by Laura Leone
"No, that's not what I—"
"You think I'm so selfish that I'd be upset that your life's going well when mine's a little bumpy?"
"No."
"Then what's the deal here?"
"I guess... Oh, maybe the deal is that I just want to keep this to myself a while longer. Dad doesn't know, either. And don't tell him!"
"Okay. But are you going to?"
"Eventually."
"So can you at least tell me something about this guy?"
Miriam made a sound. "Maybe not right now, Sara."
This was unbelievable. They'd always been close. Maybe they didn't tell each other everything, but for Miriam to keep quiet, even now, about someone she'd been seeing for nearly three months...
"You don't think we'll like him," Sara guessed. "That's it, isn't it?"
"Something like that," Miriam conceded.
"It's because I was so nasty about David after you and he split up, isn't it?"
"No."
"Because I told you that I'd always wondered, from the very start, what the hell you saw in him, and so now you're afraid—"
"This is not about David," Miriam said. "Not in any way. Okay?"
"Miriam, whoever you choose—whether he's around for just three months, or for the next fifty years—is okay with me. With Dad, too."
"Now you're bullshitting me."
"Well, yes, I really mean it's okay with Dad as long as he's a Jewish Democrat."
"Yes, that's closer to the reality we all know and live in, Sara."
"But I'm not like Dad, and I want you to know that whoever you love—or date—is fine with me."
"Good." Miriam paused. "Thanks." After a moment she added, "I hope that's true."
"Oh, my God," Sara said suddenly. "I know what it is."
"You do?"
"He's a book reviewer, isn't he?"
Miriam sputtered with laughter.
"That's it, isn't it?" Sara demanded. "My God! How can you date someone like that? What could you possibly be thinking?"
"No! Not a reviewer, okay? But thanks for bringing up yet another type of date I can never introduce you to."
"Another type?" Sara repeated. "You really are afraid I won't like this one."
"Look, we've only recently started talking about meeting each other's families. And given how frightening my family is—"
"What's so frightening about me?"
"I'm just not ready. So you're going to drop the subject."
"The way you dropped the subject of Ryan the moment I asked you to?"
"That's different."
"What the hell is so different about that?"
"Because I'm right," Miriam said. "I saw the way you two clicked."
#
"I don't get it," Ryan said. "You work on this thing almost every day, right?"
"Yes," Sara agreed, watching him set up her computer at her desk the following week.
"It's your primary professional tool, right?"
"Wrong." She pointed to her head and said, "This is my primary professional tool."
"Okay," he conceded. "Point taken." He paused in his work for a moment and studied her with a contemplative expression.
"What?" she prodded.
"I was going to wait until I was done before I told you."
"Done doing what?"
"I'm reading The Seven Deadly Blessings. I bought it a couple of days ago."
"Wow, you mean to say you found a bookstore that carries my books?"
"It wasn't hard, Sara," he chided. "The first store I tried had three of them. I bought them all."
"You didn't have to do that. I have spare copies I can give you."
"Oh, now you tell me."
She grinned. "Few things are more pathetic than a writer forcing her books on her friends. But if you actually want to read them—"
"I don't mind buying them," he assured her.
"I don't mind giving them to you," she countered. "And it's not as if your purchasing the remaining titles is going to save my career. So if you ever want to read the rest—"
"I do if they're all as good as this one," he said.
"Ooh! I knew there was a reason I liked you. You're a man of superior taste and rare perception."
"I kind of want to ask you if I'm right about who the killer is. But I don't want the ending spoiled, so I'm not going to ask."
"I wouldn't tell you, anyhow."
He grinned. "That's other reason I won't ask." He returned to hooking up the computer. "It's kind of scary, though, living right next to a woman who could think up some of the stuff in that book." He cast her a sly glance as he added, "Especially because it's so you in some parts."
"So me?" she asked cautiously.
"It makes me laugh. Usually when I least expect it."
She smiled, pleased.
"And some of it," he continued, "is so grim. And all of the history and culture—it's really interesting."
"I'm glad you think so."
"I can't believe the publisher dumped you. You're so good! I'm staying up too late reading you."
"I wish you were running a publishing house."
"Straight up, Sara. I'm glad you're not quitting. I'm really glad you're writing another book now." He added, "And I'm glad I'm here to set up your computer, since it's obvious you'd never manage by yourself."
"Now that thing," she said, "is a real mystery."
"But it's important. You deal with it every day. All your work is stored in here."
"Uh-huh."
"So how can you know so little about it?"
"These things are designed by men." She nodded. "That says it all."
He rolled his eyes. "Hand me that power cord. On your left. No, your other left. Yeah, that's it."
Sara watched as he continued connecting her computer. "I really do appreciate this, Ryan."
"Consider it an act of self-preservation. The squeals of frustration coming from here were making Macy agitated, and he was drooling all over me."
"I'm not good with technology," Sara confessed.
"I'm no expert," Ryan said, hitting the power button on the computer, "but this thing seems pretty straightforward. Ah-hah! And it's working. Now let's see..."
