IN THE DARK

by Pamela Burford

  While another, insidious little corner of her soul wondered how it would feel to stare into those midnight eyes over cornflakes and coffee. Every morning.

  "Well, aren't you the chipper one," Brigit said, as the waitress plunked a cut grapefruit half in front of her. "Must've gotten a good night's sleep."

  "Oh yeah." Cat grinned. "Slept like the dead. Ha ha ha."

  Brigit regarded her quizzically. Darlene, the waitress, poured a cup of coffee for Cat, asked, "Waffle for you, right?" and sauntered away when she nodded.

  "What's with the grapefruit and clear tea?" Cat asked. "You can't stand either one."

  "It's back in, the grapefruit diet. The acid burns away fat." At Cat's snort of derision, Brigit added, "Or something like that. Listen, Greg asked me to apologize for him. He knows how frustrated you must be after last night."

  Cat choked on her first sip of coffee. "Frustrated? He said that? 'Frustrated'?"

  "I know, understatement of the year. Men!" Brigit hacked at her grapefruit, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

  If Greg thought he'd left Cat frustrated, he hadn't been paying very close attention!

  "Listen, I don't know what he told you," Cat said, with a silky smile, "but this lady is not frustrated."

  "Semantics." Brigit shrugged, pushing her dark, overlong bangs off her face. "Disappointed, then." She took a bite of grapefruit and forced it down with a grimace.

  Cat set down her coffee cup. "Exactly what did he tell you?"

  "I told you what he told me. And oh yeah, he hopes he'll get the chance to make it up to you. Ugh, who can eat this stuff?" Brigit tossed her grapefruit spoon on the table. "Darlene!"

  "And when did you talk to him, anyway?" Cat demanded.

  "Waffle," Brigit called to the waitress. "Extra syrup. Double bacon on the side. And cappuccino—with chocolate shavings."

  "Did he call you?" Cat asked. "Did he, like, report to you, or what?"

  "What're you getting so worked up about? He called me from Boston to let me know his flight had been routed there because of the blackout. He spent the night in Logan Airport and he's still there, waiting for a flight out. Greg never made it to New York."

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  Greg never made it to New York.

  Cat propelled herself through the revolving doors of the midtown office building that housed the agency she worked for and made a beeline for the elevator bank, all on autopilot. Three hours had passed since Brigit bad uttered those words, but their impact hadn't lessened. Cat was still in shock.

  She'd quickly ascertained that this wasn't some sick joke Brigit was playing on her, that Greg Bannister had indeed not set foot in New York last night, much less climbed twenty-two flights of stairs and made incomparable, no-holds-barred love to her all night. When Cat had managed to find her voice, she'd told Brigit what had happened.

  "You're telling me you don't know who you had sex with last night?" Brigit had screeched, as heads swiveled and eyes popped from one end of the Magnolia Coffee Shop to the other.

  "Shh! It was dark. How could I know—"

  "My God, it could've been anyone!"

  "Will you keep your voice down?" Cat had slid as low as her bench seat would allow. "Why didn't you call me at the apartment when you knew Greg wasn't coming?"

  "I tried. Couldn't get through."

  "But the phone lines shouldn't have been affected by the blackout … except…" She'd sighed. "It's a cordless phone. So there was no power for the base unit."

  "Well, that's it, then."

  "Oh Lord." Cat had covered her face. "What if I'm pregnant?"

  Brigit had pondered that as she tucked in to her waffle. "Well, that would be okay. I mean, isn't that what you want? A guy to do the deed and then get lost?"

  Cat leveled a sardonic look at her friend. "I wanted uninvolved, not anonymous. I don't know anything about this man. I don't even know his name."

  "Greg should get into town later today. Do you want him to—"

  "No!" Cat couldn't sleep with Greg before she found out whether she was pregnant. The only thing worse than knowing a stranger had fathered her child would be not knowing which stranger had fathered her child.

  Now, as Cat stepped out of the elevator on the fifth floor, she tried to refocus her thoughts on her work. The double doors marked Office Mom, Inc., stood invitingly open. Nana had summoned her for a one-o'clock meeting, no doubt to review her next assignment. Cat had just completed a two-week gig at a medical insurance company downtown. Nana's office moms were in high demand; they never went more than a day or two between jobs.

