by Ann Bruce
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked quietly.
“If I agree, will you count that as the date I owe you?”
He pressed his mouth into her hair and she could feel his smile. “Think of it as the trial run.”
Chapter Two
“You’ve been preoccupied all morning.”
Parker glanced up at her mother’s words. Her niece grabbed a fistful of Parker’s hair and tugged, not wanting to share her favorite—and only—aunt’s attention. Parker gasped and captured the little girl’s chubby, yet delicate fist.
“Savannah, honey, Auntie Parker likes having her hair attached to her head,” she said chidingly as she very gently pried each one of the fingers open. Savannah only smiled, revealing two rows of baby teeth. Parker grimaced with pain and rubbed her stinging scalp as she distracted the three-year-old with a plush animal, which Savannah poked and prodded to find the source of the giggling. Satisfied that Savannah’s attention would be diverted for a whole two minutes, Parker turned to her mother. It was like looking into a gently aged mirror. Kelly Quinn was still slim, thanks to her daily power walks, and her hair was still as dark as both her daughters’.
“It’s nothing, Mom. I’m fine.”
“You’ve barely said two words since you got here.”
Parker grimaced. She was guilty as charged. Like every other Sunday, she’d endured the trip through the Holland Tunnel to her mother and sister’s home in Jersey City for lunch and, if she had the time, dinner. Today, however, she couldn’t banish Dean Maxwell from her mind. Last night, he’d taken her home and escorted her to her door, and, true to his word, he’d left her with nothing more than a brotherly kiss pressed into her hair. She’d told herself she’d been relieved and she’d tossed and turned all night not because of sexual frustration. Truly.
“I’m just tired. I had a late night last night.”
Her mother’s gently lined face softened. “How did the auction go?”
She managed a smile. “It was good. We raised a lot of money. More than last year.”
“Well, you worked hard enough to make it a success.” Her mother pursed her lips. “I think you’ve lost weight.”
Parker shrugged, feeling a little uncomfortable. “Probably.” Her eyes fell to Savannah’s sweet face. She searched it. However, try as she might, she only saw the stamp of her younger sister in the wide-set eyes, chubby cheeks and plump, bow-shaped lips.
She studied Savannah and couldn’t see any traces of Dean Maxwell.
Parker reached out and brushed back the soft, dark hair. Unlike her mother, aunt, and grandmother, Savannah’s hair was naturally curly, looking like a nimbus around her face if left untamed. Perhaps the curls came from somewhere on Dean’s side of the family.
Slim hands, roughened with calluses from years of hard labor, brushed back Parker’s own hair. “Sweetheart, you don’t look fine.”
Parker managed a small smile that she hoped looked reassuring. “Really, I’m okay. I’ll ease up the hours at work.”
She scooped up her niece and got whacked in the side of the head with the plush toy. She aimed a disapproving frown at Savannah, who only smiled sheepishly at her, and stood up.
“We’d better go downstairs and give Brenda a hand in the kitchen.”
Her mother sighed but thankfully didn’t probe further.
Parker led the way to the cozy kitchen, where her younger sister was sliding something wrapped in foil into the oven.
“Your salmon’s going to take fifteen minutes, Mom,” Brenda said as she set the oven timer.
Parker put Savannah down on her feet and watched, with a twinge of envy, as the little girl waddled over to her mother and wrapped herself around one of Brenda’s legs like a vine. Brenda absentmindedly patted her daughter’s head as she started clearing away the counter.
Brenda glanced at Parker. “I’m almost done here. If you can set the table, we’ll be good.”
“No problem, sis.”
Parker went to the fridge and retrieved the large sushi platter she’d brought over. She and Brenda would split the platter while their mom and Savannah shared the baked salmon, steamed peas and salad. She set the platter on the table and went back to the fridge for the wasabi and ginger. She pulled out soy sauce from one of the lower cupboards.
