No Time For Love

by Tina Radcliffe

  No Time for Love

  Tina Radcliffe

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  Josephine’s Eggplant Parmigiana

  THE ROSETTI CURSE ~ EXCERPT

  The Rosetti Curse

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  No Time For Love Copyright © 2015 Tina Radcliffe

  This novella previously appeared in the With This Kiss Contemporary Collection.

  Created with Vellum

  Chapter 1

  He inspected each bottle, carefully reading the labels until he was satisfied he’d found the perfect one. Extra virgin olive oil was not to be taken lightly. Grabbing the glass container by the neck, he set it on the counter and pulled the bills for his purchase from his wallet.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught his own reflection in the window. For a startling moment, a stranger looked back at him. A stranger with shoulder length black hair and a dark, full beard hiding most of his face.

  Amusement curled his lip as he fingered the still unfamiliar bush on his face. It was as unfamiliar as the name he now used.

  Steven Smith.

  He paid for his purchases and shouldered his way out of the shop, bag in hand. The tinkling bells signaled his exit onto the sidewalk. Almost oblivious to the cars rushing by on the busy Denver street, he stopped to inhale the fragrant May air.

  The afternoon sun broke through the clouds. He peeled off his battered denim jacket and slung it over his shoulder. An apple blossom from a tree danced in the air, landing at his feet. Above his head the trees shading the sidewalk were beginning to bloom. The weatherman predicted an early summer.

  And he’d be around to see it.

  Again, his mouth worked its way to a grin.

  Crossing the street, he skirted around a construction barrier. The construction was going on literally in his back yard. He could see the activity from his kitchen window. After weeks, it still didn’t look any closer to completion.

  A large sign blocked the pedestrian route. He stepped back to read it.

  Coming Soon-Cappuccino Junction.

  The chain of popular shops was showing up everywhere in Denver. Somehow he doubted that the Medicare crowd who occupied most of the surrounding low-income neighborhoods would be impressed. However, if it meant urban renewal, he was all for it.

  Behind him, a truck door opened, and he turned to see a woman emerge from the driver’s side of a white pickup truck. Hancock Finney Properties was emblazoned on the door.

  This was a woman that a man didn’t forget—at least not easily or willingly. He continued his perusal, past a stylishly modest navy suit, until has gaze connected with deep blue and very plainly annoyed eyes.

  She adjusted her blazer and glanced down at her watch.

  Their eyes met again. A becoming flush of color swept across her face.

  Turning back to the truck, she retrieved a yellow hard hat and covered her dark cap of hair with it. Surprise lit her eyes as she stepped forward and found he was still there.

  “Excuse me?” she said, with a meaningful arch of her brows. “I guess your mother never told you it isn’t polite to stare.”

  Staring? He wasn’t staring. He was appreciating.

  She looked to the left. A tree blocked her path, and he stood to the right.

  Her brows raised a fraction more as she marched past him.

  Steven stole one last glance at Ms. Hard Hat as she pulled open the glass door of the shop and disappeared inside. A very busy woman.

  A pity.

  He walked on.

  At the end of the block, he turned the corner onto a quiet neighborhood. The once affluent residential street was lined with deteriorating Victorian homes. Like aging aristocracy, they stood tall and proud among the maple and cottonwoods.

  His address was the third house from the corner. As he neared it, a familiar voice greeted him.

  “Mail call.”

  He looked up into the smiling face of his mail carrier.“Hey, Anna.”

  Anna made it her mission to look like a fashion institute in the blue worsted wool trousers and baggy regulation postal uniform sweater.

  “Ooh, what you got there? Extra virgin olive oil? Roma tomatoes? Are we having dinner tonight? Did I forget?”

  “You’re married,” he admonished, with a grin. He didn’t remind her that she was also old enough to be his mother.

  Her well-manicured fingers pushed back a wild mane of what she called naturally blonde hair, setting off the jangling of the half a dozen silver band bracelets on her arm.

  “Details, details.” She dug into the leather mail satchel and offered him a stack of letters. “You certainly get a lot of mail for an unemployed-” She paused to look him up and down. “What is it you do again, honey?”

  It was the same every day as she tried to weasel information out of him. He enjoyed the repartee; fact was he enjoyed that for the first time in his life he was on a first name basis with his mail carrier.

  “Witness protection program,” he confided as he grasped the proffered letters. He tugged gently.

  She held firm and shook her head. “Puhleese. You’ve got a new story each week.”

  After a furtive glance up and down the street, he inched closer to her, lowering his voice. “They’re watching me right now.” He gestured behind her.

  Distracted, she released the mail to check over her shoulder. “Who?” she asked.

  He raced up the stairs while he had the chance. Seconds later Anna’s laughter followed him. “Okay, Mr. Smith,” she called. “You win. Today.”

  “See you later,” he laughed. With the mail tucked under his arm, he stood outside the etched-glass double doors. Spring blooms flanked him on either side as he fit his key into the lock. Colorful pansies overflowed the clay pots guarding the entrance and restoring a measure of dignity to the weathered old Victorian.

