Maybe he'd died and gone to heaven and she was his personal angel in paradise.
She noticed him. Her stare was intelligent, exacting, and...did he see a flash of emotion? Anger? What could he have done to piss her off?
You mean besides ogling her, you jerk?
The heat of embarrassment crept up his neck. He cleared his throat. "Uh. Hi."
She walked toward him with a sashay so confident, so sexy, he almost swallowed his tongue.
"Number Seventy-One, right?"
Number 71? "I don't play sports. Professionally. I counsel. Kids." He tried to pry his gaze from her breasts. Damn, they were beautiful, tender mounds. The most perfect set of—
"They don't do tricks and they don't respond to questions posed to them."
Brent looked at her. She looked amused and annoyed. Her smile was rueful. And familiar. "I apologize. I'm just...I've never—"
"Seen a woman's breasts?"
"I've seen breasts. Lots of them." And I'd love to see yours.
One thin-plucked eyebrow rose. "Really? Do tell."
He groaned as his face flamed. She made him feel like he was twelve-years-old again, trying to convince Marly Hayes to kiss him on the mouth. She didn't, either. She hauled off and punched him, just like this woman would, if he didn't stop thinking with his dick.
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I don't usually act so—so—"
"Lustful?"
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." He meant it, too. He'd never been this taken by a lady at first sight. He enjoyed the fairer sex, loved their bodies and their minds and their hearts, but not one, not one, had ever affected him this way.
"Well, Number Seventy-One, I figured you for slicker moves. Not an original line."
"It's not a line. It's the God's honest truth." He frowned. "Why do you keep calling me Number Seventy-One?"
"Your apartment number. I saw you come out of it earlier. Dane Sinclair, right?" She shrugged. "I just moved here. I live in the building across from yours."
Something weird flickered in his belly. Not lust. Suspicion. She's been watching the apartment? She knew Dane's name, but not his face?
"You know a lot for someone who just moved here."
Her gaze flicked away, then returned. "I saw you and I asked about you."
Suspicion faded under her smoky stare. He wanted, more than he wanted his next breath, to taste those full, wet lips. "You, uh, asked someone about the guy living in my building?"
"Yeah. The apartment manager liked my breasts, too." She sighed, apparently at the shallowness of men, then grinned, that same rueful curving of the lips that made his blood thicken with instant lust. She stepped closer and her scent, a musky smell with the faint tint of chlorine, filtered into his senses. "Is it a crime to ask after a good-looking man? Am I supposed to twitter and giggle and bat my lashes waiting for you to notice me?"
"God no. I'd be your slave if you'd only ask." Brent shook his head. "But I'm not Dane. I'm just staying at his apartment for a day or two."
Surprise flickered in her gaze. "I thought I saw a girl going in that apartment yesterday. Is that his girlfriend or yours?" "His. Definitely his. I'm unattached. So available my mother is ashamed. She tells her friends I'm dead rather than admit I'm single. Do you want to marry me and remedy that?"
She laughed, her gaze dark with amusement and...what else? Disappointment? The bare edge of desire? Brent watched the movement of her slender throat, the tilt of her head as she looked at him. "What's your name?"
"Brent."
"Lillian." She extended her hand and he took it.
Her fingers were damp, slightly chilled from the water, but he felt like he'd been electrocuted. She looked at their clasped hands and frowned, then carefully withdrew, staring at her palm as if touching him had left a mark on her skin. She'd left a mark on him. He felt seared to the bottom of his soul. This kind of desire was almost painful. "Do you want to go get a bite to eat?"
"I'd like that." The smile again. The one he wanted to kiss right off her mouth. "But I'm not on the menu, okay?"
He grinned. Maybe not the main course, but they'd just see about dessert.
Nine
TUESDAY LOOKED OKAY for a guy with a three-legged Great Dane collapsed on top of him. He was in the middle of the living room, spread-eagled on the floor, trying, in quiet tones, to convince his new pal to get up. The dog licked his face.
