But he eluded her by shifting slightly and bracing his arm against the door. “Lint roller?” He turned his head to give her a look along his shoulder, his expression, except for the elevated brows, impassive.
She coughed, her face on fire. “You know-for the cat hair.”
He went on looking at her, so close to her she could see the pores in his skin, the dark stubble of a day’s growth of beard. He’d looked at her much the same way that day in court, she remembered, with a distance of several yards, a lawyers’ table and a witness box between them. And if he’d made her feel trapped and impaled then, at close range like this he was even more intimidating. She couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. Because all at once she knew that she had gravely misjudged Riley Grogan.
Oh, she’d recognized him as a fighter that day, in spite of his elegance and polish, but now she knew that the image she’d carried away with her that day had been more make-believe than real. She’d seen him as an actor playing the part of action hero in a movie with herself as the director. She’d thought of him as a tool she could control-and dispense with, when her need of him was over, as easily as a director yells “Cut!”
Only now, facing him over salad makings in his brightly lit kitchen, did she realize how foolish she’d been. Riley Grogan was no movie actor or make-believe hero-he was the real thing, a flesh-and-blood man, a strong man made of muscle and bone and sinew. She could feel the heat from his body, smell his sweat and aftershave, hear the rasp of his breathing. And she suddenly knew that, if there was violence and passion in Riley Grogan, hidden away beneath the elegant facade he presented to the world, it would not be hers to command.
Wrenching herself away from such close proximity and unnerving thoughts, she turned to the pile of shopping bags on the island counter and began to paw through them, pulling in a breath that seemed to clot in her lungs like heavy cream. “All I can say,” she said huskily, “is that your secretary must have gone a little nuts. This is…” Her fingers, exploring the contents of one of the bags, came upon the silky coolness of nylon…the raspy luxury of lace. Too much. It’s just too much.
“I’m afraid you can’t blame her,” said Riley absently, still frowning at the contents of the refrigerator. “I didn’t ask her, after all.”
Summer’s fingers froze. Then, like someone peeking through her fingers at a scene in a horror movie, she lifted one edge of the bag. Her worst fears confirmed, she closed her eyes. “So,” she said faintly, after pausing to clear her throat, “you did all this yourself?” Lingerie. He did-he bought me underwear.
Even with his back to her, Riley could hear the dismay in her voice…the precarious quality of blown glass and soap bubbles. It occurred to him to wonder if she even knew how fragile she was.
To give her time, he reached into the refrigerator and got his fingers around the necks of two bottles of his favorite brand of imported beer. He carried them to the counter, opened a drawer, took out a bottle opener and popped the caps, then turned and held one out to her. She looked startled but took it, studied the label for a moment, then lifted it to her lips.
“Would you like a glass?” he asked politely.
She shook her head. “This is fine.” She took a sip and murmured, “Thank you.”
Riley leaned against the counter and indulged himself in a long swallow of his beer, then said in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone, “I didn’t ask my secretary to do the shopping, because it seemed best that the fewer people who know you’re here, the better.” He paused for another swallow and to give that sentence a moment to sink in, then grinned. “And frankly, I couldn’t think of a plausible explanation to give her for why I was needing women’s and children’s clothing all of a sudden. After all-” he frowned in mock seriousness “-I do have a certain image to protect.”
He was mystified by how pleased he felt when she smiled.
She took a hefty swig of beer that left her lips glazed, then frowned and tilted the neck of the bottle toward him to indicate a return to serious discussion. “Listen-I know you have an…active social life.” He heard what was unmistakably a small burp. “You mustn’t let us interfere with it.”
She looked startled when he chuckled. “You know that, do you? How come you know so much about me, Mrs. Robey?”
She shifted slightly, leaning one hip against the counter, and Riley felt his gaze being drawn slowly and inexorably downward by the movement and the subtly relaxing lines of her body. He couldn’t help himself.
