In A Heartbeat (6 page)

“Won’t you need to come back down those stairs?” he asked.

“Yes, eventually, but I’m sure I—”

“I’ll wait.” He leaned against the newel post and crossed his arms. “Take your time.”

She wanted to protest but one look at his stubborn stance and she knew how pointless that exercise would be.

“Maybe you could wait in the kitchen?” she asked hopefully. “I’d feel nervous undressing with you so close.”

He considered her reasonable request. “You’ll call when you’re ready to tackle the stairs again?”

She nodded, figuring he’d only leave her alone if she agreed. “The kitchen is downstairs in the back. Follow the beeps.” He looked confused. “The answering machine,” she explained. “It’s in the kitchen. Help yourself to some coffee.”

Turning to negotiate the hallway, she listened to his footfalls down the steps and around to the kitchen. Oreo’s tail, banging on walls along the way, marked his progress.

Angie changed then discovered that going down the stairs was much easier than going up, especially without Oreo weaving through her legs. Proud that she’d managed without his assistance, she followed the scent of fresh-brewed coffee to the kitchen. Hank sat at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, one hand wrapped around a steaming Classic Limo mug. Oreo lay sprawled at his feet, as if tall, muscular men at her kitchen table were an everyday occurrence. The thought brought an unexpected ache deep inside.

She leaned against the doorway. “As you can see, I’m capable of managing on my own, so you don’t have to wait any further on my account.”

He frowned. “I thought you were going to call when you were ready to come down those stairs?”

“Hank, really I appreciate—” The land-line telephone rang, interrupting her plea. She sighed, knowing instinctively who was calling, and would continue to call, if she didn’t answer. Her mother had never embraced cell phones. “Excuse me,” she mumbled.

She crossed the room to the telephone, glancing at the digital display on its base. Eight messages.
You’d think the woman had nothing better to do.

“Hi, Mom. I just got in.” She paused, watching Hank leave the table.

“Yes, I’m fine. Oreo and I were out for a walk.” She watched him cross the hall to the dining room where he studied the colorful Tree of Life quilt hanging above the dry sink.

“Over to the reservoir. The woods are beautiful; the leaves are starting to peak.” She answered her mother’s questions without thought, all her attention focused on the man who picked up a paperback romance she’d left on the dining room table. One dark brow lifted in question. Well, what did he expect? Accounting texts? She turned her back to him.

“I know you called, Mom. I can see the messages, but I just got in. Honest.”

She listened to questions so familiar she could answer them in her sleep. “Yes, I’m taking my pills… No, I’m not pushing myself too hard… Yes, I feel fine.” Before her mother could start up again, she interrupted, “Listen, Mom, can I call you back? There’s something I have to take care of. Yes, I promise I’ll call you right back… Okay, Mom. Love you too.”

She hung up the phone, grateful that the action silenced the irritating electronic beep, and looked for Hank. She found him in the tiny living room in the front of the house. He sat on the couch, one foot balanced on the other knee, just as if they were in Wilson’s office. The triangle formed by his legs reminded her of her recent contact with that very region. Residual embarrassment collided with a bit of yearning warming her far beyond anything controlled by a thermostat.

“Look, Hank—”

“You didn’t tell your mother about your ankle.” Oreo sat by his side, content to have Hank’s fingers scratch her between the ears.
Traitor
, she thought. Hank patted the cushions next to him, inviting her to join him on the couch. She hobbled over to the opposite wing chair instead.

“If I had even hinted about hurting my ankle, she’d be packing to return to Ohio before I could hang up.” She eased onto the cushions and relaxed. The chair felt good after the earlier ordeal on the steps.

“Is there something wrong with that?” Hank’s brows rose quizzically. “Your family obviously cares a great deal about you.”

“I know they love me, but that kind of love can be smothering.” She placed her injured foot on the coffee table. “All my life they’ve waited on me. Protected me. Never let me do for myself. Well, I’m not sick anymore. It’s time, past time, that I stand on my own two feet.” She glanced at her wrapped ankle. The irony didn’t escape her. She glanced at Hank half-expecting him to laugh, but he didn’t. He waited for her to continue.

Before she could, her stomach rumbled, announcing to the world that she’d missed a meal. Hank shifted his position on the couch.

