IN THE DARK

by Pamela Burford

  "You tell 'er, Spot!" Brody hollered, goading the big old mutt into canine hysteria. "Don't you let her get away with that! You tell her, boy! You tell her who's boss!" He patted the shaggy black fur, rubbed the animal's frosted muzzle.

  Brody opened the door to the enclosed wraparound porch, which stretched across the front of the house and down one side. Spot pushed past him, still doing his vicious-watchdog imitation. The doorbell rang again. Brody grabbed hold of Spot's collar and opened the front door.

  He almost didn't recognize her. That magnificent red hair was pulled back in a severe French twist. In contrast to the flattering, feminine outfit she'd worn in Nana's office, she was now dressed in a crisp white shirt, tailored navy blue jacket with matching knee-length skirt, and practical pumps. She carried a boxy briefcase of polished black leather. Impenetrable sunglasses concealed her eyes.

  "Nice look, babe," Brody said. "I'm feeling nurtured already."

  Caitlin took a step back.

  "Don't worry," he said. "At his age, Spot's bark is, I'm sad to say, worse than his bite. Settle down now, boy."

  "I'm not concerned about the dog. Couldn't you have thrown something on to answer the door?"

  Brody glanced down at his snug white B.V.D.s. "I did."

  She scowled.

  "Come on, Caitlin. After the other night…?" He snapped the elastic waistband of his briefs. "You're kidding, right?"

  "If you can't even try to maintain a dignified atmosphere—"

  "I thought you office moms rejected the soulless, repressive, Brave New World trappings of modern business."

  "Like clothes?"

  "Listen, let's take this conversation inside." He yanked her by the arm. "Before my neighbors decide I'm being kidnapped by one of the Blues Sisters."

  Caitlin could deck herself out head to toe in a suit of armor, but she couldn't touch his memories. Brody had no trouble picturing her as she'd been that night, eagerly seductive, baring her lush body, brazenly offering herself—and demanding that he take what she offered. All of which had seemed consistent with who he'd thought she was and what he'd thought she was doing there.

  Until he'd encountered her again in Nana's office and realized his mistake. Now he had a few questions for his oh-so-proper office mom.

  Caitlin removed her sunglasses as she passed through the porch, staring at her surroundings with an awestruck expression. Cartons of files were stacked three deep. White wicker furniture groaned under memorabilia amassed during research trips spanning the last two decades. A couple of dozen free-standing metal shelving units were crammed with hundreds—no, make that thousands—of books. Brody had never gotten rid of a book in his life.

  "Good grief," she murmured. "What a fire hazard!"

  She followed Brody into the living room. He released Spot, who proceeded to treat their visitor to a more intimate sniff-and-slobber welcome. She backed away, nearly upsetting the televisions.

  "That's enough of that." Brody hauled the dog off Caitlin. "She's not your type, Spot. Too preppy. You're more of a polyester kind of guy. You wanna go out? Wanna go out?"

  This, of course, was the doggie equivalent of "You just won the lottery." Spot answered with a sharp, gleeful yip and trotted toward the kitchen and the back door as fast as his arthritic hips would allow.

  Brody let him out and returned to the living room to find Caitlin examining the tower of four TVs she'd nearly knocked over. It was more of a pyramid, really, with the twenty-seven-incher, the only one that worked, on the floor and the ancient thirteen-inch black-and-white on the top. She said, "I'm not going to ask."

  "Great. Let me show you the office."

  "Put something on first."

  "I wish you'd give this old-maid routine a rest. I just got out of the shower, okay?" He started up the stairs, not looking to see whether she followed. After a moment he heard her disgruntled voice behind him.

  "I didn't know this was a home office until I got here. What kind of work do you do, Mr. Mikhailov?"

  Brody stopped and grinned at her over his shoulder. She nearly bumped into him. "'Mr. Mikhailov'?"

  He waited. She sighed. "Brody."

  He took the remaining steps two at a time. "I'm a writer."

  "Oh. What do you write?"

