by Debra Dixon
A muscle twitched at the corner of Clare’s mouth. The grin on Sam’s face broadened as he looked pointedly around. “Get some plastic explosives and save yourself some time.”
Clare refused to laugh or even admit that Sam had lightened her mood. She ignored the connection her mind made between seeing Sam and feeling happy. “Thanks for the household hint, Tucker, but I don’t think it will come to that. If you really want to help me, say good night.”
Clearing a space on the coffee table, Sam dumped the papers. “I really want to help. What can I do first?”
“I’ve already told you. Take those papers to the Dumpster!” she said in exasperation.
“I’m not stupid, Clare. Once you get me out the door, you won’t let me back in. Stop being so stubborn.” He looked around again, but without any disapproval in his expression. “You need all the help you can get. What time is Ellie coming?”
Clare slammed the door and leaned against it. Sam had a way of slicing right to the problem. “Tomorrow.”
“When tomorrow?”
“Seven forty-five.”
“In the morning?” Sam asked as he gingerly lifted the top of a cardboard pizza box.
“I don’t know. Joshua didn’t find out,” Clare snapped, suddenly cross. Pushing away from the door, she scooped up the pizza box with enough force to smack the lid shut. Clare deposited the box in a large, dark-green plastic lawn bag beside the overstuffed armchair.
“That’s not true,” she corrected him. “It wasn’t Joshua’s fault. Ellie didn’t bother to tell him. I called the airline and there’s a flight arriving at seven thirty-five A.M. and one arriving at seven-fifty P.M. But nothing at seven forty-five!” She gave the box a good shove to flatten the other trash, and under her breath she added, “Ellie never remembers details. She never had to.”
“Hey,” Sam called softly, and swung her around to face him. This time he was sure he heard resentment in her voice, and he wasn’t going to let her go until he had some answers to the questions that had begun to nag his subconscious. “What did Ellie do to you that ties you up in knots?”
“Specifically or generally?” Clare quipped, and looked away, wishing she’d guarded her words. Letting Sam inside had been a mistake. As soon as he’d touched her, she knew he wouldn’t settle for flip retorts or clever evasions. Lifting her gaze to his, she waited.
Sam concentrated on banishing every trace of desire in his touch. He intended the gentle rubbing of his thumbs on the round curve of her shoulder to be comforting, relaxing, but his fingertips had ideas of their own. Now is not the time, he told himself firmly. Her blue eyes were troubled. Whatever caused the tension between the cousins, Clare obviously felt guilty about it. When the muscles beneath his fingers began to relax, he asked, “Do you like Ellie?”
“Wrong question,” Clare answered, and pulled away from him. “Everybody likes her. She’s one in a million. A golden girl with a silver spoon. She’s Ellie Jordan.”
The name stirred a flash of awareness in Sam’s brain, and then the full impact of the name settled into his consciousness. The words swimsuit issue and Ellie Jordan were synonymous. “You’re kidding.”
“Would I kid about a woman who’s graced more magazine covers than British royalty? And, yes, I know we don’t look anything alike.”
Slick yowled at Sam’s feet and demanded attention. Sam hunkered down and rubbed the cat behind the ears. “Is that why you’re mad at her?”
Startled by his question, Clare stopped in the middle of gathering up soda cans from the table. She took a long time to answer the question. Thoughtfully, she let the cans slide from her hands into the garbage bag. “I’m not mad at her.”
Her conscience pinched her, and Clare added, “At least, not because she’s a model.”
Loud purring reached a crescendo and then diminished, only to begin again. Sam angled his head to study Clare. From the floor he got an interesting view of the legs that had fascinated him from the first night he met her. Black stretch pants flowed over every muscle, every soft curve, and molded to her in a way that made Sam ache. He compared her to his recollection of Ellie Jordan and decided he liked short, vulnerable brunettes more than he liked leggy blondes in skimpy spandex swimsuits.
Her pants didn’t reach her ankles, and Sam found the bared skin as alarmingly provocative as the knowledge that her lingerie tastes included black lace. Clearing his throat, he stood back up and solemnly handed Clare the bra he’d retrieved from Slick’s neck. “Why are you mad at Ellie?”
