When he didn't reply to her remark about the women lining up at his door, she ventured a glance at him. Something about his stare soon brought another wash of color to her face and an inescapable awareness between them.
"Why didn't you sleep with me last night, Jen?"
She swallowed the food she'd been chewing—with an effort, it seemed—and set down her fork. "I didn't realize you assumed it was part of the arrangement."
"You and I both know it wasn't. All I expected from our time together was the chance for you to get to know me, and to trust me. And, hopefully, confide in me." Bracing his elbow on the table, he took her hand in his and rubbed his thumb in kneading circles across the tender heart of her palm. "But after last night, I thought you might not be opposed to sharing my bed."
She didn't pull her hand back, as he half expected. In fact, her gaze grew soft and smoky in a way that warmed his blood. "I can't honestly say I'm opposed," she murmured, sounding inexplicably wistful, "but I don't see the sense in us getting too … involved."
"Are you saying that just by sleeping together, we'll be 'involved'?"
She didn't answer, but stared at him with powerful secrets milling somewhere inside her. Her thumb, meanwhile, swept in compulsive arcs across his hand, while his thumb massaged her palm. Their hands, at least, had broken through the stalemate to embrace and caress … and press for a more profound closeness.
"Whether you want to acknowledge the fact or not, Trev," she finally whispered, "I am what I am. There's no room in my life for a relationship."
"Did I say I want a 'relationship'?"
"Do you?"
His hand fully possessed hers, then, in a tight, palm-to-palm hold, while their gazes meshed, shifted and probed. "Yes," he vehemently whispered. "For now, I do. For the days you'll be with me. And it doesn't matter what you are, or what you've done. Unless you're ready to open up to me, Jen, and tell me the whole God-honest truth, I don't want to hear about your so-called 'professional' life. Not another word about it. For the next two days and nights, you have no past or future. Just the present, here and now, with me."
Jennifer bit her bottom lip to stop it from trembling. He couldn't know how wonderful that sounded to her. Because she had no past—none that she could claim—and she would never be sure of her future. But she could have these two days. That's all she'd ever have with him. What could it hurt to sleep with him? It was too late to prevent emotional involvement. She already loved him to distraction.
But he'd said he wanted to make love with the lights onto see her. Know her. She interpreted that to mean that he would closely scrutinize, in a very deliberate way. That prospect made her nervous. He might see too much.
No, she couldn't risk that. And then there was the matter of her contact lenses. Such a silly, practical concern when compared to the enormity of spending precious, intimate time with Trev. She couldn't overlook details, though. Her eyes were too sensitive to keep her contact lenses in for days at a time. She had to remove them when she slept, at least for a few hours. And when she removed them, her eyes were no longer blue, but green. Green, like Diana's.
But perhaps one night of wearing her contact lenses wouldn't hurt…
Ah, temptation was too powerful when she was with Trev! From the tousled mass of his tawny hair that lured her fingers to delve through it, to the solid, muscled contours of his powerful body, so clearly delineated in a faded green T-shirt and tight jeans, to the seductive warmth and keen intelligence that burned behind his amber eyes. She wanted him.
Abruptly she drew her hand from his, gathered the plates and silverware from the table and strode to the sink. "Since you cooked, I'll do dishes," she said breathlessly, feeling shaken by her unwise desire for him. "And then I'll be happy to get to work helping you unpack. After all, you are paying Helping Hand a hefty fee for my help. You did say you wanted to set up your office, didn't you?"
She sensed his growing frustration with her. He was wise enough not to press her on the issue of their intimacy, though.
"I do have a few crates that need to be unpacked," he admitted, "for my office and house."
She soon found refuge in washing the dishes, and then in unpacking the crates he'd shipped from home.
Because the house he'd leased was fully furnished and only a temporary residence until his own home was built, he hadn't brought much. The office he intended to set up in place of a family room was also temporary, where he would keep his files and do his paperwork until he'd rented commercial office space. The crates, therefore, weren't all that numerous, and while Trev moved a desk and filing cabinets into place and dealt with occasional phone calls, Jennifer focused on unpacking boxes and putting things away.