  The upstairs was bisected by a long center hall. Brody stepped into the first room on the right, the largest, and grabbed a pair of jeans off the peach-on-peach-striped chaise longue, piled high with clean laundry. The only area free of work-related clutter was the sleeping alcove, which housed the old-fashioned four-poster bed.

  "Oh my God," Caitlin breathed. "You're married." She stood in the doorway, gaping at the peach sprigged wallpaper and ruffled lace curtains. "I had s—" She covered her mouth with her hand.

  She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. I had sex with a married man.

  Brody chewed back a wry smile as he stepped into his jeans and zipped up. "No, you didn't," he said. "I'm not married. Never have been."

  Caitlin stared at him a moment. Her gaze flicked over the ultrafeminine furnishings.

  "The place came like this," he said.

  "Oh."

  "Buddy of mine got the house in his divorce settlement. He didn't want it, was moving to Montreal, sold it to me. It was his ex-wife who fixed it up like this."

  "How long have you been here?"

  "Four years."

  "Four years? And you haven't redecorated?"

  He shrugged. "I don't much notice what the place looks like anymore."

  "No kidding," she muttered, hastily stepping aside as he exited the room. He knew her comment had more to do with clutter than decor.

  She trailed him down the hall. "Aren't you going to put on a shirt? Or shoes?"

  "It's hot. How can you stand that jacket?"

  "I assumed you'd have air-conditioning."

  "Don't care for it." He paused at the next doorway. "This is the computer room. It's where I do most of my work."

  Her eyes lit on the pizza box, the cardboard cartons overflowing with reference books, the mountain of yellowing newspapers, the piles of rubber-band-bound manuscripts, accumulated over nineteen years, the empty coffee cups and shot glasses. Her gaze lingered on the empty bottle of Russian vodka. "Uh-huh."

  He moved on. "That's the john," he said, pointing to the end-of-hall bathroom and stopping at the doorway of the room opposite the computer room. Inside was a Universal machine, free weights, a stereo system and more books, hardcover and paperback, piled on shelves and stacked on the floor. "Workout room slash music room slash library."

  "If this is your library, what are all those books on the porch?" she asked.

  "Those are like the archives down there. This is more current stuff. That pile there is TBR." At her quizzical look he said, "To be read."

  She took a deep breath. "Listen. I'd assumed that you had a, you know, a regular office. With employees?"

  He spread his arms. "What you see is what you get."

  "You still haven't told me what you write."

  "You've probably read some of it." He stepped over a pile of compact discs, plucked a handful of paperbacks off a shelf and tossed one to her. She caught it and looked at the cover. Her eyes grew huge. He handed her the others.

  "You write these?" Her features twisted into a grimace.

  This wasn't the first time his work had provoked such a response, but it was the first time in memory that it had bothered him. "It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it."

  She shoved the books into his hands as if fearing contamination. "Why?"

  "Because people want to read it. The public has an insatiable appetite for information about celebrities."

  "'Information'? Don't you mean gossip? Unsubstantiated rumors? Lies?"

  "I do my research."

  Her sardonic look spoke volumes.

  He said, "You can count on getting more accurate information from unauthorized biographies than from authorized ones." Why was he getting into this with
her? He thought he'd transcended the need to defend himself years ago.

  "'Unauthorized biographies,'" she said. "That almost makes it sound legitimate. If you're so proud of what you write, why hide behind a pen name?"

  "Back when I was starting out, my agent thought a name like Mikhailov might turn off American readers. He's the one who came up with 'Jake Beckett.' And I've never hid behind the damn pseudonym. It's not like I'm trying to conceal my identity." He spread his arms. "If someone doesn't like what I write about them, let 'em sue me." He'd dodged that bullet more than once.

  Caitlin tapped one of the paperbacks he held, the cover of which featured an unflattering photograph of a well-known aging starlet. "Well, I don't think you have to worry about Serena suing you."

  That was true. Serena Milton had overdosed on barbiturates within days after Brody's Serena! hit the bookstores. After her death, sales of the book skyrocketed; it went to four printings. Brody wondered if he'd ever stop thinking of those royalties as blood money.