Clare snatched the bra from his fingers, heat flaming her cheeks. “Because she was always first.”
Surprised, Sam said, “First? Like the first to have a boyfriend? The first to graduate? The first to make a million dollars?”
“The first one my uncle hugged when he came home.” Clare lifted her chin, and her eyes glittered. “Are you happy now? I’ve admitted it. I’m jealous of something that isn’t even Ellie’s fault.”
Sam made no comment as he reached out and tucked her short hair behind her ears. Every fiber in his body was screaming for him to pull her into his arms, but his mind knew better. Clare would only interpret that as pity. She wasn’t the kind of woman who wanted pity. She didn’t let go of her secrets easily. Her admission was probably only the tip of the iceberg.
Realizing she still held the black lace bra, Clare rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Sam, I really don’t have time for you to play Sigmund Freud right now. I’ve got a lot to do and very little time to do it.”
“Then you should be thanking me for offering to help.”
“God, give me strength,” Clare whispered, and gave Sam what she hoped was an evil look. “You probably don’t have the faintest idea what to do. How to clean. You’re a man. You grew up with a mother and a butler.”
“And you are a reverse chauvinist.” Sam picked up a crumpled ball of paper from the coffee table. Expertly, he flipped it behind his back and into the garbage bag.
Throwing up her hands, Clare said, “What the hell. You clean the downstairs, and I’ll take the upstairs. The kitchen, a half-bath, and dining room are down that hallway. Cleaning supplies are in the kitchen, and the vacuum is in the laundry alcove across from the kitchen. Got it?” When Sam nodded, she added, “Whoever gets through first starts on the patio.”
Sam held out his hand. “May the best man win.”
“This isn’t a contest.” Clare frowned and realized that Sam was back to touching her at every opportunity. “Are you sure?”
“Go upstairs and don’t come down until you’re through,” Sam answered. When she finally left, he turned his attention to the living room. Throw pillows crowded the couch and spilled into the floor. After he rearranged the cushions, Sam tried tossing the small, colorful pillows onto the sofa. Instead of falling in artistic disarray, the pillows sagged and drooped pitifully in piles of mush.
Sam chewed on his lip. He’d never seen pillows more in need of fluffing than these. Purposefully, he gathered them all up and shoved them into the dryer. For a moment his hand hovered indecisively over the timer as he wondered how long pillows took to fluff. Shrugging, he turned the dial to ninety minutes.
By the time he “uncluttered” the living room, dusted the dining room, put a load of towels in the washer, and vacuumed, Sam decided that William and Rebecca probably deserved raises. An hour later Sam gave the freshly mopped and waxed kitchen floor a nod of approval. His part of the house was definitely beginning to shape up.
The dryer hummed faintly behind him, and he remembered the pillows. Whistling, he reached for the dryer door and pulled it open. Every self-satisfied thought in his head evaporated as an explosion of white and gray feathers erupted from the dryer and shot into the kitchen. His mouth dropped open, and he was too horrified to do more than curse as the dryer tumbled around again and dispensed more feathers. Belatedly, he thought of slamming the dryer door and then cursed again as the whoosh of air sent feathers swirling into the living room an
d pushed them farther into the kitchen.
“Sonofa—” Sam began, and stopped. This is a nightmare. He watched feathers commit suicide by drifting toward his waxed kitchen floor, peppering his nice, shiny surface, and sticking to the wet wax.
“I’m a dead man,” Sam whispered as he imagined what Clare’s response would be. He shut his eyes briefly, but when he opened them again, feathers still swirled in the air. Sam hung his head as the air conditioner decided to kick in and sent cool air roaring out of the vents. The downstairs looked like someone had picked it up and shaken it like a snow globe. How many feathers could six pillows hold, for God’s sake?
Desperately, he began chasing the feathers that floated toward the stairway at the back of the hall. His hands resembled goldfish gulping at food. While he snatched feathers from the air, he made up and discarded excuses for the mess. Expertly, he plucked a large speckled feather from the air and deposited it in his pocket for safekeeping.
He’d almost convinced himself that Clare would see the humor in the situation, when he heard her footsteps on the stairs. Swearing, he stepped into the stairwell and smiled what he hoped was an innocent smile. “What did you say?”