She hadn't expected the task to stir up her emotions.
Many of the kitchen utensils, pot holders, bowls and pans were ones that she herself had bought when she'd been a blissful newlywed enamored of building a nest for her mate. She also unwrapped blankets and quilts that had once adorned beds in their home. And while she unpacked a box of Trev's clothing, memories nearly strangled her—memories of handling his clothes, putting them into his dresser, arranging them in closets. These duties were far too personal, too wifely, for her to manage easily.
The worst, however, was when she came upon a box of photographs and found a large, framed portrait of his three siblings. Gazing at the familiar faces, she felt pressure building behind her eyes and in her throat.
Trev happened to saunter by her in the living room at that moment, and noticed the photo in her hands. "My sister and brothers," he informed her, reaching beyond her to open another box. "But that was years ago."
Yes, years ago. Around the time that she'd known them. Lived with them. Loved them. Mischievous, towheaded Sammy had been eight. Sweet, shy Veronica had been trembling on the brink of womanhood at thirteen. And Christopher, so touchingly determined to persevere despite his disability, had been a bright, lanky, eighteen-year-old who had openly adored her. They'd lost their parents in an automobile accident three years before she'd met them. She'd wanted to help Trev fill the void in their lives. She understood too well how it felt to lose family.
Without offering a comment about the photo, Jennifer set it blindly aside, only to find another. This one was a relatively recent photo of Babs, his grandmother. How old she looked! Her hair, which she'd always worn in a fashionably shaggy style, was no longer a feisty salt-and-pepper, but entirely gray, and cut blunt and short. She wore no earrings, multiple or otherwise. The gentle wrinkles around her eyes and mouth had deepened into grooves, and the joi de vivre no longer sparkled in the light brown eyes that so resembled Trev's. Jennifer ached to think that she herself had caused the anguish that had taken that sparkle from someone she loved.
Too choked up to subject herself to another photograph, she set the one of Babs back in the box, intending to turn away—when the photo beside it snagged her attention.
Her wedding photo. In hazy, golden candlelight, a much younger Trev and a blazingly happy Diana smiled at each other with ardent devotion. They'd thought they had forever. And Trev had thought he'd known her. Neither of those beliefs had been true. The tragedy of it broke her heart, for at least the millionth time.
Trev glanced at her, then followed her gaze to the photo lying in the box. He paused in his work and stared at it with unreadable eyes.
Unable to bear any reaction he might have, she quickly gathered all the photos she'd unpacked and stacked them in her arms. "Where do you want these?" She fixed her gaze on a far wall rather than risking a glance at him.
"On top of my dresser, I guess."
She nodded and headed toward his bedroom.
Before she'd exited the office, though, he called, "Except that last one. Of … Diana and me."
Her heart gave a pang, and she stopped in the doorway, waiting for him to say more.
"Put it in the box at the back of my closet," he quietly directed.
A box in the back of my closet. Where he w
ould never see it. She turned to him in pained surprise. "You—you don't want it on your dresser, with the others?"
He shook his head, his mouth a firm, purposeful line. "I'm going to put Diana behind me, Jen, and move on with my life."
An invisible hand clamped around her throat, preventing her from uttering a sound. Not that she'd know what to say, anyway. She had no good reason to feel as if he'd ripped out a part of her heart. Any woman with feelings for him would consider that statement good news … unless, of course, that woman was Diana. Which she wasn't. She was Jennifer, and she wanted him to move on with his life—just as she would move on with hers.
She whirled away from him and hurried to his bedroom.
"Jen?" he called, sounding concerned and bewildered.
He'd obviously noticed her distress. How in God's name to explain? Sympathy, she supposed. She would let him think that she'd merely been reacting to his heart-rending situation.
When she reached the master bedroom, she set the photographs on the dresser, retaining only the wedding photo to take to the closet.
He appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. "Jen, do you think I'm wrong for trying to start over, for assuming Diana won't come back?" He searched her face as he met her near the closet. "Do you consider me a married man? Is that why you're afraid to get involved with me?"
"No! No, of course not." She hugged the wedding photo to her breast, her arms crossed protectively over it, as if he might decide at any moment to toss it in the trash. A ridiculous reaction, she knew. She loosened her hold on it and managed to choke out, "Seven years is a terribly long time. No one could possibly blame you for wanting to start over."
"I should have told you this before. I'm legally single. Last week, the court declared Diana dead."
"Dead?" Again, she stared at him in stricken silence. She hadn't known! But, of course, it made sense. He needed closure. He needed to be free to get on with his life. She hadn't wanted anything less for him. But when she'd left, she'd assumed he would receive her goodbye letter, and that he'd divorce her for abandonment. Now, of course, she'd discovered that he hadn't received the letter or divorced her—but she hadn't realized until now that he'd petitioned the court to have her declared legally dead.
"Jen, tell me what you're thinking." He reached to take her face between his hands, his scrutiny intense.
She backed away, afraid she'd fall apart at his touch. "I … I just feel bad for you. I know it couldn't have been easy, having her declared … declared—" The word stuck in her throat.
"It was the hardest thing I've ever done. But I can't base my life on the slim hope that she'll come back. I don't believe she will. If she were alive, she'd have come back to me by now."
And in a very real way, it was true. Diana no longer existed. Jen couldn't forget that … or allow herself any hopeless fantasies of taking her place.
She forced a painful smile and handed him the photo. "Here, you put this away. Now that the filing cabinets are in place, I'll go unpack the crates of files."
He nodded, and she turned to leave the bedroom. But on her way out, she noticed through the dresser mirror that he didn't head for the closet, after all. He gazed at the photo, then carefully settled it into the drawer of the nightstand beside his bed.
Jennifer wasn't sure if she was glad or not. She'd never been more emotionally confused in her life.
They spent the rest of that morning setting up his office. Around one, they broke for lunch. Jennifer made sandwiches, and they ate outside on the sunny back deck that overlooked a private beach and a tranquil cove of the glimmering blue-gray sea.
While they ate and sipped iced tea, Trev described his plans for the development he would build, and the house he'd designed for himself. Jennifer tried to remain emotionally detached as she murmured praise of his plans. Many of the features he'd installed had been ideas they'd dreamed up together, long ago. The community would be lovely, she knew, and his house an elegant, comfortable work of art. With a bittersweet welling of pride in him, she realized he'd made a success of his business despite the trauma of his personal life.
She tried to forget the fact that she would never actually see the development, or his house. She'd be long gone by then.
The moment they'd finished eating, she rose from her chair to get back to work, desperately needing the distraction. He followed her into the house, to the newly assembled office, where he retrieved something from a crate.
"You said you wouldn't mind taking a look at this." He handed her an old leather portfolio that she instantly recognized—the rough draft of her play. "I'd like to hear your opinion on who the murderer is. The text might be a little hard to read, with sections crossed out and arrows pointing to handwritten inserts, but you should be able to follow most of it."
"I'd love to read it." Reverently she cradled the portfolio in her hands, beleaguered again by emotion. She'd spent so many hours creating the characters, clues and plot twists—and nursing dreams of making a living with her writing. She couldn't afford those dreams now. Successful writers sometimes found themselves in the public spotlight, which she had to avoid at all costs.
Writing was just another part of herself that she'd left behind.
"Feel free to go down to the beach, or find a comfortable place anywhere in the house to read," Trev invited. "I have calls to make and errands to run. When I get back, I'll bring dinner. And a bottle of wine. We can kick back, relax. Discuss your findings. See how good of a sleuth you really are."
The suggestion sounded soothingly cozy. And he'd stoked her curiosity, along with her artistic interest in how he'd responded to her writing. Had he grasped the clues she'd woven through the story? Had he fallen for the red herrings? Which character did he believe committed the murder? He'd said he wasn't sure, but she couldn't wait to hear his theories.