“You can’t stay here by yourself, not with that ankle.”

She started to protest but he held up his hand. “I know you’re not comfortable calling your family. Is there someone else? A neighbor maybe? A friend?”

“Mrs. Kravitz next door is seventy-five years old. She’d have more trouble managing the steps and Oreo than I would. You’ve met my other neighbor. Obviously Mr. Thomas…” she smiled briefly. “Walter… wouldn’t be comfortable with Oreo.” She thought of Nicki, her best friend, but she was away for the weekend. “I can’t think of anyone else.”

“Well, that settles it,” he said, patting one of her mother’s quilted throw pillows.

“Settles what?”

“This couch feels pretty comfortable. I’ll stay here.”

“No! You can’t,” she gasped.

“Why not? You need someone to help you. You won’t come to my house where I can see to you in private. So I have no choice but to stay here.” He kicked off his shoes then stretched to his full length on the couch. “Yes, this will do nicely.”

“But my neighbors,” she argued. “People will see you. I told you I could lose my job.”

“Are you afraid I’ll take advantage of you?” He smiled and liquid warmth eased through her body at the suggestion. “Relax.” His dimple deepened. “I’m involved with someone else, remember?”

Elizabeth Everett, how could she forget? The image of the tall, dark model formed in her memory. Angie supposed this was his way of tactfully suggesting that she was not his type. Indeed, the exact opposite of his type. An unexpected disappointment tugged at her heart.

“And,” he continued, tossing a pillow from one hand to the other as if it were a football. “When I answer the phone as I will, I won’t hesitate to tell the person on the other end about your foot or my identity. Even if it’s Falstaff himself.”

Her throat constricted; her lips went dry. But with his gaze fixed so steadily on her face, she refused to moisten them.

He smiled, his eyes claiming victory. “So you see, Angel—”

“Angela,” she corrected. He merely nodded before continuing.

“You can dig out some guest towels, or pack a weekender.” He paused. A wicked smile tilted his lips, sending an anticipatory shiver tingling her spine. “The choice is yours.”

Chapter Five

“SEE WHAT I mean? Nobody can find you here. Not even Falstaff.”

Hank guided his Lexus past a brick column supporting the numbers 1107. Even through the dusky light that settled so early this time of year, she had to admit that the house would be difficult to spot from the road. The long driveway combined with banks of trees, many still holding their brightly colored foliage, obscured the view.

“And you’ll be able to rest that ankle,” Hank continued his cheerful banter. “So just relax. Enjoy the weekend.”

Relax? She accepted that the house was private, and the ranch styling would be easier to negotiate. But relax? She stole a sideways glance. Not with this man. She hadn’t forgotten that she was here through blackmail.

The long curving driveway ended in front of a sprawling ranch of stone and dark-hued timber. No welcoming lights shone through the windows. The house didn’t want her there anymore than she wished it herself. She shivered.

“It’s a shame we had to pick up dinner. I’m a pretty good cook, you know.”

No, she didn’t know. Other than the fact that he seemed bound and determined to make both her working and private lives miserable, she didn’t know much about this man with whom she’d agreed to hide away.

“We’ll eat as soon as I bring in some wood for the fireplace. I’ll have you warm and cozy in no time.” He pushed a button on the windshield visor and a door to a cavernous garage slowly lifted.

“No one else lives here?” she asked, noting a bright red corvette in one of the packing spaces.

“That’s Elizabeth’s. She leaves it here so she’ll have a car available when she visits.”

“Oh.” She sighed. As if she needed further proof that she posed no competition to the beautiful Elizabeth. The flashy Corvette epitomized the New York model, while her tiny battered Civic… Shoot—her Civic! She hadn’t arranged for anyone to move it from the reservoir’s parking lot.

“I need to make a call,” she said, digging in her purse. Her hand brushed her keys. Drat! Her keys! Another complication. How could she get someone to retrieve her car without revealing her present whereabouts? How could she get them her keys? She slumped in the leather seat. “Crap, crap crap.”

“What’s wrong?” Hank asked, opening her door. He shifted the bag of hamburgers and fries so he could help her ease from the car.

