strong and handsome, and why shouldn't you rent to him?"

  "Thank you, son," Steve said, reaching out to shake the boy's hand. "How did you learn Spanish?"

  The dusky skinned boy beamed. " 'Sesame Street.' "

  A ripple of laughter rolled down the stairs.

  "What's happening now?"

  "Harry's blind," Marlin said. "And he talks funny 'cause he's from England. You have to fill in the quiet spaces, or he doesn't always know what's happenin'. So, Gwen, what's happenin'?"

  "Yes, dear girl," Harry said, lifting his chin in her direction. "What's happenin'?" he asked, underscoring each syllable with a knock to the step from his cane.

  "Yes, Gwen," Steve said, "why don't you tell us what's happening?"

  A massive headache, she wanted to say. Staring silently at her tenants, she sent them all a message of disappointment. They smiled back. Tsking, she switched her stare toward Steve and his gotcha grin. Maybe she could have held out, but when she took another look at his pant legs soaked up to the knees and the rust stains on his shirtsleeves, she started to fold. Besides, he knew plumbing, his rent checks might get her out of the hole financially, and she'd never hear the end of it if she didn't. Staring down at the mov
ing water, she tried again to think of a way out of renting to him. "Okay, okay," she said, flailing her arms. "You win."

  A loud cheer went up from the steps, followed by messages of welcome. She turned to Steve as the others began leaving. "I'm doing this against my better judgment, because I can't afford to keep it vacant. This is not, repeat, not an invitation for anything more than a tenant/landlady thing," she said, following her tenants up the steps to the first floor.

  "I'll remind you of that the first time you get fresh with me," he said, grabbing his shoes from the step and following her up.

  She snapped to attention, turned around, and stopped his ascent with her index finger against his chest. "Don't push it. You haven't signed the lease yet."

  "Yeah. We ought to make this legal as soon as possible," he said, wiping rust from the back of his knuckles as he slid past her.

  "Monday or Tuesday all right with you?" she asked, reminding herself she was doing it for the rent money, his plumbing skills, and because it was Christmas. His blue eyes, relentless smile, and seductive presence had nothing to do with it.

  "How about tonight, over dinner?" he asked, walking down the hall toward the foyer. She followed close behind.

  "Dinner? Just look at us. We're a mess."

  "Well, we are late for our dinner reservations."

  "Maybe we ought to forget about dinner tonight. I don't think there's a restaurant in town that would let us in the front door."

  "Gwen, you could go to Burger Babe's," Marlin said, before his pregnant mother guided him inside their apartment.

  "Burger Babe's? I love the place. The strawberry milkshakes, those potato plank fries. Okay, let's clean up the bathroom, and then while I check on the pump you can dig out a lease and put my name on it."

  "Steve, there's no real hurry to get that lease signed."

  "Actually, there is."

  Lowering her chin, she looked at him with open suspicion. "Do I want to know why?"

  "The movers are arriving here tomorrow morning. Gee, I hope Bambi didn't destroy your only mop. I hate to think of my bathroom floor underwater all night."

  "Are you serious? You arranged to have your things delivered here when you hadn't even seen the apartment? When I hadn't said you could have it yet? You took it for granted that I'd say yes?" She pressed her hands to her chest. "Tell me these things aren't true."

  "White lies aren't my forte," he said, pulling his dry socks from his pants pockets. Shaking them out, he leaned against the curved banister and slipped one on. "They're yours."