The Harder They Fall (6 page)

Trisha dropped her forehead to Hunter’s chest, wondering if she could possibly be lucky enough to have a huge hole swallow her up.

“Oh. Oops,” Celia said.

Embarrassed, Trisha backed slowly out of Hunter’s embrace and turned to face her friend.

“The space scientist, I presume,” Celia said dryly, her eyes burning with avid curiosity as she studied Hunter. “Conducting a new experiment? Never mind”—she raised her hand—”don’t answer that. I’m gone. In fact, I was never even here. Never saw ya.” With a wide grin, she backed out of the room and shut the door.

For once, words failed Trisha.

Hunter had his hands on his hips. His brow was creased, his face dark with a moody concentration she didn’t know if she wanted to understand. But his eyes still held the fire of barely leashed passion.

“Do you have any idea what the hell just happened between us?” he demanded.

She smiled weakly. “Absolutely none.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Pretty intense.”

“You could say that again,” she muttered, running her hands over her hips to smooth down her dress.

His gaze followed her movement. He looked about as far removed from a stuffy scientist as he could get, and none too thrilled about it. “That’s some dress, Trisha.”

Used to criticism, she automatically stiffened, just managing to bite back the surge of defensiveness. “Isn’t it?”

“I’m sure I didn’t mean that the way you seem to have taken it.”

“Forget it.”

“Trisha.”

“Just forget it.”

“No, wait a minute. Tell me you’re going to give me more credit than thinking I would actually criticize your clothes.”

She didn’t want to hear him lie, not when he’d made it so obvious what he’d thought of her.
Yeah, but that was before they’d kissed with wild abandon
. Dammit, this was out of control. “Maybe we should back up a bit,” she suggested.

“Back up,” he repeated. “To that kiss?”

“No.” She had to take a deep breath. “To why you’re here.”

“Oh.” His face tightened into a scowl. “I wanted to talk to you about your kitchen floor—or my ceiling—depending, of course, on which apartment you’re standing in.”

Oh, yeah. She’d nearly forgotten that not only had she made quite a first impression by falling through his bathroom, she’d also nearly destroyed his kitchen. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve already said that,” he pointed out smoothly. “I don’t expect you to keep saying it.”

He had no way of knowing that it was a terrible habit of hers, drilled into her during childhood. Apologizing profusely, then continuing to do so, had become a life-long habit. A self-destructive habit she had promised herself she would break.

“I don’t have a key to your apartment,” he said, still watching her carefully. “And I need to see the full extent of the damage.”

Reaching into her desk, she pulled her purse from the bottom drawer, took her front-door key off the ring.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll reimburse you for the damage, of course.”
With what?
She had a stack of bills a foot high in the upper right drawer, awaiting attention.

“It won’t be necessary. I’m planning on doing some renovations while we’re at it.”

His warm, work-roughened fingers brushed against hers as he reached for the key. She glanced up at him to find him studying her with now-familiar intensity. Something strange unfurled within her.
Longing
, she realized with some surprise, and it annoyed her. “I caused the damage,” she said stiffly. “I’ll pay for it.”

“There’s insurance.”

“There’s also a deductible.”

He sighed, dropped his gaze down to their fingers, still entwined around the key, and studied them silently. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot here, Trisha.”

“No doubt.”

“The kiss might have made it worse.”

“Probably.”

He lifted his head. “I’m not going to apologize for it, since I don’t seem to regret it.”

“I see.” She told herself she couldn’t think of one reason why her heart took off galloping again.

“We’re ... different, Trisha.”

She smiled. “That’s quite an astute observation, Dr. Adams.”

He didn’t return the smile. “Maybe we could transcend some of those differences.”

“I doubt it,” she said quite truthfully. He wasn’t likely to loosen up and she certainly wasn’t about to lace up, not ever again.

“We could always kiss again,” he suggested.

“Kissing won’t convince me to break the lease.”

His other hand came up, sandwiching her hands between his large, warm ones. “That kiss had nothing to do with your lease.”

“What
did
it have to do with?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted, dropping her hands and stepping away. The back of his thighs encountered her desk, and he sat.

He looked stunningly right sitting there, his elegant clothes hugging that sleek body. It made her mouth water with the urge to touch him again, to do exactly as he suggested and go for another bone-melting kiss.

But that was impossible. It shouldn’t have happened in the first place. “Look,” she said. “We kissed. No big deal.”

“Right,” he echoed, with a slow nod of his head. “No big deal.” He folded his hands together and watched her.

“It happens all the time.” Not to her, she thought. Never to her.

He looked very unpleased. “Not to me.”

“We definitely shouldn’t do it again.”

“Wouldn’t be wise.”

“We’re
different
, as you say.”

“Most certainly different.” He spoke with some irony, reminding her of his dry sense of humor.

Hunter glanced at a box on a corner of her desk. Black fishnet stockings spilled over the edge. His jaw hardened, and he swallowed hard, but she couldn’t decide if it was disgust or excitement. “Yes,” he said slowly. “We’re quite different.”

“But you’re still moving into the duplex.”

“Yes,” he said. His hands gripped the wood of the desk beneath him, giving him away.

“Hunter?” Uneasiness filled her. And suddenly she knew. “You said something about renovating. Oh, no.
No
,” she repeated firmly, trying not to panic. “I’m not moving out so you can turn that place back into a one-family house. I’m not.”

Standing, he pocketed the key she’d given him. Regret crossed his face before it was carefully masked. “I also would like to see a copy of your lease, when you get a chance.” He moved to the door.

“Why? So you can find a way to break it?” Her voice sounded perfectly even, making her proud. She locked her knees together so he couldn’t possibly see them wobble. “There
is
no way to break it. Eloise was careful about that.”