  The bottom line was, he'd never know what role his tell-all book had played in Serena's suicide. He told himself she'd been close to the edge anyway, living her own private hell of emotional instability, destructive relationships, career burnout and financial ruin. If he hadn't jumped at the opportunity to make that private hell public, someone else would have beat him to it.

  That was what he told himself, but it was cold comfort when he lay awake in the middle of the night picturing that grainy morgue snapshot of Serena that had somehow found its way onto the cover of one of those supermarket tabloids.

  Brody had no intention of sharing his personal torment with anyone, much less this sanctimonious "nurturer." He despised Caitlin's smug judgmentalism, despised himself for letting it get to him. He tossed the books on the floor and strode down the hall to the last door, opposite his bedroom.

  "If you haven't figured it out yet, my office is basically the whole upstairs."

  Caitlin peered through the open doorway. "Another computer room?"

  "Oh, that's an old machine," he said, referring to the 386 PC incongruously perched on the elegant dressing table. A host of other obsolete and nonfunctional gadgets were heaped on the lowboy dresser and the canopied guest bed: lamps, radios, toaster ovens, blenders, a microwave, stereo turntable, VCR, fax machine, manual typewriter, electric typewriter, electronic typewriter, dedicated word processor, daisy-wheel printer, dot-matrix printer, ink-jet printer, laser printer and a first-generation game-playing computer.

  "Why are you keeping all these things?" she asked.

  "I'm going to fix 'em. When I get the chance."

  "Ha ha ha."

  "Not all of this stuff is broken," he said. "Some of it I've replaced with newer models, but there's no point in just throwing it away. Maybe someone can use it." He indicated the photocopy machine in the corner, on which sat an ancient slide projector. "That copier works."

  "Doesn't look like it gets much use."

  "It just needs toner."

  "How long has it needed toner?"

  "Let me show you the kitchen. Have you had breakfast?"

  "Five hours ago. What's in the garbage bags?" she asked, pointing to the dozen or so dark green overstuffed leaf bags next to the bed.

  "Garbage."

  He figured he'd better get used to that grimace.

  "Not my garbage," he clarified. "Other people's."

  She stared at him. "Is this something else I really don't want to know about?"

  "I would say so, yes."

  "Oh, wait a minute. This isn't … you don't go through their trash, do you? The people you write about?"

  "Hey, it's not stealing. It's right there on the curb, for anyone to help themselves to. You know, that particular expression is not your most attractive look."

  She threw her hands up. "This situation is impossible, Brody. I can't work with you."

  "Would it help if I told you it's all bills and receipts and correspondence in those bags, nothing icky?"

  "I'm not talking about the garbage. I'm talking about us. You know as well as I do this is just … it's just impossible."

  "Why?"

  "Why? After what happened between us?"

  Brody grinned. He crossed his arms over his bare chest and leaned a shoulder on the door-frame. "Now, I know what I said in Nana's office, but I didn't actually go up to that apartment the other night expecting to find Goldilocks in a naughty nightie. 'What happened between us,' as you so coyly put it, wasn't—"

  "I know," she muttered. "It wasn't your idea. And you'd be more than happy to inform my employer whose idea it was."

  "Indeed I would. And no doubt she'd ask the same question that's been plaguing me. Why?"

  He waited for her to satisfy his curiosity. Why had she been in that apartment? What had prompted that outrageous seduction?

  Finally she grumbled, "Can I get something cold to drink?"

  "Follow me."

  In the kitchen Caitlin dropped her briefcase, stripped off her jacket and tossed it on a chair-back. She unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled up her sleeves, unpinned the simple brooch at her throat and loosened her collar.

  "Beer?" Brody opened the refrigerator.

  "Water." She flopped into a wicker-seated Breuer chair and rested her elbows on the blond oak table. "Okay. It's like this. I have this boyfriend. Greg Bannister. He lives in Alaska."

  "Alaska." He dropped a few ice cubes in a tumbler. "Does Greg in Alaska know how you entertain yourself during blackouts in New York?"

  "Well, see, that's the thing. It's funny really. What happened. Kind of a comedy of errors."