She gave her head a toss, and he jerked his eyes back to her face almost guiltily to find that her lips were pursed and shiny with moisture, her eyes the fierce, burning blue of glaciers. “You don’t think I’d come to you without checking on you first, do you? With my children’s lives at stake?”
“Well…” For the first time in his memory his tongue seemed to have stuck to the roof of his mouth. He drank some more beer to loosen it. When, he wondered, had it gotten so warm in his kitchen? So heavy and humid? He hoped the air-conditioning wasn’t going out again. Oxygen-deprived, he suppressed a yawn and mumbled, “Well, the only excitement I have planned for this evening is an early bedtime. Your kids aren’t the only ones needin’ to catch up on sleep.”
He couldn’t keep his breathing even as he watched her walk toward him…until it occurred to him that her only purpose in doing that was to dispose of her beer bottle. Feeling vaguely foolish, he moved to one side to give her access to the sink, then watched her rinse out her bottle and extend a hand to ask silently for his.
He surrendered it, and again availed himself of the unforeseen pleasure of watching her hands as she held the bottles under the faucet’s stream…the seconds seeming to slow and elongate so that the flowing water became oil and each movement of her hands a slow and sensual caress. What was it about her hands, he wondered-her hands, the water, the freshsoap smell of her. He couldn’t for the life of him think why those things suddenly seemed so erotic to him. This simple domesticity, the casual intimacy of it, wasn’t at all his style. He’d always preferred the more stylized courtship rituals-flowers and candlelight, elegant dinners, weekends in the Bahamas…
“Do you recycle?”
He straightened and jerked his head toward the kitchen’s outer door. “I think Mrs. Abemathy has a bin…”
While she was disposing of the bottles, to give himself at least the illusion of useful occupation, he picked up the first thing at hand-a plastic-wrapped package of meat-and scowled at it. Returning, she reached around him to take it from him and in doing so brushed against his arm. He felt a charge go through his chest, a vibrating rhythm like the subsonic boom of bass speakers that he realized with a small sense of shock must be his heartbeat.
“Filet mignon.” She shook her head as she pulled open the freezer door. “I hope you didn’t buy this for us. The children and I are just as happy with mac ’n’ cheese.” She paused then, and he saw her shoulders slump. She looked at him over her shoulder, eyes dark with contrition. “I didn’t even think-of course you must be hungry. Can I make you something?”
Riley was not often at a loss for words-another of his gifts, and one reason he was such a success at his chosen profession. But at that moment his mind was a blank, his speech processing centers totally nonfunctional. And he knew why. Because, yes, he definitely was feeling pangs of hunger, but they weren’t located in his stomach. And because, yes, he’d have liked very much for her to make him something, but it wasn’t filet mignon. And because he knew very well that what he was feeling was absolutely unpardonable-the woman was a client, a recent crime victim, a protected government witness and an unwilling guest in his home. And because in spite of all that he knew, if she came one inch closer to him, he was probably going to kiss her.
The silence had already lasted too long. Long enough to become vibrant with unspoken suggestions and innuendo, long enough for the heat to gather in Summer’s cheeks and the questions in her eyes, long enough for the sweat to bead on Riley’s forehead and upper l
ip. Way too long for graceful exits, plausible explanations or any chance of redemption.
Still, what could he do but try? He gave his head a slight shake, cleared his throat and said, “I’m sorry-” all of which he knew only made it worse “-what did you say?”
She touched her lips with the back of her hand, cleared her throat and murmured, “I said, you must be hungry. I can cook one of those steaks for you, if you-”
“Mom?”
Never had a child’s voice sounded sweeter to Riley. He turned to see the boy David standing in the doorway, blinking in the harsh kitchen light. He was wearing briefs and a dark T-shirt with the words The Truth Is Out There pointed on it. For some reason, he thought, the child’s knees seemed knobbier than they had in the oversize swim trunks, his legs spindlier, his shoulders narrower and more vulnerable.
