Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy

by Patricia Burroughs

  That damned checkbook again! “That’s none of your business,” she replied, raising her chin.

  “Answer my question, Cecil. Does that kid really balance your checkbook?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” She raised her chin higher. Let him figure that one out. She stepped toward the door. “I know you’re busy, and I do appreciate your concern, so—”

  Jeff ignored her and strolled into the den. “The kitchen’s this way, right?”

  Cecilia spun around. “What are you doing?”

  He set the grocery bag on the breakfast bar. “Chicken soup.”

  “Chicken soup?” Cecilia felt her mouth fall open, and promptly shut it with a click of her teeth.

  Jeff gave a tentative half smile. “I really need to be getting back to the office.”

  Cecilia brushed a tangle of curls away from her face. “Thank you. Very much.”

  “Anytime.” His eyes quickly met hers in dismay. “I mean... for old times’ sake.”

  Cecilia forced a brittle smile. He was certainly conscientious, the adult Mr. Jefferson Smith. He hadn’t been able to ignore her plight, but he sure as heck couldn’t wait to leave, either. “I’ll bet you were a Boy Scout,” she said sweetly. “You know the way out, but I’ll walk you to the door. This time I want to make sure it’s locked.” She indicated the door with a jerk of her head, and gasped. The room tilted sideways; the floor vanished from beneath her. Her head roared, and the room whirled. She groped wildly, but felt herself falling.

  She hit the floor with a thud and found herself staring blearily at the immaculate creases in Jeff’s pant legs—all five of them. “Oh, Lord.” Desperately she tried to rise.

  Jeff squatted beside her and pressed her shoulders firmly onto the carpet. “Just relax. Don’t try to get up yet.” He brushed damp curls from her forehead.

  “I can’t believe this,” she moaned. Still light-headed, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

  “Just like old times, eh?”

  She blinked up at him in consternation. “What?”

  “You throwing yourself at my feet. Twice in the same day, no less,” he teased. “Just like old times.”

  “I did not!” she protested, struggling to sit up. “I mean, back then I did, but today I certainly didn’t!” She braced her hands against the floor. “I—-I don’t even want you here.”

  “You know, Cecil,” he said sternly, his face inches from hers, “I’m not used to having the welcome mat jerked out from under my feet.”

  “I’ll bet,” Cecilia muttered, visualizing a string of svelte women eager to feed this man’s arrogance. Why couldn’t he have gone bald and potbellied?

  “Okay, let me help you up.”

  Before she could protest, he closed his hands around her upper arms and lifted. She stood shakily and waited for the room to careen wildly again. It didn’t, but she sank gratefully into a barrel-backed bar stool.

  “You’re really sick, Cecilia.”

  She managed a smile. “I think the flu bug crawled into my inner ear.”

  “You need something in your stomach.”

  “Really, Jeff. Please go home, or back to work, or wherever it is you’re supposed to be.”

  He began opening drawers in the kitchen, raking through their jumbled contents. “Where do you keep your can opener? I’ll heat up the soup before I go.”

  “Yuck.” She wrinkled her nose and massaged a temple wearily with the heel of her hand. “Did anyone ever bother to stick the pizza in the freezer?”

  Jeff shot her a startled look. “Pizza?”

  “Whenever I get sick I crave pizza.”

  “My granny would be appalled.” He crossed to the refrigerator and opened the freezer compartment. “You’re in luck. They’re here. Hey, what do you know? I think I found your neighbor’s scissors.” He dropped two pizzas and a pair of orange-handled scissors on the counter. “Those scissors are freezing!” He rubbed his fingers vigorously on the seat of his trousers.

  “Fancy that,” Cecilia remarked dryly.

  The phone rang and Jeff reached for it, but Cecilia lunged to her feet, motioning him away. “Let me answer it. It might be somebody,” she gasped.

  “Somebody?” He arched a brow and smiled, sliding the first pizza from its torn box.

