He quit work an hour early and went home, finding himself fighting exhaustion from lack of sleep the night before. The block in which he rented a small house was late afternoon, sleepy quiet. Nothing stirred. Darkness had fallen and bitter cold would soon blanket the earth. As he got out of his car, he glanced up at the sky where clouds wavered across a crescent moon. When he scanned the sky, stars dotted the expanse of black canopy. It would certainly be cold tonight.
A light in the kitchen caught his eye. Was he becoming forgetful and leaving the light on when he left for work? He unlocked the front door, scraped the snow off his boots and reminded himself to shovel the snow from the path leading to the house and off the sidewalk so the elderly pedestrians who frequented the neighbourhood wouldn't fall on the treacherous, icy paths.
He stepped inside. His stomach rumbled at the spicy smell of garlic, onions and tomatoes wafting through the living room. Stunned, he wondered one, who had broken into his house, and two, why was he so fortunate to come home to the smell of cooking. The loneliness he usually arrived at home with was replaced by curiosity.
All the lights in the kitchen had been turned on and the heat radiating from the oven considerably warmed the house. The scent of olive oil and piquant meat filled the air and made his mouth water. At the kitchen sink, he found the culprit who had broken into his house. She was washing dishes and humming loudly in time with the rock music blaring from the radio. Her waist-length hair, the colour of warm whisky, was plaited and cinched by a small polka-dotted ponytail holder. Large, gold hoop earrings dangled from her earlobes and swung with her energetic movements.
It wasn't as if his dreams to have a woman in his life and a family could come true in the middle of the day. Or could they? Fury made him shout, “What's the meaning of this?” He raced to the radio and shut it off as he ogled the woman's hourglass figure.
She whirled around. Eyes as green as spring grass growing on a mountainside met his. “No need to shout, Bryan."
"Cathy? Is that you?” When had he last seen her? Fifteen years ago? Then she had been an awkward but pretty teenager.
"I was washing dishes,” she said smoothly, returning to her task as if to say he was an unwelcome nuisance. Her black pants hugged her bottom. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled. “I came to make your Christmas a holly jolly one."
"Oh?"
"Oh,” she repeated.
"And what do I owe the pleasure of your breaking and entering into my house to?"
She finished washing a frying pan, set it on the drainer and wiped her hands on a dishtowel. “I didn't do any such thing. I kept calling from the bus station, but you weren't here."
"Of course I wasn't. I was at work."
"I didn't break in. The door was wide open."
"Wide open?” He couldn't help his eyes straying down to her plump breasts under the fuzzy, white sweater. “I'm sure I didn't leave it that way."
"Yeah. I couldn't believe the mess in here. Drawers pulled out of the dresser and turned upside down, chaos with clothes and papers everywhere you could imagine. You live worse than a pig in a pigsty."
He scowled, scanning the kitchen in front and the living room behind him for any signs of chaos. Everything seemed to be in place, although a couple of miniature Christmas decorations seemed to have moved on the fireplace mantle. “What do you mean, you found drawers upside down?"
A finely plucked eyebrow arched up. “Your house looked like a tornado swept through it. I understand single men live like pigs, but I've never seen anything like this."
"I left it tidy this morning, and I locked the front door.” Or had he? He felt relatively certain he wouldn't forget a crucial detail like that, although last night had thrown him off his routine behaviour.
She was making the disorder all up to excuse her breaking in to his house. He didn't have many valuables or loose cash hanging around, so the thieves couldn't have found much to steal. He shook his head. “There's nothing sacred, is there?"
"What do you mean?” She stepped closer, and the scent of apple blossoms swirled around him. His senses reeled from her proximity. She was all soft female. She was also his cousin. No fooling around. “You're making it sound as if someone ransacked my house."
"Someone did.” She seemed to shrink into herself. “I walked right into it."
He didn't know whether to comfort her or to order her to leave. With only a moment's indecision, he took her into his arms, feeling the sudden vulnerability emanating from her. “It's okay. You must have chased them off."
"I did?” She looked into his face and he swore he saw more than a hint of bravery in the depths of her eyes. As a teenager, she had been a tomboy, a daredevil, always the first to try a new activity. She got the reputation for being brave and courageous—for a girl.
Man, this was going to be some kind of night, attempting to determine if someone really had broken into his house. As if that wasn't enough, he had a beautiful woman with big breasts that begged to be caressed, resting her head against his chest. Too damned bad she was his cousin.
She giggled and pushed away from him. “Here you had me thinking you were a lousy housekeeper,” she said, watching him.
"First appearances can be deceptive.” He figured she would be all right while he checked the house to spot if anything was missing. “I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."
"I wasn't planning to,” he heard her murmur.
He strolled through the house, turning lights on in one room after another. Nothing seemed to be missing until he got to the spare bedroom where the closet door hung off its hinges as if a giant had grabbed the wood and knocked it off to get his jollies. Boxes of photographs and old letters had been on the highest shelf.
