You're Still The One

by Janet Dailey

  “I don’t suppose I can talk you into putting on some coffee,” he said with that infuriating smile still in place.

  “Good guess,” Kitty snapped, and crossed to the door with quick, angry strides.

  Sebastian trailed after her at a much less hurried pace, then split away to head to the galley kitchen while Kitty began to search for her clothes. Ignoring the sounds coming from the kitchen, she retrieved her dress from the rack of blank canvases. She found her hose draped over the handle of the fireplace poker. Her shawl was still lying across the back of the sofa. After locating the obvious articles, the search began in earnest.

  Sebastian wandered over to watch. “Want some juice?”

  “No.” Finding nothing more on top of the room’s few pieces of furniture, Kitty got down on her hands and knees to look under them.

  “The coffee should be done in a couple of minutes. Want me to pour you a cup?”

  “No.” She wanted to find her clothes and leave, but she wasn’t about to ask for Sebastian’s help in the search.

  “Are you sure? It might improve your disposition.”

  “If you fell off the face of the earth, that would improve my disposition.” Spying something under the sofa, Kitty reached a hand beneath it and pulled out her nude silk panties. She tucked them in with the wadded-up dress and hose bundled in her arm.

  “My, we are in a foul mood this morning.”

  “I wonder whose fault that is,” Kitty grumbled.

  “Considering that you and I are the only ones here, it must be one of us.”

  “I’ll give you another clue,” Kitty retorted. “It isn’t me.”

  “That narrows the field considerably, doesn’t it?” Sebastian replied with a smile as the aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted from the kitchen.

  “Considerably.” It was awkward crawling around on the floor while holding her clothes, but Kitty wasn’t about to put them down anywhere. Knowing Sebastian, she was convinced he’d probably steal them and hold them hostage. “Where is my bra?” she demanded in frustration. “I can’t find it.”

  “It’s bound to be lying around here somewhere.”

  “That’s a lot of help.” She clambered to her feet to scan the area again.

  “Smells like the coffee’s done. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup?”

  “Positive.” Kitty circled the area again, checking behind canvases and under sofa pillows.

  “Would you like some hot chocolate instead? I’ll be happy to fix you a cup,” Sebastian offered.

  “Not on your life,” she flashed. “If it wasn’t for you and your hot chocolate, I wouldn’t still be here this morning!”

  “At least it’s not my fault anymore.”

  “It’s all your fault.” Kitty looked around his work area, first high, then low. “I should have known I couldn’t trust you.”

  “Of course you can.”

  Incensed that he had the gall to make such a claim, Kitty spun around to glare at him, the missing brassiere temporarily forgotten. “No, I can’t. I came to you last night as a friend. You knew I was upset over my argument with Marcel. You took advantage of me.”

  “If there’s one person in this world least likely to be taken advantage of, it’s you,” Sebastian observed dryly and raised his coffee cup to take a sip from it.

  “That isn’t true.” Pushed by the need to confront him, she crossed to the small kitchen area. “You caught me at a weak moment, when I was upset and confused. Did you try to comfort me? No, you fed me hot chocolate, spun tales about it being an aphrodisiac, kissed my neck, and lured me down memory lane.”

  “Sins, every one of them.” He lowered his head in mock contrition, giving it a shake. “I should be ashamed of myself.”

  “Would you stop making a joke out of everything?” Kitty protested, furious with him. “I am trying to be serious.”

  “That’s ninety percent of your problem, kitten. You’re too serious.”

  “And you treat everything lightly.”

  “Not everything.”

  “Ha!” Kitty scoffed. “You don’t even take your work seriously. If I hadn’t come along, you’d still be selling your paintings on a street corner. You said so yourself.”

  “True. But that doesn’t mean I’m not serious about my painting, because I am. It’s just a question of ambition. And, heaven knows, you have enough of that for both of us.”

  “Is there anything wrong with that?” she challenged.