  Every day the O’Hara sisters carefully watered and pruned the plants. They took turns polishing the brass door handles and sweeping debris from the front steps.

  The sisters, Madeline and Millicent, lived on the bottom floor. He rented the second floor and the third floor was currently empty. They took inordinate pride in the building. Having resided with them for almost a year, he respected the rituals that went on around him, though for the most part, he kept to himself. They in turn, respected his privacy and didn’t ask questions. All in all, it was a comfortable arrangement.

  Pulling open the glass door, he climbed the threadbare carpeted stairs and flipped through the pile of flyers and letters. Junk. None of his business mail came to this address. Everything was routed to a private mail box on the other side of town.

  The last piece of mail was different. Definitely business. An attorney’s name and address were engraved in the corner. Not his attorney, that was for certain.

  Wafts of lasagna greeted him as he unlocked the front door and walked in. He’d left it baking in the oven, and now the delicious smells enticed him towards the kitchen. Passing the huge oak table that dominated the room, he put down the bag and dumped the mail.

  Except for the letter.

  Tearing the flap of the envelope, he pulled out the paper and shook it open, noting the expensive cream linen stationery. He skimmed the contents, his eyes returning to the impressive return address.

  A letter of intent?

  An eviction notice would be served within the next ten days.

  A chuckle escaped. Nice try guys.

  Not a week went by that somebody from his company didn’t contact him with some trumped u
p reason why he should fly back to California—immediately.

  Was this another one of their schemes? He frowned and turned the envelope over to examine the return postmark.

  Denver?

  They’d outdone themselves. It looked real.

  Too real.

  Trying to ignore a prickle of apprehension, he tossed the letter onto the counter and pulled open the oven.

  There was no way he was going back.

  He slid his hands into potholders. The cheese on the lasagna bubbled and hissed as he removed the casserole and a foil wrapped log of garlic bread. Perfect. In fact, everything was perfect.

  He wasn’t going back.

  As he set his solitary place setting, the doorbell rang.

  “Come on in,” he yelled, knowing full well it was the sisters. Who else visited him?

  The door opened and Millicent and Madeline burst in, wringing their hands.

  Twins.

  At eighty, the unmarried O’Hara sisters both wore the same dark prim dresses with lace collars. Their snow-white hair was pulled into loose knots on the tops of their heads, like a mirror image of Kathryn Hepburn.

  They were identical all right, except in disposition.

  “Oh, Steven, did you get the letter?” Madeline blurted out. Tears welled in her soft hazel eyes, magnified by the round wire-rimmed frames perched on the end of her nose.

  “It’s shocking after all the years we’ve taken care of this building. We’ve been faithful servants for fifty years,” Millicent added, sharply. Her vision was crystal clear. The lack of spectacles along with her perpetual frown made it easy to tell her apart from her sister.

  “Who owns the building?” Steven asked.

  “Some corporation. It’s changed hands often over the years,” Millicent said.

  “I’ve been on my knees in prayer since the letter arrived,” Madeline cried. She blinked as her eyes filled with moisture. “Where will we go?”

  “Our niece will insist we go to one of those retirement homes,” Millicent spat, hands on hips. “And we won’t have it. We simply will not have it.”

  “What shall we do?” Madeline asked.

  They both turned to him.

  So the eviction notice was legitimate. He glanced around at the apartment, from the sparse collection of eclectic furniture he’d painstakingly restored to the antique lamp he’d repaired. The place was home. His first real home in a very long time. And he wasn’t ready to give it up.

  His steely determination kicked in without a pause. A calm resignation settled over him.

  “Relax, ladies.” He stood and pulled out two chairs. “Would you like some lasagna?”

  “Another recipe?” Madeline asked, leaning over to sniff the casserole. She dabbed the moisture from her eyes with a crisp, white lace handkerchief.

  “Number fifty-two. Lasagna Bolognese.”

  In a tribute to his mother, he was working his way through her handwritten cooking journal. He’d counted and there were about one hundred and fifty recipes. But he was in no rush, often making the same recipe over and over until it was perfected.

  Madeline sighed with pleasure. “Do I smell garlic bread?”

  “On the warmer,” Steve confirmed. Moving to the kitchen, he reached for more plates and glasses, thrusting a handful of silverware into the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Maddy! Our life is falling apart. How can you think about food?”

  Returning to the dining room, Madeline straightened, her gaze imploring him.

  “Sit down, Millicent,” he said as he set the dishes on the table. “We’ll eat and then we’ll figure out a game plan.”

  Madeline wasted no time. She slid into the chair, mindful to adjust her dress to cover the elastic bands of her knee-high support hose. “I knew you’d be able to help us. I just knew it,”

  Though reluctant, Millicent sat down next to her sister. “You’re wrong, Maddy. Steven can’t help us this time,” she declared.

  “For every problem, there are at least three solutions,” Steve answered the doubtful twin.

  Abashed, he paused. Good grief, he was quoting himself.

  He cleared his throat and addressed the sisters again. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a solution. I promise.”