"Whew! Three-week-old garbage smells better than his breath." The Dane lapped Tuesday's forehead and nose. "Damn, girl, get this monster some doggy mints, will you?" His gaze found Marissa's. "This isn't part of my job description. I want a raise."
She sat on the couch with two cats and a trembling, long-haired creature that was some breed of miniature dog. For all her desire to have pets, she knew very little about them. Smiling at Tuesday, she said, "I'll give you another thousand dollars if you let Dane, Jr. sit on you, okay?"
"Quit calling him that!" yelled Dane from the kitchen. "You are not naming any furballs after me. Especially that one."
"Fine. I'll call him DJ."
"Marissa! You will not call—ouch!" Dishes clattered followed by human thuds. "Tell this cat my toes are not for nibbling."
Nibbling? Something truly risqué popped into her mind involving nibbling, herself, and Dane, but she managed to hold her tongue. She didn't want to embarrass herself in front of Tuesday by blurting out her fantasies. The cats settled deeper into her lap, purring, as she petted their soft fur.
Well, soft, after she, Dane and Tuesday had bathed them. All the animals had received a thorough cleaning in the backyard, though almost all of them complained about it. Despite the loss of a back leg, the Dane ran well and fast—especially when chased by a water hose and two irate men. Fluffy leapt off the couch, vibrated more than walked to Tuesday, and plopped onto his neck. DJ lifted his head from Tuesday's chest and licked the little furball fur.
Dane walked into the living room and Marissa's gaze immediately went to him. He'd donned a pair of khaki shorts and a tan-striped shirt. Earlier, during what he'd dubbed Animal Hell With Water, he'd worn cut-off jeans and, gulp, no shirt. Her senses had hummed the whole time—not even the perpetual scowl creasing his face had dampened her feelings of desire. Her senses hummed now, too. He settled into a recliner and a huge sigh of relief billowed out of him.
The blind kitten, which Marissa had named Shadow, simply because the poor dear had attached itself to Dane and followed him everywhere, leapt onto Dane's lap, curled into a black ball, and began to purr. Dane rolled his eyes, but stroked the kitten's fur. Marissa bit back a grin. Dane would never admit he liked the cat, but he did, even if he wanted to pretend he was putting up with all the animals for her sake.
"I think we can mark going to the zoo off your list," he said, "since you've created your own animal kingdom right here."
Oh dear. The list. Soon it would be Saturday—the anniversary of Gillie's death. Somehow, finishing the list, the last thing she'd done with her sister, would be her final good-bye. It was time to let go of her old life and start a new one. "Sorry, Dane. Going to the zoo is of the utmost importance."
Had it only been five days since she'd met Dane? For the first time in years, she felt like she'd lived a normal—okay, not normal— but happy, free life. Now that she'd put aside her fear and taken that list of dreams into the world...she felt all grown up. If only Gillie were here to see her succeed. Sudden grief gripped her. I miss you, Gillie.
"Marissa?" The gentle concern in Dane’s voice was unexpected.
To her horror, tears filled her eyes. She removed the cats from her lap and stood. "Wouldn't it be terrible if I were allergic to animals?" She laughed, almost choking on the falseness of the sound.
She couldn't meet Dane's stare, so she crossed the living room to look out the floor-to-ceiling window. The not-yet landscaped grounds were a tangle of long grass, summer flowers, and old trees. The area looked as wild and as untamable as she felt at this moment.<
br />
The swiftness of the emotions claiming her made her realize the depth of her denial. She had done a fabulous job of pretending this week that she didn't have a care in the world, as if the list were the most important thing in her life. She didn't have to think about how her sister was dead and how her parents would fear the same for her if they knew she'd escaped from Geoffrey. She blew out a breath.
They wouldn't know. Geoffrey was her friend and, even though she'd duped him, he wouldn't trouble her parents. She'd left the note and promised to return. Yet, if Geoffrey had panicked...had called her parents to return from Europe, they would search for her. They would find her, too.