  “Only when it gets in the way of life and living.”

  “And my work doesn’t,” Kitty asserted. “For your information, I have a life. The proof of that is right here on my finger.” She shifted the bundle of clothes to her opposite arm and displayed her engagement ring. “If I were all work and no play the way you try to make me sound, I wouldn’t have had any free time to date Marcel, let alone become engaged to him.”

  “We’re back to Mr. Chocolate, are we?”

  “We’ve never left him.”

  “I beg to differ,” Sebastian said. “As I recall, you did last night before you showed up at my door.”

  “I didn’t leave him. We were arguing, and I simply walked out before I lost my temper and said something that I would regret.”

  “So you came here and unleashed it on me.” His lazy smile revealed just how little he had been affected by it.

  “You deserved it after the trouble you caused,” Kitty muttered, controlling her temper with the greatest of difficulty.

  “I caused it?” Sebastian drew his head back in mock innocence. “Why are you blaming me? You’re the one who argued with him.”

  “We went over all that last night,” she reminded him. “You’re not going to bait me into going over it again.”

  “Too bad.” His mouth twisted in a smile of feigned regret. “Considering the way our conversation last night ended, it could have been a wonderful way to start the day.”

  Furious beyond words, Kitty growled a sound of absolute exasperation and spun away to resume her search for the missing brassiere. Before she could take a step, the doorbell chimed.

  Its ring was like an alarm bell going off. Gripped by a sudden sense of panic, Kitty froze in her tracks.

  Chapter Five

  “Who in the world could that be?” Sebastian frowned and started toward the door.

  “Wait.” Kitty grabbed his arm to stop him. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She glanced frantically around the studio. “Don’t you have a clock somewhere?” She glanced at the sunlight streaming through the French doors, but she had no idea how to tell the time of the day from the angle of the sun.

  “You know how I hate them,” Sebastian chided. “Why? What difference does it make?”

  “Because if it’s past eight-thirty, it could be Harve wondering why I haven’t shown up to open the gallery this morning. If it’s him, don’t let him in, whatever you do.” Kitty briefly toyed with the idea of making a dash for the bedroom, but if Harve happened to look in the front window, he would see her.

  “Why not? He’s found you here before,” Sebastian reminded her.

  “Not in the morning,” Kitty hissed as she backed deeper into the galley kitchen, aware that its area couldn’t be seen from the doorway. “And certainly not with me in a robe. You know exactly what he’ll surmise from that.”

  “It would be true, wouldn’t it?” Sebastian countered, smiling at her predicament.

  “That’s none of his business,” she whispered angrily as the doorbell chimed again, then repeated its summons insistently. “Go. Get rid of him.”

  When Sebastian moved to the door, Kitty shrank into a corner, trying to make herself as small as possible. Silently she scolded herself for taking the time to gather up her clothes; she should have left Sebastian’s studio the minute she got up.

  The snap of the dead bolt was followed by the click of the door latch. But it wasn’t Harve’s voice that Kitty heard next.

 
“Monsieur Cole.” It was Marcel who spoke, and her heart jumped into her throat and lodged there. “I am concerned for Kitty.”

  “Kitty?” Sebastian repeated, and she knew he was positively gloating inside.

  “Is it possible that you would know whether she arrived safely home last night?” Marcel inquired.

  “Had an argument with her, did you?” Sebastian asked instead. “Not over anything important, I hope.”

  “Mere trifling matters.”

  Trifling? His outrageous choice of adjective was almost enough to make Kitty charge to the door and confront Marcel. Only the thought that Sebastian would get way too much enjoyment out of such a scene prevented her from doing just that.

  “Walked out on you, did she?” Sebastian said, as if he already didn’t know that.

  “Have you seen Kitty?” There was a note of suspicion in Marcel’s question, enough to heighten the sense of panic Kitty felt.

  “Isn’t she at home?” Sebastian countered.

  “She did not answer the door.”