  “Hello— hi, Carol, how are the kids?... Ralph, too? I didn’t even notice he was gone. Much better, thanks. In fact, if you— What do you mean? Why shouldn’t they look out the front window?... Red convertible? What red...oh, yeah.” She shot a venomous glance at Jeff and dropped her voice. “It’s a long story, Carol. Don’t worry about it. It’s leaving soon. By the way, we, er, I found your scissors in the freezer. How would I know? They just were— Okay, you’re an angel... I owe you one.”

  She replaced the receiver. Jeff was leaning against the counter, his arms folded. He was obviously taking everything in with far too great an interest. Then the slightest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and her stomach tugged in direct response. No, he wasn’t smiling. The arrogant so-and-so was smirking at her. Instantly she felt fourteen years old again, and she didn’t like it one bit.

  “Since you’re so interested, why didn’t you get on the extension?” she muttered.

  “I think I can fill in the blanks pretty well.” Jeff doublechecked the setting on the oven, then glanced at the clock beside it. “Eleven more minutes. Think you can wait that long?” He smiled, a soft teasing smile that stopped her dead in her tracks.

  Those eyes, thick lashed and crinkling at the corners, still the color of syrupy sweet root beer,... She’d forgotten how devastating his slow smile could be. She dragged herself back to reality. “All right, Florence Nightingale. I need a drink of water.” Jeff reached across the bar and pressed his hand to her temple.

  She caught her breath, but tried not to show it.

  “You must be feeling better. Your fever’s down.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she choked out, shrinking from his touch. “But I need some more aspirin.” She clutched the edge of the counter.

  “Would it do any good to ask where you keep the aspirin?” When she failed to respond he sighed. “I’m not surprised.” He banged open cabinets and drawers until he found the elusive bottle. “Ahah! I should have known. In the drawer with the knives. I suppose if the aspirin doesn’t do the trick, you go in for a little bloodletting?”

  “Try murder,” she gritted, and glared at the aspirin and water he offered.

  “Bottoms up. Drink every drop. You need plenty of fluids.”

  Cecilia swallowed the medicine and thrust the glass at him. “Drink it yourself, Florence.”

  “I don’t want your germs.” His hand closed over hers, pinning her fingers against the glass. “Drink a little more.”

  The whole universe seemed to lurch, and she sank onto the bar stool again.

  “All right,” he muttered. “Enough is enough. You need to lie down.”

  She hadn’t the strength to protest or struggle as he rounded the end of the bar and pulled her firmly off the stool. “Lean against me. It’s all right.” He eased her onto the sofa, then squatted beside her, studying her face intently.

  She closed her eyes against his penetrating gaze. “I think I need that water now.”

  His chuckle vibrated through her. “I would be a real cad if I said 'I told you so.'"

  “You’re damned right.”

  He grinned. “I told you so.”

  “Just like old times.” But her taunt had no sting. Rather, she felt a vague distress as he pulled away and stood up. She blamed her reaction on the cold—the cold that had crept back into her as soon as he wasn’t there. She chafed her arms.

  “Let me get you a blanket. Where do you keep them, in the refrigerator?”

  “Cute, Jeff.” She angled her head against a needlepoint pillow on the sofa. Thinking of the jumble of sheets, blankets and sleeping bags that would tumble onto his head if he opened the linen closet, she said, “Get me the cover off Pete
r’s bed. It’s the top bunk in the bedroom on the left upstairs."

  Three beats after he’d disappeared, she shouted, "I mean, on the right!”

  He returned moments later with a faded blue afghan. She stiffened as he tucked it around her, then stifled a gasp when his knuckles brushed lightly against her chin.

  “You know,” he said, “it might help if you explained why having me here is upsetting you so much.” He dropped down beside her, perching on the side of the sofa.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Cecilia said with a sigh.

  “Try me.”

  “Look,” she started, swallowed, then tried again. “Having you walk back into my life today makes me feel like I’m fourteen years old again. The first time was plenty, believe me. At this point in my life, I need a little maturity, and...and...” She struggled to sit upright and look him in the eye. “Dignity.”

  “Dignity?” Jeff eyed her doubtfully and guided her head firmly back to the pillow. “Keep your head down, kid. You’re getting light-headed again.”