“Sushi’s good, Mom. You need to try it,” Brenda was saying.
Parker caught her mother making a face. “All food should be cooked,” Kelly stated.
Brenda laughed as she wiped down the counter. “This from the woman who eats her steak practically raw.”
Watching her sister work, Parker couldn’t help but be amazed at the twenty-seven-year-old. Four years ago, she would’ve never thought her flighty younger sibling would ever grow up. Brenda had been the typical rebellious teenager. She had to be blackmailed into attending a post-secondary institution. After four years in NYU, she’d ended up with a degree she didn’t care for and, subsequently, didn’t use. Another two years were spent flitting from clerical job to clerical job in Manhattan. Parker and her mother had learned by then that pressuring Brenda down the path they wanted for her was not a wise move and had allowed her to lead her own life, praying she would make the right choices.
After Brenda had held the same job for six months, Kelly and Parker had allowed themselves to hope. And then their hopes had been dashed when Brenda came home one day and tearfully announced she was pregnant. She’d had an affair with the CEO and president of the brokerage firm where she’d worked. When she’d told him about the baby, he’d offered her money for an abortion.
Brenda had been inconsolable for weeks. Parker had wanted to confront Dean Maxwell and tear a strip off him, but Brenda wouldn’t let her. After several weeks, Parker and her mother had decided a change of pace and scenery would be to Brenda’s benefit. Parker had found a lovely Victorian house in a quiet neighborhood in Jersey City, dipped deeply into her emergency fund to make the down payment and moved Brenda and her mother there.
Since her mother had never finished high school because she’d been pregnant with Parker during her senior year and Brenda no longer had a job, for the first year Parker had to stretch her single income to cover two mortgages.
Despite Parker’s protests, Kelly Quinn had found herself a job in a textile manufacturing plant to help ease the financial burden. The three women agreed that Brenda should stay at home with Savannah until the little girl entered the first grade. Brenda, to both Kelly and Parker’s surprise, excelled at motherhood. With Savannah, Brenda had found a purpose in life.
As the memories rushed through her, Parker’s anger returned, making her chest tight. Dean Maxwell had cruelly rejected both her sister and her niece. The more recent memories fought their way to the fore, and guilt made her uncomfortably warm. How could she want the man who’d seduced and abandoned her baby sister? True, he was extremely attractive and she could see why her sister had so readily fallen into his bed, but she, Parker, should know better. Behind the sexy exterior, the man was cold and calloused.
Then Parker recalled the feel of him pressed against her, his skin on hers, his voice in her ears. Well, perhaps not cold, she thought.
“Auntie Parker, you look funny,” Savannah called out from between Brenda’s legs, her large brown eyes studying her aunt curiously.
Parker flushed but was glad for the interruption.
Dean Maxwell had not wanted the sweet little girl staring up at her. She would have to remind herself of that fact during her future encounters with him. Perhaps Savannah could help combat the uncharacteristic weakness that assailed her every time Dean Maxwell was around.
“Have you been avoiding me?”
Parker bobbled the ring of keys in her hand, nearly dropping the jangling lot. She spun around, a hand pressed to her racing heart as if to keep it in place, and glared at the man standing at the bottom of the stoop. “Make some noise if you’re going to come up behind a person!”
“I called your name, but you didn
’t hear me.” Dean lifted a questioning brow. “Or were you ignoring me?”
“If I was ignoring you, I would’ve known you were behind me and my heart wouldn’t have tried to leap out of my chest just a moment ago,” she pointed out tartly.
He walked up the steps and, before she could stop herself, Parker shrank back until the closed door stopped her retreat—and told herself the twisting in her tummy was a natural reaction to being cornered by a man she didn’t like and, even worse, couldn’t trust. He was close enough to force her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. Lips pursing in irritation with herself, she hitched the straps of her designer hobo bag higher up on her shoulder, fingers tightly curling around the leather strips. “What are you doing here?”
