Million Dollar Dilemma

by Judy Baer

  CHAPTER 2

  Grocery stores are the most amazing things, like Disneyland for the hungry and fresh-food deprived. In Simms an apple, banana or orange is exotic, but here…

  I felt my control slipping in the fresh produce section and didn’t pull myself together until dairy loomed ahead. Even there I felt a tingle over the choices—milk for the lactose intolerant, for the dairy intolerant…next there’d be milk for the simply intolerant.

  “Are you a vegan?” the clerk asked, eyeing my kiwi, Asian pears, jicama, pomelos, tangelos, mangoes, plantains, bread fruit and pomegranates.

  “No, I’m Swedish. People get us mixed up with the Norwegians all the time.”

  Jane says I have a twisted sense of humor. Maybe she’s right.

  I’m also a flower lover, but when one of the fronds of greenery from the mish mash of flowers I purchased tickled my nose, I realized that a dreaded carnation was stowed away in a perfectly nice bunch of tulips, daisies and one strangely exotic bird-of-paradise I couldn’t resist.

  I don’t like carnations. They remind me of the leftover funeral flowers my frugal grandfather had me rearrange for church on Sunday mornings. No matter how artfully I did it or how many funereal bows I discarded, everyone in the congregation knew exactly where they’d come from.

  As I neared my Nicollet Avenue apartment I saw that a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk near the front door of my building to watch a tall, dark-haired man carry suitcases and crates into the vestibule. Several bystanders were gathered around a single case, eyeing it with looks of either trepidation or serious indigestion.

  Curious, I picked up my pace, telling myself that I needed to get the flowers into water and walk Winslow before he had an accident on the ugly patch of brown shag rug in the foyer that really should have been destroyed decades ago.

  “Excuse me, coming through…excuse me, please, I live here. If you don’t mind…” I wormed my way through the crowd of spectators apologizing for batting gawkers with my bouquet and obscenely heavy bag of lumpy fruit. I was almost to the door when a growl made the hair rise on the back of my neck.

  The sound smoldered out of the crate and circled the crowd like a ring of smoke. Everyone took a single step backward in unison, as though the fiend inside the cage were about to escape. Low and guttural, it was an undomesticated, dangerously feral sound. And too untamed to be coming from an enclosure that was about to be carried into my apartment building! I’ve always wondered what could make one’s blood run cold. Well, that sound wrapped a definite chill around my arteries.

  Instead of following my impulse to run, I pushed forward, my maternal instincts pumping. “Please, I have to get through!” Winslow, my baby, was inside that building.

  Feisty as only a redhead can be, I stepped into the center of the circle of people and came toe-to-toe with the dark-haired man, who was wearing a battered leather jacket, perfectly pressed jeans and chamois shirt so soft and pale it looked like fresh butter. Like a pricked balloon, my temper leaked away and jelly settled in my knees. From Attila the Hun to Gumby, just like that.

  “Oh, hello,” I said stupidly, all rational thought gone. The man was Indiana Jones incarnate. Younger, of course, and without that charming little cut in his chin, but a heartthrob-with-a-death-wish-type adventurer, nonetheless. And he did have a scar over his left eyebrow that was mesmerizing in its own way.

  He glanced up as if a mosquito had landed on his cheek, and I was afraid he was going to brush me away. Instead, his faintly stubbled jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed appraisingly.

  As he looked me over from head to toe I felt a weird internal meltdown. This had to be the most beautiful —and intimidating—man I’d ever seen. It was the eyes, I thought. Dark and searing, sorrowful and soul-searching all at once, they snagged on mine for the briefest moment as he bent to pick up the large gray travel crate punctured liberally with airholes.

  Then, through the fissures came a bloodcurdling, unearthly yowl that had the same effect on me as chewing aluminum foil on metal-filled molars.

  “What is that?” I started as the crate quivered and shook. It appeared an eruption was imminent.

  “‘That’ is my cat.”

  Crazed fiend from the bowels of the earth, you mean.

  “Now excuse me, but he’s anxious to be home. If you’ll—” a guttural squall and a brown-and-black paw punching its way through an airhole in the crate punctuated his words “—let me by…” An airborne catnip mouse came shooting out of one of the larger holes in the crate and, without considering what I was doing, I picked it up.