  “What time is it? Maybe she’s already left to open the gallery,” Sebastian suggested.

  “Not at this hour, surely,” Marcel protested. “It is only half past seven o’clock.”

  “That early? I—”

  “What is this?” Marcel demanded suddenly.

  To her horror, Kitty saw Sebastian being forced to back up and open the door wider. A clear indication that Marcel had stepped inside. She flattened herself against the corner, her heart pounding like a mad thing.

  “This is Kitty’s shoe.” Marcel’s announcement bordered on an accusation, and Kitty realized that Marcel had noticed the pumps Sebastian had set on the catchall table by the door.

  “Does she have a pair of heels like these?” Sebastian asked, again deftly avoiding both a confirmation and a boldfaced lie.

  That’s when Kitty spotted her missing bra. It dangled from the back of the sofa, a strap precariously hooked over the rounded corner of its back. It was clearly within plain sight of the door. Marcel was bound to see it; it was only a matter of when.

  For now the open door blocked her from view. But if Marcel stepped past it, she could easily be seen. Kitty glanced frantically around, searching for a better hiding place. Her widely swinging gaze screeched to a stop on the French doors that opened onto the back courtyard.

  Did she dare try to reach them? There was only the smallest chance she could escape detection if she remained where she was. But if she could manage to slip outside, unseen, she was home free.

  “There is a lady’s brassiere hanging off your sofa,” Marcel declared in a tone of voice that insisted on explanation.

  With fingers figuratively crossed that Marcel would be sufficiently distracted by the sight of the lacy undergarment not to notice her, Kitty tiptoed as quickly and quietly as she could across the Saltillo-tiled floor to the French doors.

  “So it is,” Sebastian confirmed from the front door area as Kitty fumbled ever so briefly with the dead bolt lock. The latch made the smallest snicking sound, but Sebastian’s voice covered it. “I had company last night. She must have forgotten to take it with her.”

  Not a single hinge creaked to give Kitty away. She opened the French door no farther than necessary and slipped outside. Immediately she darted to the left, not bothering to close the door behind her.

  Any second she expected to hear a cry of discovery from Marcel. But none came. The minute she reached the security of the exterior adobe wall, Kitty halted to lean against it and drink in a shaky gulp of air.

  Now, if she could just make it to the house without being seen.

  But she soon realized that was impossible. There was a taxicab sitting in the driveway. Any approach to the house would be seen either by the driver or Marcel.

  She debated her next move. She could remain where she was until Marcel left, or—Kitty froze, stricken by the realization that waiting for Marcel to leave wasn’t a viable option. Her evening bag was on the coffee table. Sebastian might be able to convince Marcel that two women could have the same pair of shoes. But an evening bag, too? That would be too much of a coincidence.

  If Marcel noticed the evening bag, Kitty was certain he would take a closer look. When he did, he would find her driver’s license and a credit card inside, along with the usual lipstick, compact, and mascara. Her escape from the studio would have been for nothing.

  Kitty knew she had to do something before Marcel discovered she had been in the studio last night. She knew of only one way to accomplish that.

  Hastily, she stashed her bundle of clothes under an ancient lilac bush that grew next to the corner of the building. She peeked around its branches to make sure Marcel hadn’t stepped back outside. But all was clear. After double-checking the sash’s knot, Kitty took a deep, galvanizing breath and dashed from behind the bush toward the studio door, choosing an angle that might convince Marcel she had come from the house.

  Marcel stood just inside the doorway. Kitty had a glimpse of Sebastian’s bare chest just beyond him, his body positioned in such a way to prevent Marcel from gaining further entrance to the studio.

  “Marcel.” She didn’t have to fake the breathlessness in her cry.

  He swung around with a start, a look of utter relief lighting his whole face. “Kitty!”

  His arms opened to greet her. She was swept into them just outside the door. Automatically Kitty wrapped her own arms around him while he pressed kisses against her hair and murmured little endearments in French.