She sighed. "You're like all men. Give you an expensive electronic toy with many parts and indecipherable instructions, and you come to life as never before."
"That's sexist," Ryan said, "but probably true."
He sat down at her desk to fiddle with the computer. Sara moved to stand behind him and look over his shoulder. She was about to suggest he stay for dinner again—maybe Thai or Chinese this time—when the computer screen popped into life, its colored patterns looking like one of their landlord's murals.
"The monitor's not supposed to do that," Sara said with some concern.
"Give it a minute," Ryan advised.
She wasn't completely settled in yet—there simply wasn't room here for everything to come out of the boxes—but she had, by now, unpacked and put away the essentials. Once the computer was set up, she could commence work and establish a real life again.
Her vast desk was in the living room, with an easy view of the balcony. All of the walls which weren't covered in Lance's mural were now dominated by overflowing bookcases. The place was starting to feel like home.
"Maybe we should reboot," Ryan murmured. He looked down at the ergonomic keyboard. "Where's your Alt button?"
Sara leaned over his shoulder and showed him.
"Oh, okay."
Ryan's shoulder brushed into brief contact with her midriff as he shifted in his seat. His hands moved gracefully across the keys.
Everything inside of Sara went on tilt. She looked down at his thick, sun-burnished brown hair. The nape of his neck, smooth and touchable. His shoulder, sturdy and warm, just scant inches away from her body.
There was a sudden, hungry quiver inside her. For affection. It had been such a long time. And for this particular man. Because she couldn't find anythi
ng about him that she didn't like. A whole lot. Inside and out.
Sara closed her eyes. Down, girl. She wasn't going to embarrass them both.
"There it goes," Ryan said.
She could hardly hear him through the tumult of her thoughts.
His hand brushed her breast. Sara gasped and flinched, feeling guilty. Only when her eyes flew open did she realize she hadn't caused that scintillating moment of contact; Ryan had started to fold his hands behind his head while simultaneously leaning back, not realizing how close she was standing.
With my eyes closed. While I fantasized about touching him.
"Sorry," he said, frozen with his hands by his head as he looked at her, perhaps surprised at her overreaction. "I didn't mean—"
"I know. It's okay."
He turned back to the computer, mercifully saying nothing and letting the moment slip into the past. Sara sat down on the side desk, at a saner distance from Ryan, and watched as the computer rebooted.
"Good," she said in a normal voice. "That's what it's supposed to look like."
A phone started ringing.
“Excuse me.” Ryan reached into the pocket of his cambric shirt—she'd noticed by now that he dressed very differently at home than he did when he left for work—and pulled out his cell phone. He stood up and moved away from the desk. "I'll be right back."
Sara nodded and took his place at the desk, sitting in the chair left warm by his body heat. She resisted the urge to squirm or to think about the butt which had been there only moments ago.
She stared resolutely at the monitor as she heard him exit the apartment via the balcony, forbidding herself to watch him. Lately, she'd been giving in to the urge to ogle him when she thought he wouldn't see, and that had to stop.
She heard him answer the phone on the balcony, but then his voice faded away as he went into his apartment. He always had that cell phone with him, and he always sought privacy when he answered it. Another example of his exquisite manners, she supposed, and she appreciated it. Sara thought cell phones were a social abomination which should be illegal everywhere except New York, where editors and agents should be required by law to carry them at all times.
Since the monitor screen looked normal and she knew Ryan had connected the phone line to the computer, she decided to go ahead and try to get online.
"Eureka!" she cried when she accessed her e-mail.
"It works?" Ryan appeared at the balcony door, putting his cell phone back into his pocket.
"Yes," she said, then frowned. "What's wrong?"
He looked distracted. "I've got to leave town, and the vet's office just told me they can't take the animals. Too short notice. They're full for the weekend. And the pet sitting service I usually use isn't answering."
"When are you leaving?"
He glanced at his watch. "I've got to be out of here in about forty minutes."
"What?"
"That call that just came," he said. "Sudden assignment. I'm sorry, Sara, I've got to find a place that can take the animals if the pet sitter doesn't get back to me in the next half hour. But you're pretty much all set up now, and if the modem is working—"
"Ryan, come on. What are you saying? I'll take care of them."
"No, I don't want to put you out. They can be a lot of trouble."
"So can I," she pointed out.
He smiled. That soft, seductive smile. God, she liked looking at him.
Down, girl.
"You're no trouble," he assured her.
She could melt in the warmth of his voice.
"You've been so nice to me ever since I moved in," she said. "If you've been this nice to everyone else who lived here, they were idiots to move out."
"I steered clear of the woman who lived here before you did." He shrugged. "We never hit it off."
That gave her a little glow. So it wasn't just that he had nothing better to do with his time than pal around with whoever lived next door.
"So the least I can do," Sara said, "is help you out now that you're in a jam. I'll look after them."
"It's a lot," he warned her. "The dog, the bird, the fish, and the cat."