Clare stopped. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh! Thought you did. Well, now that I’m here, don’t bother to come down. I’ll get what you need. What do you need?”
“A glass of water,” Clare said, and drew her brows together. Unease blossomed in her stomach as she watched a feather rock back and forth in the air and finally settle on Sam’s shoulder.
FIVE
Suddenly the faint smell of burning feathers slipped up the stairwell. Clare’s knees buckled, and she sat down heavily on the steps, afraid to go any farther. For the last hour she’d begun to believe that Ellie’s visit might be all right. That she could just confess to “fudging a bit” when she’d described her new place. But her first whiff of scorched feathers had cruelly snatched that dream away. This was all her fault for lying in the first place. For trying to pretend that she wasn’t poor Clare anymore.
“Oh, my God. What have you done, Tucker?”
Sam looked behind him and then apologetically back at her. He held one hand out as though to stop her. “Nothing that William can’t fix.”
His words sent her heart plummeting toward her toes and galvanized her into action. With every step, the smell of singed feathers became stronger. By the time she reached Sam, she wanted to wring his neck.
Wisely, Sam stepped out of her way. Sam thought he was watching a slow motion movie as Clare pulled the dryer open, dispensing more feathers as she retrieved an empty pillow cover. Sam expected anger or tears, but when she finally turned around, her face was devoid of expression.
“Ellie’s coming tomorrow,” Clare said matter-of-factly.
Feeling like a heel, Sam tried to reassure not only Clare but himself as well. “I’ll call William. We’ll fix this.” Guilt flooded Sam as he tried to gather her in his arms. “Promise.”
“Promise!” Clare thumped his chest with enough force to send him back a pace. “Do you know how long I’ll be finding feathers?”
Sam slipped his hand into his pocket, guiltily fingering the feathers he’d stuffed inside. “I tried to help.”
“Next time don’t help,” Clare said as she walked into the kitchen. She needed aspirin. Several aspirin. “Oh, my God.”
“I waxed the floor,” Sam said even though the scene in the kitchen was fairly self-explanatory. “I may have used a little too much wax.”
Gingerly, Clare retraced her steps, grimacing as her bare feet touched the surface of sticky wax and smooth feathers. Once again in the hallway, Clare spared a glare for Sam and then inspected the bottom of her feet. Speckled feathers clung to her feet. Hundreds were still firmly attached to the kitchen floor. God, what a mess.
“Let’s think this through logically,” Sam began, but Clare interrupted.
“What is it with men and logic? Logic isn’t going to help.” Clare pushed away from the door frame and walked into the living room. “Unless logic can magically turn this condominium into a house with a big yard. Unless logic can miraculously replace my antique quilted pillows. Unless logic can erase the Roseanne decorating style.”
Confused, Sam followed her and asked, “What’s wrong with Roseanne?”
Clare slumped into the armchair. “Nothing. Not a thing. Except I told Ellie and her parents that I did my new place in antiques.”
Sam looked around and raised an eyebrow. “You lied.”
Frowning, Clare said defensively, “Not exactly. I was going to furnish the place with antiques, but the pillows were as far as I got. It didn’t make much sense to waste money on antiques until I needed new furniture.”
Slick yowled in agitation as Sam woke him and shoved him off the sofa. The cat’s protest stopped abruptly as his nose twitched, and he froze with his limbs in stalking position. The cat began to rumble a sound so deep and quiet, Sam wasn’t sure it was a sound at all. Sam leaned back into the sofa as the cat began to adjust his crouch position, reminding him of a race car inching up to the starting line.
“Is this normal behavior for him?” Sam asked in amusement.
Clare shot him a withering look as Slick attacked a bit of gossamer floating by. “What’d you expect? His house is full of feathers.” Clare reached down to pick Slick up, but he bound away. “He’s going to keep Ellie up nights growling and stalking and pouncing. Ellie hates cats.”
“Is that why you got one?”
The question slid into her belly and twisted as painfully as any knife would have. Was that why she got a cat? Because Ellie had never liked cats? Unconsciously, she pulled her feet up onto the easy chair and wrapped her arms around her knees. Sam continually held up a mirror to her soul, and sometimes she didn’t like her reflection.