He felt Summer brush past him, so closely he felt the tickle of her hair on his face, saying breathlessly, “Oh, honey-what’s the matter, can’t sleep?”
David nodded, at the same time throwing Riley a look that held a strange kind of appeal, but more, he thought, of mute embarrassment. The boy’s mother put an arm around his shoulders, forming a barrier of privacy with her body, but Riley could hear her voice murmuring words of comfort, David’s voice answering. He heard the words “bad dream.”
“Would you like Beatle to sleep with you?”
Again David threw Riley that unfathomable look, half wistful, half ashamed, then nodded. His mother walked him into the hallway, still talking to him in her low, soothing voice, her strong hands gentle on his shoulders and the back of his neck, ruffling and then smoothing his hair. Mother’s hands…
“Git up outta that bed, you little piece a…! What’d you do with it this time, huh? You got it hid, you better tell me where. Better not a’poured it out, or I swear I’m gonna beat the tar outta you. Don’t you dare run from me! Hey, boy-you come on, now, you git back here! Go on, then-sleep with the snakes, ya little weasel! Hey-yer gonna hafta come back some time-y’hear? I’ll be waitin’ fer ya. I’ll be waitin’…”
“He had a nightmare,” Summer said, coming back into the kitchen. She was wearing her worry lines again, and a flushed, defensive look that made Riley realize he must be frowning. He nodded and muttered something, he didn’t know what. He felt chilled, and there was a heaviness in his chest he couldn’t dislodge.
She brushed past him and began to take groceries out of plastic bags and arrange them on the countertop with rapid, almost angry movements. “Look-he probably wouldn’t want me to tell you this-it embarrasses him, okay? He had a…a bunny blanket. It was destroyed in the fire. He’s trying to be grown-up about it. He’s trying so hard to be grown-up…about a lot of things. And I wish-” She ducked her head and he saw her make a surreptitious swipe at her cheek with one hand. Then she lifted her chin and threw him a defensive look. “I know you must think he’s way too old to sleep with a security blanket. He probably is. But dammit-” she stopped to take a deep breath, and when he said nothing, continued in a deliberately calmer tone “-he’s a very sensitive little boy who’s had a lot to deal with, and if a lousy blanket could make him feel safer and more secure, I was damned if I was going to take that away from him. And now that those… thugs…have robbed him of that, I’m going to do whatever I can to make him feel safe without it, okay? I’m sorry if you think I’m babying him, or spoiling him-”
“Mrs. Robey,” Riley said stiffly, “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me.” Unbelievably shaken, he turned and stalked out of the kitchen.
Riley looked forward to spending his weekends quietly at home catching up on his reading, Saturdays and Sundays being the only days he had time to do justice to a newspaper. He saw no reason why this weekend should be any different just because he happened to have three extra people sharing his living quarters. His plan was to walk down the drive to the gate while it was still relatively cool, then barricade himself in his den with the papers and a large cup of coffee while Summer and the children were occupying the kitchen. Once the diminishing decibel levels informed him that they had adjourned to the pool, he would emerge from his lair just long enough to fix himself a hearty brunch-a nice omelet, perhaps-Mexican-style with plenty of salsa. Or, if his sweet tooth was in charge, French toast made with that cinnamonraisin bread he liked so much.
There was a reason Riley could feel optimistic about his plans for the weekend, in spite of the recent catastrophic changes in his household’s population and routine. The truth was, ever since the incident in the kitchen on Tuesday evening, it had been apparent that Summer was doing her best to avoid him. And doing a pretty good job of keeping the children and animals and their associated debris out of his way as well, with the help of the crayons and the lint roller, and a few other things she’d since added to the list-such as powdered pet deodorizer, and something in a spray bottle that seemed to work magic on the revolting puddles Peggy Sue habitually threw up on the carpets, almost always where Riley would be sure to step in them in his stocking feet. In fact, except for the samples of their artwork that now decorated the refrigerator and most of the windows in the kitchen and garden room, he saw little of the children. In the mornings, Summer contrived to keep them busy upstairs in their suite of rooms-showering, coloring or watching cartoons on television-until Riley had left for work. He had no idea how they spent their days, and truthfully, hadn’t given the matter a lot of thought. In the pool, he imagined. He did have a vague idea they might be constructing themselves some sort of hideaway out in the backyard. Summer had asked him about it, and since it seemed to him a relatively harmless way for the children to occupy themselves, as long as nothing already in existence was altered or destroyed in the process, he’d given his okay. But he’d seen no signs of such a project, and had heard nothing more about it since.