  “Just thinking about you is enough to make me break out in hives.”

  He arched his brows.

  “Chasing you the way I did is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life, and that’s saying something!”

  “You were kind of a pest,” he agreed amiably, tracing a chain of stitches across the afghan with his index finger.

  Cecilia felt her lower lip pulling into a pout and caught it with her teeth. “Frankly, Jeff, I was hoping you’d forget I ever existed. I’ve certainly done my best to forget you!”

  His laughter should have made her angry; instead it warmed her right down to her toes.

  Eyes dancing, he replied, “Don’t worry, I remember you. How could I forget? You made me a living legend. You should see some of the things the guys wrote under your picture in my yearbook." He glanced away, then back at her, his smirk back in place. "No, maybe that’s not a good idea.”

  He laughed again as she buried her face in her hands and groaned. “Look, this is really cozy, but would you please let me up now? I’m getting a cramp in my leg.”

  “Whatever you say.” He rose, then held out his hands. Cecilia squirmed to a sitting position, then allowed him to pull her to her feet. Her head throbbed, and try as she might, she couldn’t banish the spicy scent of his cologne from her senses. Breaking away from him, she rubbed her temples. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “No, and you look even worse.”

  She glared at him. “I think it’s time you left.”

  “You’re probably right. You’ll eat something, then go straight back to bed when I’m gone, right?”

  “I don’t need a keeper or a nurse,” she retorted. “As soon as I lock the door behind you, I’m going to take a bath.”

  “A bath? Are you crazy?”

  “No, I’m not crazy! I happen to find hot baths therapeutic.”

  “In your condition? You’re liable to pass out and go under. People have drowned in two inches of water, Cecil.”

  She clenched her fists at her sides, and felt adrenaline giving her much needed strength. Be nice, Cecilia, she warned herself. Once every fifteen years, you can tolerate a little arrogance and undeserved authority. “Go back to work, Jeff, and leave me to drown in peace. I promise, I won’t hold you responsible.”

  “Cecil, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Don’t—” she gasped angrily, then fought down her rage “—don’t call me ridiculous. Believe it or not, Jeff, I can manage without you.”

  He stared at her and she refused to look away. “If you feel that strongly about it... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Go take your bath if you really think it will help you feel better. But I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  She moved to the door, then hesitated.

  “Jeff?” She blushed. “If the phone rings, I’d rather you didn’t answer it.”

  “That’s fine with me. Of course, if Peter happens to look out the window and sees my car, he’ll probably call to check up on us. And if nobody answers—well, I hate to think what he might do. He’s liable to bring the Keystone Kops over to rescue you.”

  “Never mind,” she said. “I suppose you’re right.” She glanced at the phone again, nibbling her lower lip. “Just take it off the hook. I’ll be through in a jiffy.”

  “Whatever you say.” He crossed the room and removed the receiver. “Is that better? Now be careful, and if you start to feel dizzy again, just call me.”

  “Over my dead body,” she muttered.

  Entering the bathroom, she was confronted by her reflection in the mirror. Shadowed eyes, hollowed cheeks, ashen skin. Even her Dallas Mavericks sweatshirt had seen better days, and her jeans were downright ratty.

  “Do you need help running the water?” he called.

  “No!” She shut the door and locked it, then kicked aside the dirty clothes and made her way to the tub.

  “Terrific,” she groaned, jerking the sweatshirt over her head and flinging it to the floor.

  ~o0o~

  Jeff leaned against the kitchen counter and was rather amazed to find himself smiling. He gave his head a wry shake, rubbing the bridge of his nose. What had gotten into him? It had been a long time since he’d been this intrigued by a woman. And of all people, Cecil Greene. Rather, Evans. Not his type at all.

  What was it about that blazing mop of red hair, those big green eyes? He tried to shake her image out of his head, but he couldn’t. He should have left when she told him to. Hell, he had groped for an excuse to stay.

  The timer pinged and he crossed to the oven. He opened the door and stepped away from the blast of heat. The cheese bubbled, and the edges of the pepperoni curled. Where the devil would she keep pot holders? He was about to dig through the drawers again, when he spied one dangling from a magnetic hook on the refrigerator. He snatched it from its spot between a soccer schedule and a reminder to “DO IT NOW!”