"White wine," she insisted with a smile. "Something on the sweet side. And chilled. None of that warm, dry, red stuff you were drinking last night."
"Burgundy. It's called burgundy, and if you'd share one bottle with me, I'd make a believer out of you."
"A bottle of that, and who knows what I'd be believing?"
"I wouldn't mind finding out." Their nonsensical banter had, as usual, taken on sensual overtones, imbuing his voice with a stirring huskiness and immersing them in a smiling yet lingering gaze … drawing them physically closer … conjuring thoughts of a long, hot, intricate kiss—
The doorbell rang, jarring them out of a blood-warming trance.
Trev frowned in clear annoyance at the interruption and cast a glance through a side window. His expression immediately cleared. "That's my car," he said in surprise. "Christopher must be here. I wasn't expecting him until Friday."
"Christopher?" she repeated, thoroughly stunned. She hadn't expected to meet anyone else from her past. Especially not one of his family members. Her emotions had already risen too close to the surface. The very thought of seeing Christopher again swelled them closer to overflowing.
"My brother," he reminded her, as she trailed him to the living room.
"Oh, yes. I believe you did mention him." She hoped she sounded suitably detached. In truth, she was both afraid of being recognized and thrilled at the prospect of seeing him again. She'd missed his smile, and his teasing. Even his occasional bouts of touchingly boyish social angst.
She'd thought of him often over the years, especially when she volunteered at schools for the deaf. He'd been the one who had taught her sign language. He'd been so pleased when she'd mastered the basics. She'd often wished he could see her now, completely fluent and teaching others.
The irony was almost too much to bear. Now that she'd learned to communicate with him, she'd have nothing of consequence to say. She'd be only a stranger to him. No reason to even let him know that she knew sign language at all. Her knowledge of it might provoke too many questions from Trev, anyway.
"He drove across country to bring my car," Trev explained, reaching to open the door. "A
nd, I hope, my dog." He then uttered in a slightly dry tone, "I wouldn't doubt he brought along his new girlfriend, too."
Curiosity again distracted Jennifer from her precarious emotional state. He clearly disapproved of something about Christopher's girlfriend. She wondered what. She also wondered what Christopher looked like now, at age twenty-five. Had the years treated him well? Had he found a way to thrive socially, despite his deafness? She hoped so. Surely the fact that he had a girlfriend was a good sign.
Trev opened the door, and a joyous bark sounded. A black-and-tan German shepherd then bounded into the living room and pounced on Trev with the zesty, tail-wagging enthusiasm of a dog reunited with its master. Trev laughed and roughhoused with the huge dog, uttering gruff words of welcome.
Jennifer stood back and watched, her heart lodged solidly in her throat. She'd have recognized him anywhere, even though he'd filled out by a good fifteen pounds. Caesar. He'd been her dog, for the first year of his life. Her father had given him to her for protection. He'd even sent the dog to obedience school to learn defensive moves.
But she'd left home before Caesar had learned much. He'd been only a big, playful puppy when she'd headed for California—her only companion on that rather frightening road trip. Her watchdog, her family, her friend. Ultimately she'd had to leave Caesar with Trev, of course. She should have known Trev would still have him.
As Trev stood up to peer out the door—presumably at Christopher—Caesar noticed her presence, perked up his ears in curiosity and trotted toward her. She murmured a soft but heartfelt hello, stretched out her hand for him to sniff—
And all hell broke loose. At least, it seemed so to her.
With a long, mewling whine and explosive barks, Caesar leaped up onto her, fully outstretched, his paws hitting her shoulders before all of his awesome weight slammed into her, knocking her backwards over a footstool. As she hit the floor, he pounced and pranced, his tail furiously wagging while he licked her face, yelped and whined in a canine frenzy that could only mean, At last! You're back! Hallelujah! Where you been? Yippee-kayee! Momma's home!
INTIMATE STRANGER Page 13