She shook away the thoughts. What did it matter if she returned or if her parents found her? She was a legal adult; they couldn't force her to live in their house anymore. She'd only stayed after her eighteenth birthday because, well, because every year they convinced her to do so.
And every year, she caved in because through their love and their worry, they'd made her fear. Fear living. Fear the outside world. Their first child had been kidnapped and their eldest had died because she ventured out from their protection. Marissa didn't need a psychologist's degree to understand their motivations.
Ultimately, that was why she'd left. That and because Millie had entered her life and instilled the desire and the courage to venture out of the "cocoon of wealth."
She missed Millie, too. It was a pity she hadn't been able to locate her. She had thought that Millie would be delighted to see her and would help her with the list. The young woman with red hair, green eyes, and the most adorable cockney accent had been her beauty instructor for a mere two weeks. But her phone number had been disconnected, the apartment abandoned. More than likely, her friend had chosen money over friendship.
Whew. That stung.
Marissa wrapped her arms around her torso, misery lodged in her chest like a lead weight.
"Is everything all right?"
Dane's quiet question so near her startled her. She put a hand to her throat and glanced at him. Concern softened his still-present scowl.
"I-I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. Want to talk about it?"
"No, not really." Before Dane could question her further, she turned from him, from his comfort, and fled up the stairs and into the master bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
* * *
"SO WHY ARE you hanging out at Dane's apartment?" asked Lillian.
Her steady gaze revealed casual interest; she could have been inquiring about the weather by the bored tone of her voice. But Brent noticed the tense set of her shoulders, the nearly imperceptible way she leaned forward to hear his answer. As a counselor of troubled teens, he knew how to read body language. She was interested in Dane or in the apartment and he couldn't figure out why.
He scooped up ketchup with his potato wedge and ate it, took his time chewing. Her eyebrows rose as if she didn't understand his hesitation in answering a simple question. She straightened s-l-o-w-l-y, swung her long, gorgeous hair over her shoulder, then looped her arms overhead and stretched s-l-o-w-l-y.
She leaned forward, extending her arms up. The jagged edges of her half-T-shirt revealed the fullness of her breasts. The copper bikini top showed through the white of the shirt and her nipples, tight hard peaks, strained against the thin material.
Heat rushed through him, thickened his lower extremities with instant, unbearable lust, and gave him a hard-on that tented his shorts.
The French fry lodged in his throat. He choked. Coughed. Sputtered. She watched him, a smile dancing across her lips.
"Are you okay, Brent?"
She'd asked, "are you okay" in that husky purr, but his body heard, "Do you want to have sex?" and blood surged anew, even with the damned French fry playing havoc with his throat. He grabbed his Coke and drank it, finally swallowing the annoying food and regaining his breath.
Eyes watering, he glared at her. "You did that on purpose."
"Did what?"
"You know what."
"Ah. You mean I plucked your eyeballs out of your head and pointed them toward my tits?"
"You might as well have," he said, once again feeling embarrassed, but he wasn't letting her get away with pretending she was Miss Innocent. "You can't use your breasts to encourage a guy to look, then blame it all on him when he does what you want."
Lillian laughed. "You're right. I'm sorry." She paused. "Why didn't you answer my question?"
"Why did you ask it?"
She shrugged and relaxed into her chair. "You're a suspicious sort. Are you a spy or a hit man?"
"Neither."
"I wouldn't think so." The delicious kiss-me smile flitted across her lips.
Damn.Why was that curving mouth so familiar?
"Because you're too easily distracted to do a good job as either one. So what do you do?"
"I'm a counselor at the TeenCenter."
"Admirable."
"What do you do? Are you an actress?"
Surprise lit her gaze. "Why on earth would you think that?"
"You're damned beautiful for one thing. For another, you look familiar."