  This is his home? That…thing…actually lives here? My shoulders sagged in dismay.

  Just then Winslow started woofing happily. I could see the top of his moplike head framed in the window of my apartment. Gentle, mild mannered, loving and easily intimidated, Winslow had never met a cat he didn’t like. I had a hunch that was about to change dramatically.

  “Oh, rats,” I muttered, but quickly changed my mind. There’d be no rats within a ten-block radius once this…thing…was on the prowl.

  I’ve never known what musical charm or spell it was that made both rats and children follow the Pied Piper to their doom in the poem by Robert Browning, but whatever that piper guy had, this man possessed in spades. Before my head switched into thinking gear, my feet followed him into the building and to the doorway of his apartment. And I did have his catnip mouse.

  He was oblivious to me. The travel crate tipped, swayed and shuddered as its inhabitant rocketed from one end to the other, howling discontent and elevating his owner’s already apparent annoyance.

  Mesmerized, I stepped into the apartment, unaware of anything but what was inside that crate. I imagined catastrophe—the smells, the sounds, the claws, the danger, the inevitable showdown and the blood, most of which, I quickly realized, would be Winslow’s. He wouldn’t last a minute if he came face-to-face with the Tasmanian devil hunkered evilly in the corner of his crate.

  I’d meant to ease myself noiselessly out of the room after dropping the mouse on a nearby table, but was captivated by the space around me, which spoke volumes—literally—about its owner. Books enveloped the room floor to ceiling like wallpaper. In the corners piles of hardbacks teetered like architecture in Pisa. The reading material was eclectic—history, autobiographies, nature and what appeared to be college textbooks.

  But the books were a mere background for the rest of the room’s decor. Framed photos in color and black and white leaned in stacks against the legs of furniture, and magazines littered the floor like carpet samples. A film of dust coated the armrests of his oxblood leather couch and a petrified burger and fries spread out on the coffee table made it appear he’d fled the apartment as if it were on fire.

  It was all very exotic to me, who’d spent the past eighteen months in Simms, where no one can disappear for more than an hour without being missed, no one’s business is private and all is fair game for coffee-klatch discussion. Of course, this guy was nothing like the men I’d grown accustomed to in Simms. The most mysterious thing about most of them was when they’d last changed their socks and flossed their teeth.

  “You’ve lived in this building for a while, haven’t you?”

  He spun around on his heel, scowling. “Wha…” He hadn’t even noticed that I’d followed him to the apartment.

  “Welcome home,” I blurted, trying to recover some sense of propriety, and thrust into his face the bundle of flowers I was carrying. The tulips, daisies, daffodils, roses, the offending carnation and wildly out of place bird-of-paradise erupted out of the green florist paper and into his arms.

  “They were so pretty that I bought some of each. You can’t buy flowers in the market where I come from. It’s only on a rare day that you can buy an eggplant….”

  Shut up, Cassia.

  “Then you should keep the flowers.” He gently pushed at my outstretched hand as his glower morphed into something softer—a grimace, perhaps. Not much of an
improvement, but nothing could dim his good looks.

  “I don’t own a vase to put them in. They won’t look like much in a mayonnaise jar. I don’t know what I was thinking.” I thrust the bouquet back at him. I’m nothing if not persistent. Once I embarrass myself, I don’t stop until I’ve achieved it fully.

  He obviously didn’t know what to make of my gesture. Finally he raked his dark hair into spikes with his fingers and stared intently at me, as if seeing me for the very first time.

  When he looked straight at me, that jellyfish feeling came back into my legs, and I wondered if I’d fall. Perhaps the fruit was weighing me down. I opened my hand, and the sack dropped to the floor. The cage inhabitant howled loudly, but the gorgeous Mr. Mystery Man didn’t even flinch.

  His unsettling eyes were the color of espresso, and the look he gave me was as disquieting as if he’d pumped pure caffeine into my nervous system. But if he meant to scare me off, he’d met his match. I’d come too far into my folly to turn back without attempting to save face. Besides, I’d traveled in far more hostile environs than these. Anyone who has spent months calling on parishioners who haven’t darkened the door of a church since Nixon was president would understand. If my neighbor meant to intimidate me, he’d have to try harder than this.