  Her stride didn't slow as she passed Nana's assistant, Amory, in the outer office. "Nice tie, Ame. Did it come with 3-D glasses?"

  Amory smirked. Cat gave him no end of grief over his ugly neckties. "She's waiting for you."

  She waggled her fingers in acknowledgment and sailed into Nana's office with a perfunctory knock. Cat's employer sat behind her leather-topped, antique French desk, or bureau plat, as she called it. Her shrimp pink bouclé suit was adorned with a round, pearl-studded brooch. Short silver hair framed her face in a simple, elegant style. As always, the scent of Joy perfume lingered in the air.

  "Here's our Caitlin now!" Nana announced, with a warm smile. She gestured to the seating area in front of her desk. "Dear, I'd like you to meet Mr. Mikhailov."

  Cat turned toward the man now rising from his chair. Her hand was outstretched, a polite smile firmly in place.

  "Brody," he said, and enveloped her fingers in a firm handshake.

  In the next heartbeat the vague sense of recognition congealed into an iron ball in her stomach. Cat froze with her hand in his, stupefied. She watched Brody Mikhailov's genial smile falter as he sensed her turmoil, watched the reason for it install itself in his consciousness.

  It was all the same. The deep, mellifluous voice … the inviting scent of his skin … the bristly shadow of beard stubble that had gently chafed her throat, her breasts, the insides of her thighs, not twelve hours ago.

  Cat looked into his eyes. Those eyes. They weren't black, after all, she now realized, but inky indigo blue.

  She stood mute, numb, her synapses on overload. After an initial flash of surprise, Brody's expression gave nothing away, even as the awesome truth crackled between them like heat lightning.

  Nana's voice held concern. "Caitlin?"

  My job. What's going to happen to my job?

  Cat tried to force a response past her constricted throat. Brody gave her hand a little squeeze. He steered her away from Nana and toward the guest chairs.

  "It's the heat out there, Mrs. Littlestone," he said. "I saw a traffic cop keel over on Third." For Cat's ears only he murmured, "You're doing fine. Take a deep breath."

  He settled her in the seat he'd just vacated, one of a pair of low-backed Bergère chairs upholstered in champagne-colored jacquard silk. She filled her lungs as ordered and exhaled slowly.

  Nana half rose. "You're pale."

  "I'll be fine," Cat said, her voice wobbly. "Mr.—Mr. Mikhailov is right. It's the heat. I—I walked from, um … I had to park across town."

  Nana lowered herself into her chair, her expression mildly reproving. "Do use one of the parking garages nearby, dear, when the weather's extreme. Submit the receipts to Amory."

  "Thank you, Nana, I will." Cat avoided looking at Brody as he dropped into the chair next to hers.

  "'Nana'?" he said. "Is Caitlin your … no, that's impossible. If you have grandchildren, Mrs. Littlestone, they must be infants."

  Cat had never before seen her employer blush, but now her color rose to match her pink outfit.

  "It's a nickname I acquired some years ago," Nana explained. "As a matter of fact, I recently became a great-grandmother. No no." She raised a hand, forestalling his next comment. "If you dish out any more outlandish flattery, I might start believing it."

  As she sat listening to this vapid exchange, Cat's initial stupor be
gan to give way to dread. There could be only one reason for this meeting. Thinking fast, she opened her mouth to speak, only to be preempted by her boss.

  "Once the lights went out last night, Mr. Mikhailov, I'm sure you wished I'd never offered you use of the agency's apartment. It must have been wretchedly uncomfortable."

  "Not at all."

  Did Cat only imagine the suggestive undertone in Brody's voice? She sneaked a peek at him, just as his devilish gaze homed in on her.

  "Last night turned out to be a rare and remarkable experience," he said. "A matter of finding myself in the right place at the right time, you might say."

  "Well, of course, the view from the terrace must have been extraordinary. I'm relieved you're able to look on the bright side of the blackout." Nana tittered. "So to speak."

  "Oh. Let me give these back to you." Brody fished a pair of keys out of his pocket and leaned forward to place them on Nana's desk. "Thanks again."

  That morning Cat had wondered why Greg had returned the keys to their hiding spot under the apartment's doormat when he left. Now she realized they'd been there all night.

