Lovers and Strangers (6 page)

"How do you like your coffee?" Jack called from the kitchen.

"Black is fine."

"A woman after my own heart," Jack said approvingly, holding a thick ceramic mug in each hand as he came into the living room. "Wait a minute. Here." He lifted a bare foot and nudged a couple of magazines off of the coffee table. "Just put those down there," he instructed, nodding at the sheaf of flyers she still held.

Faith set her flyers down in the space he cleared, then reached out and accepted the heavy mug of coffee.

"Cheers," he said, lifting his own mug toward her in a brief salute.

Faith echoed the gesture and lifted the mug to her lips with both hands. Her first tentative sip was scalding hot and bitter tasting.

"I guess I should have warned you," Jack said, seeing the grimace she couldn't quite hide. "I like it strong enough to strip paint. How about a splash of milk to smooth it out a little?"

"Yes, please," she said, trying not to gasp.

He grinned suddenly, showing strong white teeth and the faintest suggestion of a dimple in his right cheek. Faith smiled back, charmed by the sudden transformation. He didn't look nearly so dangerous when he smiled like that.

"This way," he said, turning to lead her into the kitchen.

The tiny kitchen was just as messy as the rest of the apartment. No,
messier,
Faith decided, surreptitiously glancing around her as Jack opened the refrigerator door. Evidence of a previous meal—or meals—littered the kitchen.

Spots of what appeared to be tomato sauce splattered the stove top. Several bowls were haphazardly stacked next to the sink, the dried remains clinging to their surfaces suggesting that they had once held cereal. A trail of wet coffee grounds meandered over the countertop, drawing her gaze to the overflowing trash can on the floor. And the flyer she'd slipped through his mail slot was soaking up what looked like a puddle of orange juice. It was all Faith could do not to grab a sponge and start scrubbing.

"I know it looks as if I'm a real slob," Jack said, amused by the horrified look on her face. "But you caught me on the day before I usually clean." He opened a carton of milk as he spoke and sniffed at the contents. "I swear, I hose the place down once a week whether it needs it or not."

Faith brought her gaze back to his. "Oh, no, I wasn't thinking... that is..."

"Hey, don't look so guilty, Angel. I
am
a slob. It comes from living in hotels and never staying in one place for very long, I guess." He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. "I usually move on before the health department decides to come after me. Milk?" he asked, offering the carton before she had a chance to ask all the questions that hovered on her lips. "I'm pretty sure it's still good."

"Yes, thank you." Faith held her mug out so he could add the milk to her coffee.

They smiled at each other like successful coconspirators when it didn't curdle.

"Sugar?"

"Yes, please," she said politely.

Jack handed her a spoon, holding the bag of sugar while she took what she wanted. She added two heaping teaspoonfuls to her cup.

He shivered in mock disgust. "That's a terrible way to treat good coffee."

"Is it?" she said, lifting the mug to her lips for a second, more cautious, sip. It tasted much better this time. "I wouldn't really know," she confessed. "I've only tasted coffee a couple of times before, and that was instant. It wasn't anything like this."

"Only a couple of times?" Jack's look of horror was only half-feigned. "Are you a Mormon or something?"

Faith shook her head. "Hard-shell Christian."

Jack raised an eyebrow at her.

"Very strict fundamentalists," she explained in answer to his silent query. "I was taught that the use of stimulants or spirits of any kind is a sin." She took another sip of her sweetened coffee, thinking she could get to like the taste of the real thing. It was rich and creamy with just a bit of bite under the smoothness. "My father won't even allow tea or cola in the house because of the caffeine."

Jack leaned back against the counter and eyed her over the edge of his coffee mug. "I take it he doesn't know you're working at Flynn's."

Faith shook her head, trying to ignore the automatic spurt of guilt his question brought. She absolutely
refused
to feel guilty anymore. "No," she said firmly, as if daring him to make some objection. "He doesn't know."

"And what he doesn't know won't hurt him, huh?" His dimple flashed. "Or you."

Faith shrugged and looked down into her coffee mug. "Something like that, I guess," she murmured.

Jack stared at the top of her bent head for a moment, wondering what had suddenly made her so sad. And then, before he even realized he'd moved, he reached out and lifted her chin with his fingertip. "What's the matter, Angel?" he asked softly, looking searchingly into her wide sad eyes. They glimmered with unshed tears and the fierce determination not to let them fall. "Did you burn all your bridges when you ran away from home?"

Faith actually felt her lips curve into a small smile; he'd come closer to the truth than he knew. And it was so nice to have someone understand without having to be told. "I guess you could say that," she admitted.

"Want to talk about it?"

Faith hesitated, fighting the urge to confess everything to a willing ear. The temptation to unburden herself was almost overwhelming but she shook her head, instead, backing away from the unexpected comfort of his touch. She had to learn to stand on her own two feet. "I thank you for your concern, but what's done is done," she said with quiet dignity. "Talking won't change a thing."

Jack told himself he was glad she'd refused to confide in him. Hell, he didn't know what had made him make such an asinine suggestion in the first place. He never got involved in other people's problems, not even those of people he knew. Hell,
especially
not those of people he knew. And he had no intention of getting involved with hers. And, yet... Dammit, did she have to stand there, looking like a bereaved angel?

Just the sight of her touched him in places he thought had hardened over a long time ago. She made him want to take her in his arms and tell her everything was going to be all right, even though he didn't know what was wrong. Hell, maybe it was something that could never be made right. Maybe it was something that would always eat at her soul, the way his brother's death ate at his. And yet... and yet his whole being ached with the sudden longing to hold her close and promise her a happily-ever-after.

Shocked by what he was feeling, he somehow backed away from her without moving a muscle, and gestured toward her mug. "Can I warm that up for you?"

