by Jill Barnett
"My name is Eleanor, not Nellibelle."
He hitched his hip down on the corner of his desk, but he was still taller than she was. "I had a cat named Nellibelle. She used to crawl into bed with me, curl up, and purr."
Male laughter filled the room. She closed her eyes and felt foolish for egging him on. This was humiliating and belittling. When those men laughed at her, it choked more from her than any cigar smoke ever could.
But she would never let him or the other men know it. She didn't respond again. It wouldn't do any good to spar with him. She just turned and walked away, her spine rigid and her head held even higher than when she had come inside. She slapped her palm flat against the swinging door and paused halfway through the opening.
She looked back at the men. Some still grinned but Donoughue's cocky look seemed to fade before her eyes. That wasn't at all what she expected to see. She had thought he'd be looking immensely pleased with himself.
Instead they both stood there watching each other for the longest time. The laughter in the room died. The silence seemed to stretch out like a long road, the kind that beckons you toward a wondrous thing so far out of reach you had forgotten it even existed.
What passed between them was chilling and intense. Something deep that she had never before felt. Almost spellbound, she could not tear her gaze away from him, even though she wanted to.
This one man had a hold over her that she could not control. With sudden clarity she knew how weak and frightened and powerless a small animal must feel when it was caught in a trap.
After a moment Eleanor noticed that the men were staring back and forth between the two of them with expressions of surprise or curiosity.
She straightened her shoulders. "Gentlemen." She let the word hang there, so it was clear that was the last thing these men were.
She fixed her most honest look on Donoughue. "I didn't come here for this."
He started to walk toward her, his expression filled with another emotion she didn't care to see. It was pity.
Her hand shot up. "Stay there." Her voice sounded raspy and sharp, almost as if she was going to cry. "Please. Don't." And for a brief instant she didn't know if she was talking to him or to herself.
He did stop and just stood there looking at her.
"I came to tell you I'm moving into the flat upstairs." Her words came out in a rush.
The moment seemed to hang in the air like the cigar smoke. It was awkward and she could feel her nervousness. Her face felt hot, and her hands were clenched at her sides.
She knew the moment her words had registered. His face showed it. Now she had his attention for something other than his juvenile entertainment.
"What the hell do you mean you're moving upstairs? I live there."
"I own the building."
"I have a lease from your grandfather. Legally you have to uphold that agreement. And you know damn well I've offered repeatedly to buy this building."
"Yes, you have. Almost as often as you've cursed at me."
"You refuse to sell."
"You're correct. I won't sell."
"Why the hell not? I've offered you a fair price."
"I just told you why. Because I'm going to live here."
His expression hardened. "Not in this lifetime, lady."
She sighed. It truly was like talking to a brick wall.
He took two huge steps closer. "You are not moving onto the third floor."
She stood a little straighter, the door pressed against her back. He moved even closer, trying to intimidate her. Still she only stood level with his shoulder. She raised her chin. "You're absolutely right. I'm not moving onto the third floor." Her tone was casual.
"Damn straight." He gave his head a sharp nod as if to say his word was law.
"I'm moving in above you."
His eyes narrowed. He was not a happy man.
"The fourth floor," she explained simply.
"I store my extra supplies and equipment on the fourth floor."
"I know. That's the reason I came here today."
"Well, Nellibelle." He crossed his hammy arms over his chest. "I don't think there will be room for you and those weights and my sporting equipment and the gym supplies."
"There will be plenty of room once you move everything out."
"Like hell I will! I pay rent!"
"Not for the fourth floor, you don't. I suggest you read your lease. You have two days to vacate the fourth-floor loft. Happy holidays, Mr. Donoughue." Eleanor turned and marched right out the door.
Chapter 3
Early Wednesday morning Conn awoke to the sound of someone singing Christmas carols. He groaned and rolled over, flinging his arm over his eyes to block out the shock of daylight. To hell with King Wenceslas. The ceiling thundered as if all the king's horses and all the king's men were having a melee right above him. He crammed a pillow over his head and tried to go back to sleep.
It worked until something thumped down the stairs. Something heavy. Something big. Something loud.
Conn rolled his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. There was another loud thud. He buried his pounding head in his hands, before he glanced up, wincing. The banging around on the fourth floor was so loud the old gaslight ceiling lamp in the center of the room shook.
Another loud thud. It sounded as if the whole building rattled. Conn stood up, scowling at the ceiling. Who the hell was moving in? One stubborn pain-in-the-butt woman or New York City's mounted police? He stepped into his pants and shrugged on a wool shirt. Grumbling under his breath, he tied his shoes and crossed to the room. He threw open the door.
There in the hallway near the stairs was a cumbersome oak cabinet rocking back and forth in midair. Two men, one under it and one behind it, were trying to move the cabinet around the turn in the third-floor landing and up the next flight of stairs.
One of the men swore. "Stop telling me how to do it, Jimmy, and just back up so we can get this blasted thing up the stairs."
"Yoo-hoo!" Nellibelle leaned over the banister and shook her finger at the movers.
One of the men groaned under his breath, "Not again."