Bryan edged closer. The four boxes were gone, unless Cathy had done something with them. As far as he could tell, there was nothing else missing. He ran down the stairs and once again the scent of garlic and apple blossoms hit him full force.
"When you went upstairs in the room where the closet door is hanging off its hinges, did you find any boxes on the floor?"
Cathy wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “What kind of boxes?"
He described the cardboard containers filled with disorganised photographs of his family and yellowing letters.
"No. That bedroom was pretty tidy compared to the rest of the house. I didn't have to clean up anything there.” She laughed nervously. “I'm not much of a repair person so I couldn't fix the hinges."
She raised questioning eyebrows. “Aren't you going to call the cops?” Her world-weary eyes twinkled.
He sat down resignedly. “I can't do much now that you cleaned the chaos up. Your fingerprints would be everywhere."
"What does that mean for the cops?"
"I don't think they'd have enough to go on, to make out someone else's fingerprints. At least that's what I learned on TV. Unless they're really lucky. And essentially, there's no one hurt and nothing is missing. So no big deal."
"I see."
"You didn't see those boxes?” he persisted. “Maybe some photos where there shouldn't have been any, or letters or anything?"
"No."
"Wonder why anyone would want to break in and steal a box of photos and old letters? Doesn't make any sense,” he pondered out loud.
Cathy leapt to her feet and ran for the oven. “Wow! I fixed meat lasagne for you and it's fixing to burn.” She grabbed two potholders.
"Let me do that for you,” he said, taking them from her and inserting his hands into the checkered material. He lifted the steaming glass pan from the oven and placed it on a metal rack on the counter. “It smells like a piece of heaven."
"I made some cookies, too."
"You did? What kind?” He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten homemade cookies.
"Rainbow chocolate chip."
"My fave."
"I thought so."
"Although most any kind is my fave."
She hurried to the fri
dge, treating the kitchen as familiarly as if she had lived here for the last six months, like he had. Pulling the door open, she bent over to retrieve something and gave him the view of a luscious, wriggling bottom. Bryan gulped several times. He'd sure like to get a look at her naked when she bent over like that. Maybe he would catch a glimpse of her pussy. He let out a little sigh before he caught himself. This woman was hot stuff, but he had assumed she wasn't married. Was she? If she was, why was she cooking for him instead of her husband?
She headed towards the sink with a red bell pepper and a head of iceberg lettuce. Her breasts jiggled invitingly under the sweater. “The salad will be ready in a minute."
"Need some help?” He was the kind of guy who pulled a TV dinner from the freezer, popped it in the microwave and ate minutes later. He wasn't much for spending hours preparing a meal only to eat it without companionship.
"Nah. I got it."
"Where did you get all this stuff from?"
"Supermarket around the corner. I got here and there was nothing in the cupboards or the fridge, so I decided to stock up. Doesn't your job pay you anything?"
"Michael pays fine."
"Where do you work?” She washed the lettuce under running water.
"Anessa Rendering."
"Don't know them."
"Michael owns it."
She looked over her shoulder. “Who's that?"
"Michael Karlisi. He changed his name a while back. Used to be James Carmichael."
He wasn't sure if it was only his imagination, but Cathy froze as she lifted the red pepper onto the wooden cutting board. “Is everything okay?” he asked, as she started coring the pepper with a small knife. Heck, she was almost attacking the vegetable.
"Sure. We just don't talk about him."
"We?"
"The family. I mean it's been years since our side of the family disowned him."
Bryan grunted, rubbing his forehead and trying to remember if he had heard about it.
"Why?"
Cathy shuddered. “Let's talk about something else. Like Christmas."
"Are you always so manipulative?"
"I try my very best."
The cookie jar lid was slightly ajar. Deciding to check out why, when it was normally empty, he lifted the lid only to get his fingers slapped.
"You have to wait until after dinner,” Cathy admonished him.
The smell of chocolate chip cookies was tempting, as was the woman who had baked them.
"It's my house."
She shrugged. “I made the cookies."
"Okay. So we're stalemated."
"Yup.” She placed fisted hands on her hips and glared at him playfully. “What made you look in there?"
He decided to play along. “I thought the photos would be in there."
"I bet."
He wanted to kiss her glossy lips and her perky nose. She couldn't stay still for more than a few seconds. Man, but he wanted to throw her against the counter and pull her pants down. That made as much sense as Colin had when he had stormed into the Anessa office earlier that day. Now Bryan had found a beautiful woman in his house, and he couldn't take her to bed. Cathy was sure stacked in the right places, even if life hadn't stacked its opportunities the same way.
"So you work for James?” she asked, turning away with a flash of amusement.
He didn't doubt she knew he had a major hard-on. “I thought you weren't allowed to talk about him.” He watched as she mixed the salad and dribbled virgin olive oil over the crisp shredded lettuce.
"What I said was the family doesn't talk about him when we're all together, say for a birthday or at Christmas time."
"So why don't your folks talk about him?"