Male fingers brushed back a stray strand of hair and tucked it behind her ear. “I wanted to see you.”
“You’ve seen me,” she said, her tone uninviting but her response a beat too slow in coming. Well, the sudden jump in her pulse had distracted her.
“And to talk to you,” added Dean.
And she wanted to do more than just talk to him, she thought as she took in the rugged features, wind-tousled hair, and long frame in blue jeans and a dark, fitted sweater that told her shoulder padding wasn’t required in his suits. Her fingers tingled with the need to trace the hard line of his mouth, to feel his cool hair, to chart the warm skin underneath the clothes. If possible, he was more potent to her senses now than he’d been last night decked out in formal black and white.
She swayed on her feet—and saw the triumph glinting in blue eyes.
She shook her head. “No,” she said emphatically, more to herself than to him, and turned her back to him. Her irritation grew when she fumbled to find the right key for the brownstone’s main door, very aware of his looming presence at her back, taking note of each and every unsteady, betraying movement of her hand.
Hands reached around in front of her and plucked the heavy ring of keys from her grasp. Hot color stained her cheeks.
“The brass one, right?”
She nodded mutely. He’d remembered from last evening, despite the late night darkness.
He unlocked the door and held it open for her. She sidled past him and hurried up the two flights of stairs to her apartment. Despite his seemingly leisurely pace, he reached her door a step before she did. He grasped the doorknob, her key ready in the other hand, then he looked at her, his brows drawn together in consternation and disapproval.
“You should lock your doors,” he chided. “A woman living alone in New York should know better.”
“I did,” she protested. “I do.”
“No, you did not,” he countered, and opened the door to her apartment without the benefit of the key.
She stared at the gaping entrance, feet rooted to the ground. “I’m sure I locked it,” she said, not sounding as entirely certain as before as her conviction wavered.
He cast her a sharp look. “Wait here,” ordered Dean, and he went inside, leaving the door open behind him.
She obeyed him because she couldn’t seem to breathe, let alone move a muscle. Distantly, she registered doors opening and closing as Dean moved through her home.
He reappeared in the doorway shortly. “It’s clear.”
The breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding escaped slowly between parted lips. She stepped inside, eyes darting about. Everything looked okay.
“I guess I must’ve forgotten when I left this morning. I was…distracted.”
To say the least.
The sound of the front door closing and the deadbolt sliding into place jarred her. She whirled around. Dean was dropping her keys onto the console table beside the door. Suddenly feeling constricted, Parker unbuttoned her fitted corduroy jacket as she scurried toward the living room window, dropping her hobo bag onto the seat of an armless leather chair en route. She twisted the fastener in the center of the meeting rail, unlocking it. Her fingers scrabbled for the edge of the lower sash of the double hung window, found it and slid the panel up.
A breeze blew in through the opening, bringing with it the scent of exhaust, mature leaves, cooked apples, caramelized sugar, and vanilla. Her upstairs neighbor was indulging in his favorite pastime, making her wonder if she could sweet talk him into parting with a slice of his apple pie. She had a pint of pistachio ice cream with which to barter. Parker inhaled deeply, letting the cool air fill her nostrils and expand her lungs.
Soft footsteps sounded behind her. She looked over her shoulder. Dean Maxwell, tall and imposing despite the casual clothes, stood in the center of her living room, transforming the space from cozy to claustrophobic.
And the open window was no longer enough.
Testily, she said, “Since you confirmed there aren’t any boogie men hiding under my bed, don’t you have to be somewhere? Isn’t there another woman some place waiting breathlessly for you?”
He remained unruffled by her rudeness. “I want to talk to you,” he reminded her calmly. For some inexplicable reason, his composure only seemed to provoke her ire even more.
“About?” she prompted waspishly as her feet found their way into the kitchen. It was a mistake because he followed her into the tiny area.
“The cold shoulder treatment you gave me after learning my name.”