“I just want to read it, Trisha,” he said evenly, kindly, which was the last straw.

“I’m not leaving,” she repeated, crossing her arms. Nor would she ever,
ever
kiss him again, no matter how much her body craved the taste of him.

No way at all.

“Just try it. Wear it home. Maybe it’ll grow on you,” Celia suggested with a wicked gleam in her eyes later that afternoon.

Trisha glanced down at the black, short, snug cotton ribbed dress Celia had designed. “It’s ... tight.”

“Is that all you can say?”

Guilt lanced through her. All her life, all Celia had ever wanted was to be a designer. “It’s also beautiful.”

“Yeah. And you look incredible in it. It shows off your every curve.”

Which was exactly what Trisha was afraid of. “I have too many.”

“And what a curse
that
is,” Celia said with a disgusted laugh. “My designs were made for a body like yours.”

Trisha had to admit, it felt terrific to wear something so flattering. She actually felt pretty. “I think I like it,” she whispered, stepping into the matching black sandals Celia had brought.

“Good. So maybe I could have some made up?”

“Absolutely,” she said, smiling into Celia’s hopeful face. “We can sell these.”

“Thank you.” Celia’s eyes were suspiciously bright. “You know how much this means to me.”

“Yes. We’ve been dreaming together for years, Celia. This is the year that they all come true.”

“Yeah.” Celia nodded thoughtfully. “You were locking lips with the scientist guy today.”

Trisha sighed. “Don’t tell me how stupid it is. I already know.”

Laughter flickered in Celia’s expression. “It’s only stupid if the kiss went bad. Which, given my view of the thing, didn’t happen.”

No, it hadn’t been bad, not by a long shot. “It was a bout of temporary insanity. I’m not interested.”

“Okay.”

“We’re too different,” she said, echoing Hunter’s sentiments.

“Okay.”

“And—”

“I said
okay
.” Celia interrupted with a laugh. “But methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

Celia’s last comment gave Trisha pause on her short drive home.
Had
she protested too much? Was there any reason why she couldn’t enjoy Hunter
and
her newfound freedom at the same time? Of course not.

But she sensed within him a hesitation that matched her own. He didn’t want anything between them any more than she did. Even that fiery kiss they’d shared had made him frown thoughtfully. No, he wouldn’t be chasing her anytime soon, though she didn’t know why not.

But it was fine with her, just fine.

Turning onto her street, she sighed. She loved this quiet, oak-lined street beyond reason. She pulled into the driveway of the duplex, thinking she also loved this house beyond reason.

Oh, the place needed work, but beneath the shabby exterior lay the strong, beautiful, turn-of-the-century house she wanted to live in forever. Each room had character, and she just couldn’t imagine leaving.

Yet she knew without being told, her days at the duplex were limited.

Only if she let them be.

Eloise had made her a promise, and God bless her soul, Trisha was going to do her best to make sure that promise was kept.

Hunter Adams, if he chose to stay, was stuck with her.

Hunter’s salvation, which was and always had been work, would have to wait. Much as he craved the pleasure of researching, drawing up data/theory comparisons, developing his projects, and designing them to fit into his missions, he couldn’t very well go off and leave the duplex as it was.

The floor had sagged under the flow of water from Trisha’s refrigerator. For all he knew, the damn thing could give and he’d have a gaping hole—again. But at least Trisha had just been kidding about another peephole. He sighed, breathed deeply for patience, and once again gingerly touched the soggy floor with his toe.

The black cat Trisha had called Duff strutted into the kitchen and eyed him. His tail swished, silently suspicious as only a cat can be.

“You see this?” Hunter asked the cat, nodding to the floor. “Do you see what she’s done?”

“Mew.” Duff sauntered over to his bowl, sniffed delicately, and turned up his nose at the dry food. Coming close, he bent his head and rubbed it over Hunter’s ankle.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” He scooped up the cat and stroked its sleek back for a long moment before letting it go.

Then he tested the floor again, concerned. “The woman is a walking disaster,” he muttered. “And I have a feeling she’s only just begun wreaking havoc on my life.”

Duff meowed his agreement and steered clear of the sinking floor.

No doubt about it, the entire thing would cave under too much weight. The linoleum, already old, had peeled back at a seam, and the water from the freezer had seeped deeply into the crack. Beneath, the plywood had rotted. God only knew what lay beneath that, but hopefully some pretty sturdy joists.

He took in the rest of Trisha’s clean but amazingly cluttered kitchen. The floor was covered with the same black-and-white-checkered linoleum that he had downstairs, probably from the early fifties. It made his eyes cross to stare at it, especially when juxtaposed with the high-gloss red paint that had been used to disguise the old cabinetry of the kitchen.

Standing between the black refrigerator and the equally black stove, he had a clear view of the rather large room. Above the surprisingly attractive wood dining alcove, the walls were filled with pictures. Not personal photos, he noted with his usual attention to detail, but a collection of paintings, postcards, and drawings that made him wonder about Trisha’s private life.

The window frames had been painted red, contrasting with the bright white walls. Across the floor, she’d scattered throw rugs, none identical, but each somehow complementing the others. The counter that separated the cooking area from the living space didn’t seem to be available for eating at, not with what were obviously samples of the merchandise she sold covering every spare inch.

On top lay a black leather thong bikini. Irresistibly curious, he picked up the bottom of the thing and stared at the tiny swatch that was expected to cover the essentials. It took him a minute, but he finally figured out that the long black strip of leather was the back. Just looking at it gave him the urge to yank at his own underwear. How did women stand wearing such things?