  "I still haven't located that second set," Nana fretted as she dropped the keys in a side drawer of her desk. "I can't imagine where they might have gotten to."

  Brody looked at Cat again, his expression outwardly neutral. Except that his level stare was just a tad too blunt. And that sensual mouth, which had given her so much pleasure last night, now quirked up at one corner, mockingly. If he chose to, he could tell Nana who had swiped the other set of keys.

  Cat sent him a wordless plea. Don't do it. Please. I need this job.

  Without taking his eyes off her, Brody said, "This wasn't my idea." The words gave her a jolt. Hadn't he said the same thing last night, when he'd tried to rebuff her?

  What on earth did he think she'd been doing there, anyway, in the agency's apartment, which Nana had lent him for the night? She must have appeared to be lying in wait for him—in that obscene nightgown! Forget about conversation, she'd told him, forget about foreplay. Let's just get down to it.

  Good Lord! What did he think—that she was some closet nymphomaniac intent on seducing her employer's clients? Cat struggled to uphold her end of the conversation. "What … what do you mean, not your idea?"

  Brody slouched indolently in the chair and crossed his legs, ankle over knee. "You're my fortieth-birthday present."

  "Excuse me?"

  "My agent, Leon Lopez, thought it would do me good to have an office mom hanging around for a month. How did Leon put it? A little TLC might have a humanizing effect on me." Brody wagged his finger at her. "Something tells me a month of your particular brand of TLC will leave me feeling like a new man, Caitlin."

  There was that breezy grin again. The corners of his eyes bore permanent creases. I was right, Cat thought. This man spent a lot of time smiling.

  "Your instincts are correct, Mr. Mikhailov," Nana said. "Caitlin is our most popular nurturer. The clients she works with almost always request her services again."

  "That doesn't surprise me in the least," Brody said. "And speaking from personal experience, if I don't get nurtured on a regular basis, I get cranky as hell."

  So that was it. Nana's newest client was looking forward to a month of the kind of "nurturing" he'd received last night. Perhaps he thought it was a free sample to drum up business!

  Nana said, "The office mom philosophy is rather unique, Mr. Mikhailov. Did you by any chance peruse the brochure I gave you yesterday?"

  "Oh heck. And I'll bet there's gonna be a pop quiz."

  Nana smiled indulgently. "Since you've never used our services before, please bear with me for a few moments. It may prevent some confusion down the road. The concept of the office mom was conceived as a response to the depersonalization inherent in the modern American business milieu. Office workers nowadays must cope with a rigid hierarchy, divisive office politics and a soulless physical environment, be it a posh corner office with a view or some lonely little cubicle in a sea of lonely little cubicles. Are you with me so far, Mr. Mikhailov?"

  "Like a rash."

  "An office mom will join a company as a sort of temporary employee, or consultant, if you will. She lavishes tender loving care on the workers, the kind of attention an actual mother might bestow."

  "Mercy. I'd better be good or Caitlin'll send me to bed without my supper."

  Nana answered this with a tolerant smile. If Cat had a dollar for every time she'd heard that lame remark or some variation thereof, she wouldn't have to worry about losing her job.

  "Seriously," Brody said. "What kind of mommy stuff are we talking about here? Sewing a button on my shirt? Milk and cookies in the afternoon?"

  "If you'd like," Nana said. "Whatever it takes to make one feel cared for and comforted. It's important that the client understands, too, what an office mom is not. While she may perform the occasional light chore or errand, and, of course, prepare your milk and cookies—" she flashed a brisk little smile "—she is not a housekeeper, cook, baby-sitter or nurse. And I'm certain it goes without saying that excessive familiarity will not be tolerated. Office Mom, Inc., is not a dating or escort service."

  "What if she makes the first move?" Brody gave Cat an exaggerated wink.

  Her heart stuttered. Don't even kid about this! she wanted to scream. Nana must never know!

  "In that case we have absolutely nothing to worry about," Nana stated confidently. "Caitlin is a professional. I know she'd never breach my trust in such a manner."

  Cat dropped her gaze to her lap and smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her calf-length floral chiffon skirt.

  "Of course she wouldn't," Brody said. "When can she start?"

  "She can't," Cat blurted.