“My Civic is still at the park and I’m the only one with the keys.” Oreo jumped over the front seat, exiting moments before the door closed. “It’ll be towed if it’s left overnight.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” Hank said, leading her toward the door at the back of the garage.

“But no one can know I’m here. How can you—”

“Look, Angela.” He stopped and faced her. “I know how important this is to you. I said I’ll take care of it and I will.” His hand slid up and down her upper arm, generating warmth that dipped much lower. “Trust me a little.” He smiled. “Okay?”

She nodded, too dazed by her reaction to his touch to speak.

He opened the door leading to the main house and flipped on a light switch, illuminating the great room. “Make yourself at home.” He pushed the bag of food into her arms. “I have a call to make.”

A leather couch and chairs surrounded a small coffee table in front of an enormous walk-through fireplace. She hobbled over to the table and set the bag down. Oreo busily investigated all the corners of the room, her nails clicking on the hardwood floors. She glanced at the tasteful and expensive furnishings. No magazines. No photographs. No half-dead plants or partially melted candles. The room felt lifeless, cold, impersonal. “Our place may not be this fancy, but it has personality,” she informed the dog.

She dropped her purse on the nearest chair and limp-hopped to the French doors along the opposite wall. A switch by the door illuminated the grounds behind the house.

“My God,” she whispered. Dark blue canvas covered the in-ground pool directly in front of her. The high fence of a tennis court loomed to the right. Ornamental bushes and what she supposed were the remnants of a garden led from the pool area to a wide grassy field beyond. She could see the outline of trees against the darkening sky. Not a light from a neighbor could be seen. Oreo’s fluffy tail brushed against her leg. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

“Thanks, Tom. I owe you one.” Hank’s voice drifted from the hallway. “I’ll meet you in thirty minutes.” He walked into the great room a few moments later.

“I promised to get that fire going.” He pulled a brown leather bomber jacket from a closet to replace his muddy windbreaker. “Oreo can come out with me and do her thing while I get some firewood.” Oreo dashed across the room at the word “out”, twirling in tight circles at Hank’s feet.

“Traitor,” Angela scolded, too low for Hank to hear.

“Once the fire’s going, I’ll grab one of those burgers to eat on the run. You ought to rest that foot, young lady.” He pointed to the couch then zipped up his jacket. “And eat something before the food gets cold. Don’t wait for me.” Man and dog disappeared out the door.

Men. Already he was telling her what to do, and for nothing more serious than a sprained ankle. She almost laughed, imagining his orders if he knew the full truth. As tempting as the couch appeared, no way was he going to find her there on his return. She shouldered the strap of her overnight bag and bracing her arms against opposite walls, she limped away from the great room and toward the hallway of closed doors.

The first door on the left opened to a small no-frills bedroom with French doors to the back terrace. After checking to make sure the door to the hall had a lock, she fell on the bed, her ankle aching more than she cared to admit. She rolled to her back, checking for an adjoining bathroom. “Rats,” she muttered, partially to relieve the eerie silence of the nearly deserted house. “There has to be a bathroom around here someplace.”

Leaving the heavy shoulder bag on the bed, she resumed exploring. She opened a door on the opposite wall and knew immediately she had stumbled into his office. The room still held his woodsy scent. She drew a deep breath. His essence drifted through her, pooling deep inside. Instantly, she felt transported to earlier that afternoon when he’d held her in his arms. Her head had rested on his shoulder. For a moment, she thought he might care for her beyond that of concern for her injury.

Silly goose,
she scolded herself.
He’s dating a model.
A man like Renard—handsome, intelligent, successful—a man like that would have no interest in her.

She quickly scanned his desk and the book-laden shelves, half expecting to see a photograph of Elizabeth Everett mocking her from an ornate silver frame. But there were no photos. A laptop computer sat on the desk, waiting for its owner to bring it humming to life. A land line phone sat nearby.

She looked past the elaborate wall unit of bookcases to the adjoining room. Curiosity and a few awkward steps carried her to his bedroom. The carefully made king-size bed framed by four massive bedposts caught her by surprise. Her bed at home still had the sheets tossed back from when she had left that morning. Guilt twinges increased as she looked around the room. Clean. Sharp. Masculine. A prickling at her neck warned her she shouldn’t be here, but she couldn’t resist.