Conn knew just how he felt.
"Don't scratch the wood please!"
The tallest mover shifted to get a better grip on the cabinet and leaned his head over to the side. "We got it, Miss Austen."
She started to say something else but her gaze flashed to Conn. For just an instant her face froze in a sick look; it was the same look he'd seen on people who had just swallowed a rotten oyster.
A second later she stiffened as if she had a steel spine. She stared at him the way she had when they'd first met and her face began to turn bright pink. Her chin shot up, and she spun around and disappeared into the doorway of the fourth floor apartments.
Conn looked at the other men and shrugged, then pushed away from the doorway. "You want some help?"
The mover took in his size with a quick once-over. He had seen that look a million times.
"Yeah. We'd appreciate it. Jimmy, set down your end and take this other corner." He turned to Conn. "Thanks.” He nodded up at the fourth floor. “It's been a long morning."
"I'll bet it has." Conn hunkered down and picked up the bottom of the cabinet.
Ten minutes later the cabinet was against the west wall of the fourth-floor flat. Nellibelle was hovering around it, trying to decide if they needed to move it a little more to the right.
Again.
He watched her purposely ignore him. But he could see her nervousness—the wringing of her hands, the way she darted back and forth like a confused bee, and her stubborn determination not to look at him.
His immediate reaction was to think of things he could do to force her to look at him. Stand in front of her. Walk toward her until he had her backed against a wall. Grab her and kiss her like he had the night he walked her home.
He paused and made a big to-do of eyeing the cabinet, moving to stand in front of her and tapping one
finger against his chin. "I think it's too far to the left. You should move it to the right, Nellibelle."
She stiffened and looked at him, her expression all pruny. He could almost hear her teeth grind.
He gave her an innocent look and casually pointed at the cabinet with his thumb. "It's too far to the left."
She turned back around and without looking at the cabinet nodded to the movers. "Move the cabinet more to the left, please."
He laughed to himself. Dealing with her was no different than maneuvering one of his opponents into taking a frustrated swing at him.
The movers picked up the cabinet again and began to lift it. The rope securing the doors closed slipped down, and the mirrored doors swung open.
Conn grabbed her under one arm, swung her off her feet and out of the way. She gave a shriek of protest and squirmed. A second later an iron bed frame unfolded from the cabinet and slammed to the floor.
He set her down while she was still muttering something about an oaf and walked over to the iron frame. He turned back to her. She was swiping back a hank of black hair from her red face. He pointed to the bed. "What the hell kind of bed is this supposed to be?"
She raised her chin. "It's a folding bed."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why would anyone want a folding bed?"
"For convenience of course."
"What's convenient about a folding bed? Looks damn inconvenient to me."
"It saves space."
He eyed the bed. "Who cares about space if it's too short to sleep in."
"It's not too short for me."
He let his eyes roam slowly from the top of her stuck-up head to her feet pressed together at the ankles in that annoying prim way she had. "Doesn't look to me as if you'd fit. Unless you sleep with your knees all drawn up."
"How I sleep is none of your concern, Mr. Donoughue."
"You'd never catch me in that bed."
"There is a God."
The movers laughed out loud. He wanted to laugh, too, but he didn't. Instead he stared at her long enough to annoy her. She gave him a smile that held no humor and spun around. He waited until she was halfway across the room. "We could always use my bed." She stopped as if she had run smack dab into a wall.
She turned slowly, her jaw set and her words gritty. "Mis-ter Donoughue—"
Ignoring her, he strolled around some of the trunks and crates that separated them, looking inside. "So what other kind of contraptions do you have around here?"
"I don't recall inviting you in here."
"You didn't." He scanned the room. It was a huge cavernous place. It wasn't dark like his flat. Half the roof was glass. It let sunlight in, but it also leaked whenever it rained. He knew because it had leaked on some wooden boxes, damaging a shipment of leather elbow pads and knee guards.
"I think the movers will be able to handle the rest of my things. Alone." She walked toward him. "I don't want to keep you from whatever it is you do."
"You're not." He turned his back on her and strolled over to an overstuffed chair, sat down, and made himself comfortable, then crossed his hands behind his head and propped his feet on a crate of dishes packed in excelsior.
She watched him from a face that was half offended and half frustrated.
He would have stayed there all morning if Lenny hadn't come running upstairs all in a panic because Beckman's Laundry Wagon had forgotten to deliver last week's load of towels.
A few minutes later Conn was walking down the street toward Beckman's. He stood on the corner, where a uniformed copper on horseback controlled the traffic.
Conn glanced back at the gym. He could see those old glass transoms on the roof. He watched them for a few lost minutes, before he heard the police whistle and turned around just in time to catch the man next to him staring up at him in awe. Conn was used to those looks.
He glanced down at the man who tried to cover his embarrassment by quickly looking away. After a minute he turned back and caught Conn's eye. "Looks like rain," the man said.
"You think so?" Conn glanced up. The sky was turning a dull gray color that could mean rain.
"Yeah, with those clouds it'll be pouring by tonight."