"Yeah, I know." She had learned by now that Ryan had a veritable menagerie in his apartment. He also had tidy habits and a Colombian cleaning lady who worshipped him, which was how the place stayed cleaner than Sara's apartment. "I'll manage. How long will you be gone?"
"Just for the weekend."
"Okay. Don't worry about a thing."
He gave in. "I'll write everything down," he promised. "And I'll show you where everything is."
She stood up, grabbed a pen and a pad of paper, and headed for his apartment. "You don't have much time. You talk while you pack, I'll write everything down."
"Oh, yeah, that's makes sense." He smiled again. "And to think people say you're not good at organization."
"You said that after you saw my kitchen," she reminded him.
#
"Macy! Come on. Come on, boy!" Sara lost all patience. "MACY! COME!"
The dog had lost heart halfway up the stairs and now lay on the landing in an exhausted heap.
"Thyroid problem?" Sara muttered. "You're borderline catatonic!"
She tugged on the leash. Macy groaned.
"I can't carry you. We've been over this before. You're too heavy."
He was always sprightly going down the stairs. By the time they had walked once around the block, he was usually flagging. And he invariably balked right about now.
Thank God Ryan had told her she only had to walk the dog twice a day. Thank God Ryan was due back late tonight.
Maybe she should just leave Macy here until Ryan got home.
At that moment, she heard the door opening downstairs. Macy gave a faint woof without lifting his head. Sara doubted it was Lance, since Ryan had told her Lance never came upstairs unless repeatedly begged to do so. So unless it was a very energetic thief...
"Ryan?" she called.
"I'm home," he called back.
"You're early."
"Change of plans."
There seemed to be a lot of last-minute change of plans in the modeling business. Sara shrugged and sat down on the stairs, relief flooding her. "Thank God, you're back."
She heard him race up the stairs, and a moment later he appeared on the landing. He saw her dejected posture and the prone dog and—unforgivably—he laughed.
"So happy to amuse you," she said.
"You can't say I didn't warn you."
"Yes! Yes, I can say that! Because you did not tell me he would do this twice a day."
Ryan was trying not to laugh as he sat down next to her. "I'm sorry. I didn't think before I left. I was in such a hurry."
"No wonder your neighbors keep moving out, one after another."
"No, no, you're the only neighbor I've ever inflicted my pets upon," he assured her.
"Oooh. I'm special."
"You are." He put his arm around her. "Was it that bad?"
"Your bird is psychotic."
"We already knew that."
"Your cat is missing. She disappeared the moment you left, and I haven't see her since."
"She's really shy. She doesn't trust anyone but me. It's hard on her when I go away."
"She was a homeless stray. Mrs. Thatcher was abandoned. Macy was wandering the streets with no collar when you found him. And you claim he was skinny at the time."
"I think he has a thyroid problem."
"So talk to the vet already, would you?"
"Soon," he promised.
"And the fish were in some algae-infested bowl in a carry-out joint and had to be rescued."
"I'm a soft touch," he admitted.
Was that why he was so nice to her, too? Because he was a soft touch?
"I'm glad you're back," Sara said, still a bit grumpy.
"I'm glad to be back." He squeezed her shoulder.
"How was your trip?"
He shrugged. "Okay. How was your weekend?"
"I'm sorry," he said. When he kissed her cheek, she wanted more.
"You can't ever make it right," she told him.
He grinned. "Come on. I'll take Macy upstairs, and then I'll take you out to dinner."
"Hmph."
"And," he added, "I'll tell you how much I liked the end of The Seven Deadly Blessings. I finished it on my trip."
"Yeah?"
"I was wrong about the killer."
"Well, of course you were. It's my job to make sure you're wrong about the killer," she informed him.
"And you do it so well." He rose and held out his hand to her. "Come on. We'll eat. I'll pay. We'll talk. I'll tell you how talented you are. What could be better, Sara?"
She had a sudden flash of wisdom and knew she should say no. She was going to get hurt. It was foolish to hope he might want the same thing she wanted.
Yeah, she should definitely say no. Put the skids on. Be sensible. Protect herself.
"Okay," she said. "Dinner. It's the least you can do."
Chapter Four
"Alice Van Offelen has asked to see you again, Kevin." Catherine's cool smile was pleased. "At her home next week."
He knew it was significant. The client had satisfied her curiosity. Now, instead of closing this book for good, she was making their dates part of her life. Alice was becoming a regular.
His regular, at least for the time being. She had specifically asked for him yet again; and she had changed her own schedule to accommodate his availability last week. She might continue to book him exclusively for quite some time, enjoying the illusion of a relationship with him; many clients preferred that arrangement. Or she might choose to indulge her curiosity and try other companions. It was, of course, up to her—not him.
He asked, "Same as last time?"
"Yes. Two hours."
Sex only, no dinner, no public events, relatively little conversation required. Easy enough.
"Okay." Kevin was sitting across Catherine's desk from her in her elegant and discreetly luxurious office. He'd come to the agency today with the results of his monthly blood test. A copy of it was provided, upon request, to every client he serviced. Now Catherine was briefing him about some upcoming jobs.