  A guilty conscience kept her from responding to his embrace—that and the sight of Sebastian leaning a naked shoulder against the doorjamb, an amused smile edging the corners of his mouth.

  “Kitty, Kitty, Kitty,” Marcel murmured in a mixture of relief and joy as he drew back and framed her face in his hands. “You are all right, non?” He ran his gaze over her face in rapid assessment. “I had fear that you came to harm.”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him.

  “Where have you been?” The look of worry reentered his aquiline features.

  “I . . . I just woke up.” Kitty stalled, trying to gain enough time to come up with an explanation that might satisfy him.

  With a frown, Marcel glanced past her toward the house, then brought his probing gaze back to hers. “But I rang the bell to your door many, many times, and you did not answer it.”

  “I should have warned you,” Sebastian inserted. “Kitty sleeps very soundly. A bomb would have to go off outside her window before she’d wake up. Even then, I’m not sure she would.”

  There was some truth in that, but not enough for Kitty to feel comfortable fielding more questions from Marcel. The certainty of that came with his next query.

  “Why did you not answer the telephone? I rang you a hundred times after you left the restaurant.”

  “I wasn’t ready to talk to you last night.” Which was the truth as far as it went. Attempting to take the offensive Kitty asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “When you did not answer the door, I had worry that you suffered a mishap and did not arrive home last night. I came here to speak with Monsieur Cole in the event he was aware of your return.”

  Sebastian spoke up, “I was just suggesting that he might check with the hospitals or contact the police to see whether you might have been involved in some accident on your way home.”

  “I see,” Kitty murmured hesitantly, then explained, “Actually I was wondering what you were doing here because you had told me that you were flying back to Brussels early this morning.”

  “Ah.” Marcel nodded in new understanding. “I postponed my departure. I could not leave when I was so concerned for your well-being.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t leave today.” At least Kitty knew she should be glad. But she felt so much nervous turmoil inside that she had trouble identifying any other emotion.

  “We have much that we must discuss,” Marcel began.

  “Indeed we do,” Kitty rush
ed, and darted a lightning glance at Sebastian, who was unabashedly eavesdropping. “But not here.” She tucked a hand under his arm. “Let’s go to the house. I’ll put some coffee on and we can talk.”

  Before she could lead Marcel away, Sebastian inquired lazily, “Did you bring your key with you?”

  “My key?” She gave him a blank look.

  Sebastian nodded toward the house. “I can see from here that the door is closed. It locks automatically when you shut it. Remember?”

  That’s when it hit her that, as always, she had locked the house when she left with Marcel last night. Without a key, she couldn’t get back in. And her key ring was in her evening bag—on Sebastian’s coffee table.

  Thinking fast, Kitty said, “Do you still have that spare key I left with you?”

  “Yes—”

  “I’ll get it.” She pressed a detaining hand on Marcel’s arm. “Wait here.” She moved quickly toward the door, anxious that he wouldn’t follow her inside.

  “Do you remember where it is?” Sebastian shifted to the side, giving her room to pass.

  “As long as you haven’t moved it someplace else.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Good.”

  Kitty slipped inside and hurried straight to the coffee table, resisting the impulse to snatch her bra off the corner of the sofa.

  Her evening bag lay exactly where she’d left it. She opened it, took out the ring of keys, and snapped it shut. With her fingers wrapped around the keys to silence their jingle, Kitty rushed back outside, straight to Marcel.

  “All set,” she declared with false brightness. Her smile faltered when she observed the hint of sternness in his expression. “Is something wrong?” she asked, worried that he had somehow seen through her charade.

  “You do not wear slippers.” His glance cut to her bare feet.

  Kitty almost laughed aloud with relief, but a response such as that would have been inappropriate. “I was in such a hurry I guess I forgot to put any on. Shall we?” As subtly as possible, she urged him toward the house.

  Marcel stood his ground a moment longer and nodded to Sebastian. “I regret that I troubled you needlessly.”