"No, thank you," Faith said quickly, sensing his withdrawal. It was a bit disappointing after his warm concern of a moment ago but not altogether surprising. It was the
concern
that had been surprising. "I think I've had enough coffee. I really should be going, anyway." She put her mug down on the counter. "I have a lot more flyers to distribute."

"So you do." Jack put his own cup down, and ushered her out of the kitchen with unbecoming haste. "I have to get back to work, too," he said, following her through the wide archway into the living room. He reached down with one hand as they passed the pile of papers on the coffee table, intending to scoop them up on the way to the front door. Half of them slithered out of his hand as he handed them to her. Jack gritted his teeth, hastily dropping to one knee to gather them up with as little delay as possible. He had to get her out of his apartment before he did something stupid!

"Oh, dear," she murmured, dropping to her knees to help him. "I'm sorry."

They got in each other's way, reaching for the same piece of paper at the same time. Their fingers touched. Their heads lifted. Their gazes met. They both went as still as statues, their gazes locked like those of lovers who'd just discovered each other after a long separation.

Faith felt as if all the air had suddenly gone out of the room, making it impossible to draw breath. She felt as if all the light and heat in the world were suddenly concentrated in the inky depths of Jack Shannon's eyes. It should have scared her, that look. It should have sent her screaming from the apartment. But she couldn't look away. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. In all of her life, no one had ever looked at her like that, with such intensity and heat, making her feel as though she were the center of his universe. She knew she should look away. But all she could do was wait. And wonder. And hope he would go on looking at her like that forever.

Jack felt as if his whole body were paralyzed. As if he had been hit in the heart with a sledgehammer and was waiting for the pain to kick in. He was having trouble breathing, and his muscles wouldn't move to his command. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her endlessly. He wanted to lower her to the floor and brand her with his possession. He wanted to keep her close to his heart forever. The realization that he wanted those things—more than he'd ever wanted anything else in his life—shocked him into movement.

He dropped his gaze from hers. "Sorry," he mumbled, jerking his hand back as if it had been burned.

"My fault," Faith insisted breathlessly, her lids lowered as she scrambled for the last of the flyers.

They struggled to their feet, careful not to touch or look at each other, and then stood awkwardly, like two gawky teenagers standing on the front porch at the end of their first date, neither of them really wanting to say good-night just yet, but knowing they must.

"Well, thank you for the coffee," Faith said. "I enjoyed it."

Jack nodded. "Good," he mumbled. He stood with his head bent, his fingers stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans, scowling down at his bare toes.
Go,
he was thinking.
Run, little girl, before it's too late. For both of us.

"I guess I'd better be going, then," she said, wishing she didn't have to. Wishing he would look at her, really
look
at her the way he had before, and smile as if he meant it, just once more.

"I guess you'd better."

"Oh, before I do. Here." One of her neon pink flyers appeared under his nose. "The one you left in the kitchen looked a little soggy."

He took it from her without thinking, automatically skimming the contents in an effort to deny the pressing need to look at her again. What he read brought his head up. "You're offering maid service?"

"I decided I need something to fall back on in case Flynn's doesn't work out."

"But maid service?"

"It's about the only thing I really know how to do. I already have one client," she told him, pleased with the success of her ploy. He wasn't smiling yet, but she had his full attention. "Mr. Mueller said the sublet in 2-C asked him to find someone who speaks English to come in and clean." She looked up at him, catching his gaze straight on. "You could be my second client," she suggested softly, aghast at her own daring.

Jack knew he should say no. Knew it would be best for both of them if he just said no. He'd seen the look of breathless excitement in her eyes when she knelt there on the floor, staring at him as if he were the answer to all her prayers. He recognized the unspoken invitation she was issuing now, even if—as he more than half suspected—she didn't. And he wanted to respond, dammit. He
ached
to respond. But he wasn't the answer to any woman's prayers. Especially not this woman's. She was too young and innocent for an old reprobate like him. Hell, she probably didn't even know what she was praying for. It would be wrong to take advantage of her. Criminal, even. He'd seen and done a lot of not-very-nice things in his life, but he'd never stooped to corrupting innocents, and he wasn't about to start now. He wasn't a cradle robber, dammit!

"We could make the first time a sort of trial basis," she said, her expression hopeful—and determined. "You wouldn't have to pay me if you weren't satisfied with my work."

Jack sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Dammit, how could he deny her anything when she looked at him like that? Even if it
was
for her own good? "Well, God knows I could use someone to clean up around here," he said gruffly.

Her smile bloomed with relief. "When do you want me?"

His gut clenched.
Now,
he thought.
Right now.
"You can come over anytime as long as it's not before noon. I sleep late."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, feeling trapped. Both by her gentle persistence and his own raging desires. "Tomorrow's fine."

Faith nodded. "I'll see you tomorrow, then." She turned toward the hallway, finding it easier to go now that she knew she'd be back. She took two steps and stopped abruptly. "Oh, my," she said.

Jack all but plowed into her from behind. "What the—" he began. And then he saw what had caught her attention.

They were standing directly in front of the big pewter mirror, their bodies outlined by the sunlight streaming through the windows behind them. Faith looked as innocent as an angel in her plain white blouse and midcalf blue chambray skirt. Her hair was drawn back in a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, tied with a yellow bandanna that left little wisps and tendrils free to frame her face like a halo. He looked like the ragged end of a drunken all-nighter, towering over her, dark and disreputable with his uncombed hair, screaming eagle tattoo and beard-stubbled jaw. Together, they looked like something out of a fifties movie; the teenaged Earth Angel and the Bad-Ass Biker. Little Red Riding Hood and The Big Bad Wolf, in the flesh. No wonder she'd been brought up short.