The policeman's whistle blew again, and everyone began to cross the street. Conn was in the crowd but a head above everyone else. The wind picked up and ruffled his hair. He turned around, walking backward across the street, looking back at those leaky glass windows on the slope of the roof.
Grinning, Conn turned back and stepped up on the opposite curb. He shoved his hands in the deep pockets of his pants and strolled down the street—whistling.
* * *
The first raindrop fell on Eleanor's forehead around midnight. Her eyes shot open. The second drop plopped on her nose and dripped down her cheek. After the third drop, she sat up.
Her roof was leaking.
She threw back the covers and got up. The rain outside was coming down harder, pattering a constant beat on the glass and the roof tiles. Drops of water splattered all over the floor and on what little furniture she still owned. She rushed toward the kitchen nook and took out her cast iron pot and a frying pan, then rushed back and placed them under the worst leaks.
Her china cups caught smaller leaks, and along with her few soup bowls, they were scattered haphazardly over the plank floor like croquet wickets. She rummaged through trunks and wooden boxes searching for vases and goblets, anything that could hold water.
By the time she found one new container, the smaller dishes were overflowing and rainwater was spreading over the floor and under the boxes of things she hadn't yet unpacked. She moved back and forth, trying not to panic. She would tuck a vase under one arm, and race across the floor to catch a cup or bowl or pan before it overflowed. She'd shoved the vase under the leak, and run back to the old porcelain sink drain or the narrow water closet and dump out the bowl of water, only to rush back and find five containers overflowing.
The rain came down so hard it hit the roof like buckshot. The leaks began to pour instead of drip. Still she raced back and forth. Water pooled all over the floor, and she tried to mop it up with towels and extra blankets, linens, anything that could soak it up.
Panicking, she spun around and started running. Too fast. She slipped, lost her balance, and her ankle gave out. She went down, sliding across the wet floor like a duck on ice.
She hit a patch of dry wood and skidded to a stop, gripping her ankle. She groaned in pain, while her body curled like a comma. For a pain-filled moment, all she could do was lie there while the rain fell all over her.
I'm okay ... I'm okay ... I'm okay, she chanted in her head as her leg throbbed.
But she wasn't okay. Her ankle hurt like the devil, and an aching pain shot up her leg and felt as if someone had tried to twist her foot off. Part of her wanted to cry, but she wouldn't let herself. She shifted into a sitting position, then rolled onto her knees and pushed herself up. Very carefully she put weight on her injured foot.
It wasn't too bad. She began to walk slowly across the wet floor. She was okay. It was sore, but she could walk almost normally.
Rain dribbled onto her hair and down her back from the roof. Not that it mattered since her nightgown was soaked on one side and damp on the other. She stared up at the glass. She could see the cracks. She stared at them for a few minutes, then began to gather pieces of clothing from her trunks, anything she could use to stuff the leaks.
She gathered up an armful of undergarments, since they were the thinnest fabrics, then she hobbled over and picked up the broom. Within moments she was atop the bureau, using the broom handle to stuff stockings, hankies, a thin corset cover, even bloomers, anything that would plug up the cracks between the glass panels.
Eleanor moved from piece to piece of high furniture—her grandmother's armoire, the old cherry wood buffet, and the round oak table—until she had stuffed the biggest leaks. The cracks on the arch of the roof were too high, but luckily they were
over areas where there was no furniture. She put her largest pots and other containers under those.
An hour later she had all the leaks plugged.
Then a new one started right over her bed.
She limped over to the bed, crawled up, and stood on the mattress. She tossed the last two stockings and her broom on top of the oak cabinet, then pulled herself up, scrabbling until she was kneeling on it.
Slowly she stood, then stuck a stocking on the end of the broom handle and stretched up as high as she could. She was just an inch or two short. With her weight mostly on her good foot, she rose on her tiptoes, teetering just a little. She straightened her back for balance. Every time she thought she had the crack plugged, the stocking would slip and fall.
By the fifth time she had learned to catch it with the broom handle so she wouldn't have to keep crawling down to pick it up. This was one of those times when you wished you had too many stockings. It took thirteen tries before she had stuffed the stocking in the narrow leak.
One more leak started. She sighed. When would it stop?
She put her last stocking on the broom handle, stood on tiptoe again and stuffed it into the leak on the first try.
Slowly she pulled back the broom. Please stay…. Please stay… She turned slightly and braced her back flush against the wall and waited. The stocking stayed there. She'd done it!
A second later the other soaked stocking slipped from its crack and slapped her smack in the face. The broom slipped from her hand.
She fell. Face forward.
She screamed. Her body hit the mattress so hard the bedsprings screamed with her. The bed frame bounced upward toward its cabinet and sent her with it, her face pressed to the mattress, which pinned her inside.
She saw stars for a minute.
It took her a moment to realize what had happened. She tried to move and couldn't. Oh, God…. She was stuck inside the mattress cabinet! Don’t panic!
She took deep breaths of mattress and a small desperate sound came from her throat. When she calmed down, she realized she could wiggle her hips a small bit. She only needed a little more room to be able to force the bed frame back down. She butted the back of the cabinet with her backside.