She went rigid, her eyes locked on the hand she’d wrapped around the refrigerator handle and her blanched knuckles. She’d been expecting his question; she’d had an answer prepared, but it escaped her at this precise moment. She wanted to be blunt, to bring up Brenda and Savannah, but neither her sister nor her niece needed this kind of turmoil in their lives.
Parker dropped her hand and, with the need to escape clawing at her throat, spun around. And collided with a barrier in the form of Dean’s broad chest. His hands came up and caught her shoulders. She shoved at him, the heels of her palms digging into hard muscle.
“You’re crowding me,” she hissed between gritted teeth when he wouldn’t budge.
“Stop running and I won’t have to. You’re making me dizzy with all your evasive maneuvers.” His head came down until he was hunched over enough to capture her eyes. “Deal?”
She glared at him but replied, “Deal.”
He searched her eyes, obviously not trusting her. Only when her muscles relaxed under his palms did he remove them, albeit with unflattering hesitation.
She quickly scooted out of his reach. “But I need to change clothes first. This sweater’s making me too warm,” she explained, recklessly tugging at the crew neck of the cashmere garment as she all but ran from the kitchen, cut across the living room and rushed into her bedroom like it was a sanctuary. She shut the door and promptly fell back against it, her head tilted back, her eyes closed. A long sigh escaped her.
Knowing her reprieve was short-lived, she cracked open her eyes and straightened away from the door.
And froze, then shuddered as tendrils of cold whispered down her spine.
She scanned her bedroom. The bed was unmade, as it always was, much to her mother’s dismay whenever she visited. Her to-be-read books were stacked on one nightstand, her laptop on the other. The drawers of her highboy were all shut. Through the open double doors of her walk-in closet she could see her clothes were hanging neatly by garment type then by color. Everything appeared to be the way she’d left it that morning.
Then why was that uneasiness stirring in her tummy?
Her fingers curled into the edges of the sweater that no longer felt too warm. Still surveying the room like she expected something to leap out at her, she groped behind her for the doorknob, missing twice in her agitation before her palm found cool, round metal. She opened the door and backed out, shutting the bedroom door firmly.
“What’s wrong?”
She turned, saw the concern on Dean’s countenance, and the reply that sprang to her lips was automatic. “Nothing.”
“You’re not changed,” he pointed out gently.
Shaking her head, she
drew a corner of her bottom lip between her teeth and worried it.
It probably was nothing. She was overreacting, a simple side effect of several weeks’ worth of sleep deprivation.
Except Dean had found her front door unlocked.
She should call the cops—and report what? Nothing was disturbed; nothing was missing, as far as she could tell. The police officers would fill out a report, probably mentally roll their eyes, then suggest she get her locks changed and install a home security alarm.
“Parker?”
She glanced at him, still unsettled, and said, “I can’t stay here right now. Can we talk elsewhere?”
“Have you eaten?”
She nodded. “Yes, but there’s a bistro down two blocks if you’re hungry.”
“Sounds good. Let’s go.”
They left the apartment, with Parker taking extra care to lock the front door. As they walked down the few short steps of the stoop, she realized she wasn’t doing as good a job at disguising her unease when Dean, with a concerned look aimed at her, took her arm to steady her. He escorted her to a waiting black Maybach.
She looked at the gleaming 62 S, the dim interior exposed by the door held open by a solid-looking, middle-aged man in a dark suit, and said, “No.”
She didn’t think she could handle being in an enclosed space, especially not with Dean Maxwell.
He gave her another baffled look, then turned to his driver and said, “We’ll walk, Gordon. Why don’t you go get something to eat and I’ll call you when I’m ready.”
“Sounds good to me.” The driver gave Dean a casual two-finger salute and turned away.
Dean’s grip slid down the length of her arm until he could twine his fingers with hers. The feel and warmth of his hand was comforting. Parker didn’t pull away and told herself anyone would need to be comforted after discovering her home may have been violated.