  “No problem.” I looked around, trying to think of something friendly to say before I made my departure on my own terms. The walls of books and heavy leather furniture were masculine and inviting. Ernest Hemingway would have felt right at home.

  “It’s very cozy in here. Much more comfy than my place. Lots larger, too. I haven’t seen you before. You must travel a lot.”

  My mouth overfloweth. James 1:26, Cassia, James 1:26!

  If you claim to be religious but don’t control your tongue, you are just fooling yourself, and your religion is worthless.

  “Let’s just say I have enough frequent flyer miles to take free vacations until I’m a hundred and five.” He seemed amused. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to let Pepto out of his cage, and it might be a good idea if he didn’t see any strangers until he’s reacquainted with the apartment.”

  “Pepto?”

  He actually smiled. “After the Pepto-Bismol case in which I found him hiding. He was the king of unwanted strays, fighting, romancing the ladies and living off food from the garbage can outside my bedroom window. I brought him in and fed him in order to shut him up so I could get a decent night’s sleep. Somehow, in the process he adopted me.”

  I had one of those Awwww… moments. “How sweet!”

  He eyed me as if I were as loony as Pepto. “Right. Sweet. A regular Lion King. I’m going to let him out now, so you might want to step behind a piece of furniture just in case. Or, safer yet, close the front door behind you.”

  At first I thought he was kidding—about the danger, at least. I knew he was dead serious about my stepping out the door. But before I could get to the entrance of the apartment, he lifted the pin on the travel crate and Pepto was rereleased onto the world.

  A shriek that could have frozen molten lava and a brown-and-black blur of fur, teeth and claws shot out of the carrier and ricocheted off several pieces of furniture and two walls. When a floor lamp landed on its side in a clatter, the cat howled as if he’d been disemboweled and plunged himself deep beneath the couch.

  I instinctively hit the floor like a ton of bricks, covered my head with my arms and curled into a fetal position to avoid the thrashing animal. When I came up for air, Pepto’s owner was staring at me with alarm. He was as cool and nonchalant as if he risked having his eyes clawed out on a daily basis.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll let you know for sure when my legs stop shaking.” I felt my knee buckle, the one I’d hit on the floor as I dropped. “But I wouldn’t mind sitting down for a moment, Mr.…”

  “Adam. Adam Cavanaugh. Please, sit.” He gestured to an antique chair that looked something like a cat itself with animal-like jaws carved into the wooden armrests and paws with claws for feet. It was upholstered in something that looked disquietingly like fur.

  But beggars can’t be choosers and I was beginning to feel a little queasy. If that thing even saw Winslow… Eyeing the base of the couch, half expecting to see a claw-studded fur ball soar from beneath, I dropped onto it. Dust flew into my nostrils. How long had these two been gone, anyway?

  “Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself.” I pointed my finger to the ceiling over our heads.

  Something warm and melty flickered in his eyes. “I suspected as much.” The room was quiet except for the juicy licking sounds of Pepto bathing under the couch.

  His reticence triggered my inner blabbermouth, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to fill the silences with which he seemed so comfortable.

  “I’m Cassia Carr. Most people haven’t heard the name Cassia. My mother told me it was Grandpa’s idea.”

  Well, that was profound.

  He, at least, was polite enough to acknowledge my chatter. “An interesting name.”

  “Cassia means ‘spicy cinnamon.’ I suppose my red hair inspired him. I should actually consider myself lucky. Apparently I had an amazingly loud cry for a little thing, and my grandfather first suggested naming me Calliope. That means ‘beautiful voice.’”

  That quirky little smile touched his lips again as I plowed on, making an even bigger fool of myself. “With Grandpa being a country preacher and all, I suppose I’m fortunate I didn’t end up as Arabelle.”

  He looked at me questioningly, as if now that this thing on his couch had started to talk, he had no idea how to turn it off. Neither did I. At last, something we had in common.

  “Arabelle?” Nonplussed, he folded into the faded tapestry wing chair across from me, definitely the finest example of the male species I’d ever studied, exuding comfort, rugged elegance and simplicity. A no-frills man who looked like a million bucks.