"He's a murderer."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. That was some years ago, but I remember the uproar it caused. You know, I was a teenager back then when everything was fresh and interesting."
Cathy had confirmed Colin's statement that Michael had been in prison but the reason differed. Bryan couldn't recall hearing about a trial. Quite likely, the news simply hadn't reached Bryan.
She bustled about, efficiency on sexy, mile-long legs.
"Who was he accused of murdering?” he asked out of curiosity. If there was one man he would vote for as the least likely to commit murder, Michael would be that man.
"His father."
Bryan's eyebrows knit together in a deep frown. “No way."
"Why?"
"Wasn't he charged with rape?"
"With what?” Cathy stared at him, her lips parted.
"Wasn't he convicted of non-consensual sex?"
"Where did you hear that?"
"Uh, just a vague memory."
Adamantly, she shook her head. “Someone saw James do it. Or I think that's the way I heard it. It was a long time ago. I'm surprised you can work for him since he has such a dubious, as you call it, background."
"Before this afternoon, I had no idea he had such a colourful one.” He had heard two versions of why Michael had gone to prison, if he had, that was. Why was everyone determined to slander Michael's reputation?
"He served seven years and still managed to inherit his father's money in the sixty-million-dollar range."
Bryan couldn't see how a convicted felon could inherit a vast amount of money. “I just can't reconcile the Michael I know with the one you're making him out to be."
"He slit his father's throat. Why? No one knows. That never came out during the trial. Only Michael can tell us that."
"That can't be. You'll know what I mean when you meet him."
"I have no intention of doing that. As far as I'm concerned, his kind doesn't exist in my world."
There had to be some kind of mistake. Without exception, all of Michael's employees liked him. Bryan knew of several men who leaned on Michael for emotional support. He helped them, always finding a compromise or a solution to a vexing problem. Would these men really take their problems to him if they knew he was a murderer? Highly unlikely. “I hope I can convince you to change your mind."
"Dinner's ready. All set for homemade lasagne with three cheeses and rich tomato sauce?"
"Woman, I don't know where you came from, but you're making my mouth water.” As he stuck his fork in the meaty lasagne, he appreciated the bubbly woman seated opposite. Perhaps she had the answers to the enigma that had become Michael in only a few hours.
* * * *
Michael admired Nicole's feisty spirit. His cheek stung angrily where her small hand had landed. Except for the classical music playing quietly, there was silence. She stood buck naked, standing up to him in a way few women had in the past decade. Most women wanted him for what his money could offer them or because they found a former prisoner some kind of freakish attraction. But he could unequivocally say no other woman turned him on as much as Nicole did.
He berated himself for trying to recapture the love they had once shared with carnal sex, to think driving her crazy with need for him might make her beg for him. Inwardly, he beat himself. Nicole was a woman with a great deal of pride. He repressed a fledgeling sigh, doubting she would ever beg him for anything again.
Guilt ate away at his insides. He'd gone about doing things the wrong way since he had taken hold of the bloody knife beside his father's body. Now he had tried to force Nicole to love him by tying her down, by making her scream with desire. He shook his head with the dismal train his thoughts had taken. He kept himself busy with Anessa, trying to provide jobs for the struggling people of Eastwynd. So busy that sometimes he didn't even make it home to bed but fell asleep, exhausted, behind his desk in his office.
Now he had compounded that guilt by manoeuvring both Brad's and Nicole's lives. He had offered Brad a job at Anessa although he wasn't the most qualified for the job. Then he had secretly arranged for Nicole's transfer to Bessman and Overton, in the vain hope that having her nearby would ease his loneliness. That attempt had failed miserably he'd realised when he'd set e
yes on her in the ballroom. He knew he wouldn't be able to live another minute without her, that the demoralising loneliness and the emptiness he had lived with would choke him to death. If nothing else, prison had taught him life was a lonely place, eased only by a very few intimate friends. Colin had stood by him during the time he was behind bars. Often, the comfort of his brother's presence had been the only thing that had kept him going.
Michael stood rooted to the floor, astonished that Nicole could have slapped him. But, without a doubt, he had deserved it. He cleared his throat. Quietly, he said, “I didn't kill my father. I loved him and wouldn't have dared to take away the few years he had left. He was so fragile as it was.
"If only you had listened to me that day when I tried to stop you, I could have explained.” He saw her give a little shudder. She was facing him naked and was probably cold. “I have spare clothes for you here,” he said, kneeling in front of a chair and drawing a gym bag from underneath. Unwilling to risk another resounding slap, he said, “Here,” and pushed the bag at her.
She peeked inside the bag and began to draw out panties, bra, skirt and blouse.
"I want to make you understand,” he said, watching her tight bottom.
"There's nothing to understand.” She pulled on the panties and slipped her arms into the bra straps.
"I can't just walk away, Nicole. You're a part of me. Ever since the day we met you've been the best part of my life."
She turned on him, her lips set in a thin, angry line. “I'm not a part of you. I fail to see why you can't get that into your dense head.” She shook her head, her long hair swinging from side to side.
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