Finally, she looked at Sam and hated that she cared what he thought of her. But she did. Her awareness of him hummed beneath the surface of every gesture and every question. This is what she always knew would happen if she let someone get too close. She wouldn’t be able to keep her secrets anymore.
What would Sam think of her when he found out that the last thing she said to her parents was “I hope you go away and never come back!” The memory taunted her, and the familiar fingers of guilt closed coldly around her heart. Adult rationalization reminded her that a seven-year-old, upset about being left with a baby-sitter, wasn’t to blame for the auto accident.
She steeled herself for Sam’s disapproval and said, “I bought Slick because I wanted company. And because I knew a cat would drive Ellie crazy if she ever visited.”
Instead of censure, Sam laughed aloud and gave her a thumbs-up. “Excellent.”
Startled, Clare unwrapped her arms and crossed her legs yoga-style so she could lean forward. “Didn’t you hear me? I just said that I’m a petty person. I chose a cat for a pet simply because I knew it would annoy Ellie.”
Sam’s grin was almost infectious. “So? I once bought a snake because I knew it would drive my sister wild.”
Nonplussed, Clare stared at him for a moment. She didn’t know what his game was, but she wasn’t about to be talked out of her guilt by a few smooth words. “Childhood pranks don’t count.”
“I bought the snake last year for my nephew’s birthday.” Sam stretched his legs out, obviously pleased with himself. “I thought Pamela was being a little ridiculous about the kids getting a pet that constantly shed hair all over her house, so I got the snake.”
“That’s rotten!”
“Hey, she’s the one who wanted a low-maintenance pet. Snakes shed their skin all at once.” Sam spread his hands in a what-more-could-you-ask-for gesture. “Easy cleanup.”
Torn between laughter and outrage, Clare’s mood suddenly lightened, and she grinned. Sam’s warm brown eyes bathed her with approval, and his approval warmed her from the inside out. If Sam could saddle his sister with a snake, then buying a cat because Ellie didn’t like them
wasn’t such a horribly mean-spirited action. It wasn’t as if Ellie were allergic. Besides, Ellie’s European travel schedule had made the likelihood of a visit remote. Until now.
Unable to resist, Clare asked, “Does your nephew still have the snake?”
“No. Pamela promptly revised her position on furry pets when she found out the snake had to be fed two live mice each week.”
“And any good mother knows, you can’t just take away a boy’s pet. It’s un-American,” Clare said as comprehension dawned.
“Unless you make a trade,” Sam suggested smugly. “A golden retriever named Monster is now king of the castle.”
“I’ve always suspected you were the sneaky sort.”
Sam stood up and managed an affronted expression. “I prefer to think of myself as the subtle sort.” He ignored her attempt to contradict him. “It’s time to call William for help.”
“William,” Clare echoed, and looked apprehensively around. As always, Sam had managed to make her forget her problems. Cleaning the house was only a Band-Aid cure for the mess she was in. Over the years she’d made enough misleading statements about her lifestyle to create an inescapable trap for herself. The time had come to pay the piper. This was her responsibility, not Sam’s. Or William’s. She’d figure a way out of this mess.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Clare said, reaching for the Yellow Pages in the magazine rack by her chair. “I’ll call in the real cleaning professionals.”
“Face it, Clare. You’re not going to get anyone to come out on a Friday ni—”
The rest of Sam’s words were drowned out as catastrophe struck again. The sounds of a feline World War III assailed their ears. Slick bawled out a horrid exorcist sound that finished with a caterwaul punctuated by china crashing to the floor. Sam and Clare stared at each other with widened eyes and then bolted for the kitchen, jamming the doorway. They arrived in time to see Slick clinging desperately to the window curtains. He began to slip, his claws leaving a trail in the sheer fabric.
Risking a sideways look at Clare, Sam saw the blood drain from her face as the curtain rod bowed and finally came off the wall from the strain. A small chunk of plasterboard came off with the rod, leaving an ugly black hole. Slick squalled as he hit the sticky floor, jumping up, turning flips, and running sideways, trying to shake the feathers off his paws.