  What it would be, he had no clue. Then again, he never did when he got started. But he’d never backed down from a challenge before. This one had to be easier than the corporate wheeling and dealing he’d done for the last fifteen years, because this time he had a partner. The Lord.

  Besides, there was no point in spoiling good pasta. And he was starving. God put him in Denver, and in this particular house, for a good reason. It was the Big Guy’s job to figure out a solution.

  Steve stood in the lobby of the downtown Denver office complex. Leaning against the wall, he regrouped. Around him, busy executives in dark suits rushed past, each carrying a black leather monogrammed briefcase.

  A sea of identical hurried lifestyles.

  Absently, he rubbed the back of his neck where his hair was pulled back with a cord of leather. The problem was that he wasn’t accustomed to not being taken seriously. The irony of the situation did not escape him.

  He glanced down at his faded jeans, flannel shirt, and scruffy cowboy boots. So what did he expect? If someone who looked like he did had approached him in his office without an appointment, what would he have thought?

  He would have called security.

  Steve flinched at his own arrogance.

  Yeah, and he’d taken his own authority for granted too. Used to be that his name alone moved things at the speed of ambition. But he was no longer S. Thomas Chasen. No longer a CEO and no longer burdened with the headache of running one of the biggest investment firms in the country.

  Nope. He was Steve Smith. And Steve Smith couldn’t even get past the secretary at the law office upstairs without a suit.

  He didn’t have a single suit here in Denver and he didn’t plan on buying one either.

  He’d ferreted one important bit of news from the no-nonsense bouncer behind the desk who had blocked his access. Though it was obvious she’d only given him the information to get rid of him, she had shared what was planned for the house he and the O’Hara sisters called home. It was going to be turned into a parking lot for Cappuccino Junction.

  A parking lot.

  There was a time when he’d have seen the logic in that, even called it good business sense.

  Not anymore.

  Besides, he owed it to Madeline and Millicent. They’d done more than not ask questions. They’d accepted him just the way he was when he’d landed on their doorstep a year ago, a broken and burnt out man. Yeah, he owed them a solution.

  Head down, he stood thinking. From his periphery, he saw a familiar woman move across the lobby. The confident stride was unmistakable, yet he couldn’t quite place her.

  Across the expanse of marble floor, the doors of the elevator slid open. Briefcase in hand, she got on the elevator.

  Steve stiffened as the thoughts came together in his head. He nearly pounced from his position on the wall.

  Ms. Hard Hat.

  Ms. Hard Hat had something to do with Cappuccino Junction.

  Squeezing his way through the closing door, he got in right next to her. They stood elbow to elbow, alone in the elevator. Though her soft fragrance reached out to say hello, she kept her arms rigidly at her side.

  Steve stepped back. He positioned himself just behind her to her left. Leaning against the wall he watched her. She wore another dark and no-nonsense, business suit.

  He admired her thick black eyelashes, her pert nose. She frowned and chewed on her lower lip. Suddenly releasing the lip, she shifted her head the fraction necessary to see him. She turned back to the front of the elevator.

  In a heartbeat, she did a double take, disbelief flickering in her eyes.

  Unable to resist, Steve winked at her.

  “You’re staring again.” The words came out so quietly that
for a moment he wasn’t sure she’d even said them.

  “Guilty.”

  “Knock it off or I’ll drop my briefcase on your foot.” Again the words were spoken as silkily as a sweetheart’s whisper, yet delivered with the unmistakable promise of pain.

  Unconsciously, his toes curled back in his boots.

  The elevator doors glided open. Without a backward glance, she shot out onto the eighteenth floor.

  Steve trailed behind her. She was headed to the law offices he’d just left. What were the odds?

  When she pulled open the glass door and glanced back at him, he absorbed himself in the mechanics of the drinking fountain lever.

  Outside the office, he watched through the glass as she marched up to the front desk. Once the bulldog behind the counter was distracted, he slipped into the room. Moving straight to the far corner of the reception area, he sat down next to a large potted ficus tree and stuck his nose in a magazine.

  Peering over the top, he observed Ms. Hard Hat and the office general square off.

  “I’m sorry Ms. Baldwin, but Mr. Ryan has been detained. He’ll call to reschedule. Oh, but he said to assure you that the residents received the letters yesterday. ”

  Baldwin? He filed the name away for later. So she was responsible for the letters?

  Ms. Hard Hat lifted her arm to glance at a slim silver watch on her wrist. The sound of her heeled pump tapping a staccato beat on the parquet floor echoed in the silent room. “You may tell Mr. Ryan that we do not pay him for assurances; we pay him for results.”

  The general sniffed indignantly and shuffled the files in her hands.

  Score for Ms. Hard Hat. Steve admired her moxie. It was scary, but something about this particular woman reminded him of himself not too long ago.

  Shifting her briefcase to the other hand, Ms. Hard Hat continued. “Were the titles on the property transferred?”

  “I faxed Mr. Ryan’s report to your office earlier today.

  The paperwork on the corner property is complete.”

  “And the other property?”