  A million bucks. I’ve never really liked that term. A million bucks is a pile of ugly, lumpy money. There’s nothing ugly about this guy.

  His eyes fixed on me and I inexplicably felt as though I were the most important person in the world to him, that he wanted—no, yearned—to hear every single thought in my head.

  “Arabelle. ‘Calling to prayer,’” I yammered. “My grandfather did that a lot—call people to prayer, that is. My sister and I lived with him and my grandmother while my parents were overseas in the mission field.”

  “And your sister’s name is…?”

  “Jane.”

  Much to my surprise, he burst out laughing. “Grandpa didn’t have many ideas the day she was born, I take it.”

  “Apparently not.” I felt a rush of blood explode in my cheeks.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” I apologized. “I normally don’t follow people around trying to find out what’s in their luggage.” I eyed the crate. “When I saw that and heard the sounds coming out of it, the first thing I thought about was Winslow, my dog. He’s big but gentle, like a stuffed toy almost. Except, of course, for his appetite. His favorite thing in the world is eating. And me, of course. And—” I couldn’t help glancing at the base of the leather couch “—cats.”

  Adam lifted one eyebrow dubiously.

  “Do you think that’s going to be a problem?”

  “Winslow,” he echoed, as if unprepared for this onslaught of information.

  “He’s named after Winslow Homer, the painter, but I considered naming him Mozart,” I yammered. “As a puppy, he loved Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 20 in D Minor. As long as I played it, he was quiet. In fact—and I really hate admitting this to anyone because my sister already thinks I’m besotted about my dog—I leave classical CDs playing for him while I’m at work. Mostly Mozart…” My voice trailed away. “I don’t know much about music, but I do know my dog is crazy about it.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Or just plain crazy,” Adam muttered as his new neighbor babbled her way to his front door.

>   Turning away from the sight, he opened the cupboard to see what he and Pepto would be having for supper. There were two cans of sardines, a can of tomato soup and some mixed fruit he’d purchased with the delusion that he might actually make something out of it. There was probably some of that frozen fake egg goop and bacon in the freezer if he had the energy to find it. Best of all, in the back of the cupboard, shoved behind a double stack of cheap napkins, was a can of the kitten food he’d fed Pepto when he’d first found him. The robust, barrel-bottomed cat now twining himself around Adam’s legs had then looked like a starving rat with bad fur and attitude.

  “Well, guy, we’re going to eat well tonight. Quit kissing up to me, you mangy fur ball.”

  Adam grinned slightly as he worked the can opener. Pepto had really done a number on his new neighbor. Maybe he and Pepto were more alike than he’d realized—both good at intimidating women and scaring them off.

  He’d felt her caramel-colored eyes on his back as she’d shadowed him into the building. Her gaze had practically seared holes through the leather jacket that had withstood strafing, blistering heat, frigid snow, pellet shot, short knives with sharp blades and, once, even a branding iron. She was definitely a woman who could make a mark on a guy—if he’d let her. But Adam wasn’t in the mood to even think about a woman, let alone get entangled with one.

  He was bone tired, gravel eyed, hungry and dirty. He’d missed three planes, four meals and two nights’ sleep to get home. He didn’t want to deal with either a psychotic cat or the big-eyed woman with a mass of astounding red hair who’d apparently rented the empty apartment upstairs while he was away on assignment. His nerves were open wounds, raw, exposed and agonizingly tender. He was exhausted mentally, physically and emotionally, and right now neither the banshee at his feet nor the dewy-eyed feminine apparition who lived upstairs was much to his liking. All he wanted was a bed to collapse into. But instead of indulging himself, he opened the curtains and unlocked the windows to flood light and air into the dusty gloom.

  He rolled his shoulders to release the muscles in his neck, but they were so stiff and tight that he felt the movement halfway to his calves. Being a punching bag for the travel industry was not for wimps. Endless hours on the plane, more on the ground in airports without air-conditioning, dehydration and whatever faux food could be hermetically sealed and sold for exorbitant prices from carts in airports had taken its toll. Then Pepto, who’d taken a liking to his babysitters, Adam’s cousin Chase Andrews and his wife, Whitney, had thrown a fit at the idea of going back into his crate and had given Adam a full set of toenail scratches on the back of one hand.