Her expression blanked. "You're mistaken." She laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that startled him. "You might say, Brent, I've had to be a very good actress these past few years, but I've never been filmed."
Her vulnerability sliced through him. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Yes. But I can't." She sipped her drink, turned to look at the memorabilia hanging on the restaurant's walls, her gaze troubled. "Just ignore me. I guess I'm tense because I've been looking for a job and can't find one. I've got enough money for one more month of rent and then...who knows."
"What do you do?"
"This and that. My best attribute is my housecleaning skills." Her gaze settled on him again. "I don't suppose you need a housekeeper?"
"Yes," said Brent. "I do." At least he would when Dane and Marissa left with their new brood. He grinned. "Do you like animals?"
* * *
GEOFFREY SNEEZED. HE wiped his nose then buried his face into the nearby pillow. The darkened bedroom and the delicate sound of Enya's voice were supposed to lull him to sleep. Instead, worry gnawed at his gut and the supposed short-term viral infection continued to attack his body, and after seven dreadful days, his will to live.
The phone rang. He didn't bother trying to raise his head. He just reached out and grabbed the first solid plastic thing he touched. "Hello?"
The phone rang again. Geoffrey flipped onto his back and looked at the object in his hand. "Bugger." He put down the stapler and grabbed the receiver from its base on the nightstand.
"Hullo. Vanderson residence." His eyes widened and he straightened when he heard the voice. "Dear heavens! It's about time you called."
"I found her."
"You did?"
"The guy she left the Paradise Club with is the brother of the club's owner." A soft laugh escaped. "It took some convincing, but he finally relented and gave me the information I wanted."
"Where is she?"
"Not important."
"It's important to me." He sighed. He knew from experience that Millie would not tell him anything else. "I'm worried. We have very little time. Alan and Fiona return late Friday night. Saturday is Gillian's birthday. The family always does a memorial for her. There is the...other matter." He cleared his throat. "Can you handle that, too?"
"Him again? Did you tell him anything?"
"What could I tell him? There's a beauty consultant with a gun and an attitude chasing a serial killer?"
"Very funny, G. Your eyes are too sharp. How could I have fooled her, but not you?"
"As if you need to ask. Achoo!" Geoffrey sneezed and grabbed a tissue to wipe his nose. "Your gentleman friend is very persistent."
"Kade is not my friend. Don't talk to him again. I'll take care of everything."
"Okay, but—"
The dial tone met his protest. "Doesn't even sa
y a proper good-bye," he muttered as he replaced the receiver. He pulled the covers up and nestled into the bed, then closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
* * *
"SO YOU GONNA leave her up there cryin' her eyes out?" Dane looked at Tuesday. They both sat in the living room, surrounded by furry, sleeping bodies. He figured the kid must have noticed him casting worried looks at the stairs. Tuesday aimed the remote control at the big-screen television and started flipping channels.
"How do you know she's crying?" asked Dane.
"I've got good hearing."
"She's not crying." Dane plucked the kitten off his lap and stood. He gestured at the ceiling. "She's probably taking a nap."
"Yeah. Sleeping sounds just like sobbing." Tuesday continued to flip channels. "What did you say to her?"
"Nothing."
"I've been watching you, man. You like her, but you don't want to like her. You snap at her all the time and she don't do nothing about it."
"I don't snap at her. And use correct grammar. She doesn't do anything about it."
"I talk the way I want." Tuesday's lips formed a mutinous line. "She's too busy trying to figure you out to give your sorry ass the kick it deserves. That got enough proper grammar in it for you?"
"It's none of your business."
"I'm making it my business." Tuesday stood and walked to Dane, getting nose-to-nose with him. He thumped Dane's chest with the remote control. "You don't deserve her, man."
Dane recognized Tuesday's aggression for what it really was—concern for Marissa—but he still felt anger flare. He quelled his emotions and backed up a couple of steps. "You're right. I don't. That's why I'm trying to stay the hell away from her."
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