  He filled the tumbler with water and handed it to her. "I could use a giggle."

  "Okay, well … Greg and I, we met three years ago, right before he moved to Alaska. He's my friend Brigit's cousin and … and she introduced us and, well, I guess we hit it off." She took a sip of water. "I mean, we didn't do anything about it then, you know, but after he left, we corresponded. E-mailed each other every day."

  "Let me guess. You bared your soul. Discovered a kindred spirit." He tapped a cigarette out of the pack on the counter and lit up.

  "Can I ask you to please not smoke?"

  "Yes." He leaned back against the counter, took a long drag and exhaled lazily.

  She stared at him. Finally she said, "Would you please not smoke?"

  "No. So you and Greg spent the last three years writing dirty E-mail to each other."

  Caitlin stiffened. "It wasn't like that. We … we fell in love."

  "Gosh. That's just so darn romantic."

  His sarcasm jerked her chin up. "Greg is a wonderful man. Sensitive. Intelligent. He has an important, respectable career. As an engineer. On the oil pipeline."

  "Mr. Perfect."

  "Anyway, a few days ago he told me he was coming to New York. We … we arranged to meet, to, um … you know."

  "To consummate this grand passion that had blossomed in cyberspace."

  "Yeah."

  "In the apartment belonging to the agency you work for."

  "Well, yeah. But the problem was, his plane got delayed. Because of the blackout."

  "And when I showed up instead of Mr. Perfect, you decided what the heck, one guy's the same as—"

  "No! I thought you were Greg."

  One look at her sober expression told him it wasn't a joke. "That's ludicrous."

  "I know it sounds … but you have to understand. I didn't really know Greg. I mean, I wasn't that familiar with him physically, even though we'd gotten real close emotionally. I just met him the once. And it was dark when you and I…"

  "There was a little moonlight. I'm not buying it, Caitlin."

  "I … wasn't wearing my contacts. I'm blind without them. I saw nothing, Brody. I swear."

  He pushed off the counter and leaned over her, peering at her eyes. There, floating on the striking, ice blue irises, were contact lenses. He straightened.

  "You do look like him," she said. "I mean, the resemb
lance is startling."

  "My voice…?" he said.

  "Greg and I didn't really speak on the phone. Too expensive. We stuck to E-mail." She shrugged. "You, uh, sound kind of like him, too."

  Brody turned away to think it through. Was it possible? He recalled how stunned she'd been when they'd met in Nana's office—scant hours after "Greg" had left her asleep, without so much as a so-long-it-was-fun note. The pieces fit even before he remembered.

  He faced her. "You called me Greg."

  "I did? Why didn't you say something?"

  "I was distracted." He smiled grimly. "So were you, at the time."

  He watched comprehension dawn. Watched a wave of crimson crawl up her face.

  "I—I'm—" she stammered.

  "Don't apologize. You thought I was Mr. Perfect."

  "But you didn't know that then."

  "It didn't really bother me that much. I don't believe anyone should be held accountable for what they scream at the height of passion."

  She cringed. "I screamed?"

  He grinned. "We're talking serious decibels, babe."

  "Please don't call me that."

  "Yes, Mom." He stubbed out his cigarette.

  "You know, that's not funny, Brody, that's tasteless, under the circumstances. It's … eww, I don't know what it is. Call me Cat. Only Nana calls me Caitlin."

  "I like that. Cat. Brings to mind all that feline sensuality I recall so vividly. So now I know who you thought I was. You haven't asked me who I thought you were." Brody savored the anticipation. This was going to be fun after hearing about Mr. Perfect.

  "Well … I assumed you just thought I was … well, me," she said. "You know. One of Nana's employees. Someone with access to the—"

  He stopped her with a raised palm. "Nana's assistant—Amos, is it?"

  "Amory."

  "After Nana gave me the keys, Amory took me aside and told me there'd be a surprise waiting for me in the bedroom. When I saw what the surprise was, I figured Leon had to have been in on it as well."

  Cat's brow wrinkled. Suddenly she recoiled, wide-eyed. "You thought…"