In any event, by the time he arrived home, which was customarily around eight o’clock in the summertime, Summer would already have fed her brood and hustled them off upstairs once more, leaving a place set for Riley at the table in the morning room, and his dinner on the counter, neatly covered with aluminum foil. He told himself he was pleased with this arrangement. The forced cohabitation was working out very well. And if it suddenly seemed unusually lonely to be dining, as he’d always done, with only Mozart for company, he told himself it was just as well, and much better for the health of the attorney-client relationship.
The first part of Saturday went according to plan. Riley retrieved his newspaper, stopped in the kitchen long enough to pour himself a cup of coffee and retired with both to his study minutes before he heard the first thump on the stairs. He had worked his way through the national and local news and was well into the business section when he heard a timid knock on his door. Lowering the paper to his desktop, he let the glasses he’d recently begun to wear for long, uninterrupted bouts of reading slide onto the tip of his nose, frowned over their tops and said, “Yes? Come in…”
The door opened silently, and the boy, David, stuck his head tentatively around it. “Hi,” he said, his eyes shifting to one side.
“Hey,” said Riley, and waited.
The boy’s eyes slid to the other side of the room. “Mom said to ask you if want some breakfast. She’s makin’ blueberry waffles.”
“Waffles, huh?” In spite of himself, Riley’s mouth began to water. “Uh… sure Tell your mother yes, thank you. That sounds good.”
The boy’s head disappeared, and a split second later came a bellowed “Mom, he said yes!” Riley picked up his newspaper.
Alerted by subtle changes in air currents, or a sixth sense, perhaps, he lowered it again to find that, instead of leaving and closing the door behind him, David had entered the room and was wandering silently, gazing around him in apparent awe. Riley watched him over the tops of his glasses, saying nothing.
Presently David sighed, craning his neck to take in the bookcases that filled the entire wall behind Riley’s desk from floor to ceiling, and said, “You sure have a
lot of books”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Riley.
“Did you read all these books?”
“Most of them, yes”
David’s head swiveled and his jaw dropped. Then, lifting one shoulder in a belated attempt to look unimpressed, he sniffed and said, “I like to read books.” His gaze slid wistfully back to the shelves. “Maybe… you could let me read some of yours sometime.”
Riley coughed and harrumphed. “Oh, well, I don’t know about that These are probably too grown-up for you. I don’t think they’d be very interesting…” Then, to his astonishment, he heard himself say, “Now…I might have some books upstairs you’d like.” He rubbed at his unshaven chin and regarded the boy’s solemn but hopeful face. Damn, the kid did look like his mother… He cleared his throat. “How old are you?”
“I’m nine-almost ten.”
“Think you’re old enough for Tom Sawyer?”
Instead of answering, David heaved another sigh. “Mom reads us stories. She read us James and the Giant Peach, and she was reading Black Stallion-that’s about this horse that gets washed overboard in a shipwreck, you know, and this boy tames him? But anyway, I guess she can’t now because it got burned up in the fire.”
Once again, Riley found himself with nothing to say. After a moment David shrugged and went on with his artfully aimless exploration, head tilted to one side like a potential buyer in a not-very-interesting art gallery. When he’d made a complete circuit of the room, he put a hand on one hip, gave Riley a sideways look and inquired with a poor attempt at nonchalance, “Don’t you have a computer?”
“I do,” Riley responded with a nod. “I keep it at my office.”
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