  They looked at her.

  "I … I can't work with Mr. Mikhailov. My, um, schedule … I have commitments. For the next month."

  Nana blinked. "Commitments? I don't recall assigning—"

  "Not an assignment. It's personal. I'm … going on vacation. I guess I, uh, forgot to mention it to you."

  Though Nana schooled her expression well, Cat read both annoyance and surprise. In seven years working for the agency, Cat had always been the model of dependability.

  Cat said, "Why don't you let Rhonda be Mr. Mikhailov's office mom? She's free at the moment, isn't she?" Rhonda had the added advantage of looking like a clean-shaven Willie Nelson.

  "I don't know," Brody said, "I've kind of got my heart set on Caitlin here."

  There it was again. That indigo stare. Too direct. Too eloquent. Cat forced herself to meet it without flinching.

  "Unfortunately, I'm not available," she said evenly. "I'm sure Rhonda will suit—"

  "You see, the thing is…" Brody broke eye contact with Cat and turned to Nana "…if I can't have Caitlin, I'm not interested."

  Nana said, "But—but Mr. Lopez already arranged—"

  Brody shrugged. "Guess you'll just have to refund Leon's money. He'll buy me a watch. It's Caitlin or no one. You said yourself, she's the best."

  "Well. We appear to be at something of an impasse." Nana turned to Cat. "Just how firm are these vacation plans, dear?" Her eyebrows rose fractionally, prompting the answer she expected to hear from her most reliable employee.

  Before Cat could say, Pretty darn firm, Brody jumped in.

  "So. Caitlin. Where were you when the lights went out?"

  Cat's gaze snapped to his. Beneath his affable expression she detected a cold ruthlessness.

  Nana answered for her. "Caitlin has a lovely little place in Westchester, so the blackout didn't affect her. Isn't that right, dear?"

  "Um … yes."

  Brody never took his eyes off Cat. He shifted toward her, propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and absently scratched his bristly chin. "When Nana gave me the keys yesterday, she couldn't find the second set—someone must've borrowed them. So when I got to the apartment last night, I half expected to find myself with a roommate. One o
f Nana's lovely office moms, perhaps, sleeping as peacefully as Goldilocks."

  Cat clenched the chair arms so hard her fingers cramped. Her strained chuckle sounded more like a wheeze. "That's some imagination you've got. Hope you weren't too disappointed to find yourself all alone."

  He didn't respond, but studied her wordlessly for a few moments, still with that damn amiable expression. Cat's pulse whooshed in her ears. She swallowed a hard, dry lump of dread. Finally she had to look away.

  He'd do it. He'd tell Nana. He'd tell her about the purloined keys. The naughty negligee. All that "hold the foreplay and take off your clothes, Tarzan" stuff. Cat could deny it, of course, but she was a pitifully inept liar. And it wouldn't simply be her word against his. All Nana would have to do was ask the doorman if anyone other than Brody had used the apartment last night, and Cat would be busted.

  "But I interrupted," Brody said. "My apologies. Nana was asking you about your vacation plans."

  Cat licked her dry lips. She looked at her employer. "It's nothing I can't postpone. I'll be happy to be Mr. Mikhailov's office mom. I can start on Monday."

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  « ^ »

  Spot set up a hellacious howl downstairs, barking and snarling at the front door. Brody scanned the computer room for the cheap digital clock Leon had bought him. There it was, precariously perched on a heap of paperbacks that were themselves precariously perched on top of the computer monitor. Twelve noon on the button. She was punctual.

  Brody abhorred punctuality. He took a last drag of his cigarette and ground the butt in the ashtray balanced on his knee, a weighty slab of green glass he'd swiped from a steak pub during his misspent youth. He thumbed the red buttons on his handheld electronic game a half dozen more times, annihilating two giant lizard warriors and a grenade-chucking alien octopus, to the accompaniment of staccato bursts of static from his Gatling gun.

  Brody shoved himself out of the frilly, chintz-covered wing chair, deposited the toy and the ashtray on the empty pizza box on the floor and headed down the hall to the stairs as the doorbell rang. He had to keep to the banister side of the stairway, because the wall side was piled high with newspapers, magazines and all manner of household items waiting to be carted either upstairs or down.