  As he maneuvered the pizza toward the front of the rack, he brushed his knuckles against the hot metal. Dropping the pot holder, he stifled a curse, then sucked gently at the burn.

  “Well, sh—” he started, then clamped his mouth shut. He snatched the pot holder from where it landed on the bottom of the oven and slung it onto the counter, then used a pancake turner to ease the pizza onto a plate.

  As he placed the plate on the counter, Jeff’s attention was diverted to the pot holder. It had landed plain-side down, so that now he could see the shape of a small hand on it, and the inscription, “PETER, 5 years old.” The side he hadn’t noticed before. He lifted a corner and stared at the brown burn permanently branding Peter’s palm print.

  “You weren’t supposed to use that one.”

  Jeff whirled toward the source of the small, childish voice. “Which—which one are you?”

  The redheaded imp cocked his head. “Brad.”

  Jeff eyed the eight-year-old warily. “I thought you were next door.”

  “Peter made me come home to brush my teeth. He thinks just because he’s oldest, he’s the boss.” Brad hooked the pot holder in place, flipping the singed side toward the refrigerator. “Don’t worry, Mom’ll never notice.”

  Jeff rubbed his hands on the rough wale of his trousers. “Would you, er, would you like some pizza?” Not waiting for a response, he grabbed a knife out of the aspirin drawer and sliced the pizza into precise portions.

  Brad propped his elbows on the counter to watch. “Uh-uh...if I don’t get back pretty quick, Peter’ll come lookin’ for me.”

  “By all means,” Jeff mumbled around a bite of pizza. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  “He doesn’t like you,” Brad offered, an impish twinkle in his eyes. Eyes just like his mother’s.

  Jeff bit off another hunk of pizza to avoid answering.

  “Well, I guess I’ll go get my toothbrush.”

  Jeff watched him lope across the room, then blurted out, “You can’t.”

  The boy spun around, facing Jeff
quizzically.

  “Your mom’s taking a bath,” Jeff explained awkwardly.

  “Oh?” Brad seemed to consider that for a moment, then brightened and shrugged. “That means I have time for pizza.”

  The threat of Cecilia’s eldest son, or worse, the arrival of a horde of screaming children, gave Jeff indigestion. “Look, buddy, let me see your teeth.”

  Brad bared his incisors for inspection.

  “Who told you these teeth were dirty? They look fine to me.”

  “That’s what I said,” Brad complained. “But Peter said—”

  “Look, just go on back over there, take this pizza with you, and I’ll ask your mom if she wants you to brush your teeth. If she does, she’ll call you back home.”

  “Hey, that’s great!” Brad grabbed the plate and headed for the back door. Hands full, he waited for Jeff to let him out. “Peter’s not gonna like you bein’ here.”

  Jeff snorted. “So don’t tell him.”

  A grin widened across his freckled face. “Okay.” He hesitated at the door and squinted at Jeff. “You know that pot holder? Mom’ll never notice, but Peter will.”

  ~o0o~

  Cecilia paused as she entered the den. Jeff sat on the couch, holding a slice of pizza and a can of beer. “I hope you don’t mind. I made myself at home.”

  “Is there any pizza left, or have you scarfed it all down?”

  Jeff sprang to his feet. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you. Just sit down. I’ll fix you some.”

  Cecilia dropped into the nearest chair.

  “Nope.” Jeff grabbed her arm and pulled her up. “That’s not good enough. Come sit on the sofa. You need to relax.”

  Cecilia allowed him to guide her, and not until she dropped onto the soft leather couch did she realize how much she needed to lie down. Jeff shook out the afghan, then tossed it over her reclining body, letting it settle with a soft whoosh. “Isn’t that better?”

  “Hmmph.” She refused to give him the satisfaction.

  “Want a beer?” Smiling at her grimace, he answered his own question. “I didn’t think so.” He struggled with the pizza, forcing the knife through its asphalt-shingle crust. “You don’t approve of beer?”