by Jan Freed
It was a game they’d played for years, familiar and safe. She crossed her arms and waited for him to up the ante.
He sighed. “Okay, with fries.”
“Finley with the Oakland A’s. Piece’a cake.”
“I’ll get you one of these days,” he promised, ruining the threat by grinning proudly.
“In your dreams. Can I have a milk shake, too?”
“Not for that no-brainer. Now go do something with that rat’s nest on your head while I get my shoes.” He pushed down on the footrest and sat straight.
Allie slowly touched her head. He’d noticed her hair? “Joe?”
He finished a huge yawn and rolled his shoulders. “Hmm?”
“I’m sorry I slammed the door in your face.”
His eyes met hers, all trace of grogginess gone. “That’s okay. I know you miss Gram, and you’re kind of scared about the two of us getting along without her. I know I haven’t always been there for you. But now I won’t be on the road half the year. Things’ll be different.”
He’d known how she felt? Staring into his anxious eyes, she couldn’t breathe for the love filling her heart.
“We can do this, pal,” he said with forced heartiness. “Together.”
This time Allie didn’t hesitate. Running forward, she threw herself into Joe’s strong arms and held on tight. After a long moment she lifted her head and smiled.
“Course we can, Joe. It’ll be fun.”
CATHERINE STOOD behind father and daughter while they studied the “apartment” she’d promised Joe three nights ago. Heat radiated up from the driveway in brutal waves. How could they look so fresh in this Amazonian hell?
Allie’s cap of short dark hair reached just above Joe’s elbow. Wearing shorts and a ribbed knit shirt, she revealed the compact body of a young gymnast. Yet her budding curves promised future havoc for adolescent male hormones—and Joe’s peace of mind.
When had Joe’s wife died? Catherine wondered briefly. She knew only too well how rough the next few years could be for the girl without a mother’s guidance. Ignoring the odd catch in her heart, she focused on Joe.
He’d shaved recently, a definite improvement over the last time she’d seen him. His khaki slacks and hunter green shirt flattered his broad shoulders and lean hips. Or maybe it was the other way around. She had a feeling he’d look good wearing anything. Especially his bare skin. She glanced away. Then looked slowly back.
Something about his quietness made her nervous. Possibly the fists hanging by his sides like small hams.
“This is it?” Allie finally asked her father, her uptilted face a delicate version of his—yet not like his at all. “This is what we’ll be living in for a month? It’s a garage apartment, Joe.”
“I can see that.” His tone matched his fists.
Okay, Catherine admitted silently, maybe she’d been a wee bit hasty describing it as she had.
“This sucks big-time,” Allie said, grabbing Joe’s arm. “Let’s go call Norman and tell him he can’t lease our apartment.”
“Too late, pal. He’s halfway here from Dallas by now.”
They turned to Catherine in unison, their identical brown glares prodding her guilty conscience. Her sweeten-the-pot offer didn’t seem nearly as brilliant today as it had in The Pig’s Gut.
“Where is my fully furnished apartment with a very large bedroom?” Joe asked carefully.
She looked up and squinted at the redbrick structure shimmering over the garage. “Technically speaking, it’s right in front of you. Just because the one bedroom happens to be the living and dining room, too, doesn’t mean it’s not large.” If her peripheral vision could be trusted, Joe wasn’t amused. “Now calm down. Once you see the inside, you’ll feel much—”
“You lied to me,” he interrupted.
She met his gaze at that. “I never lie.”
“Oh, excuse me. You messed with my head. Psychotherapy, I believe you couch doctors call it.”
This man was no amoeba. “Actually we prefer to think of it as creative ego management.” Her feeble smile died in the face of his deepening scowl. “That was a joke.”
A bad joke, but then, she doubted David Letterman could’ve cracked Joe’s contempt. Someone in his past had really done her profession a disservice.
He lowered his brows. “Where are the tennis courts you promised?”
Relieved, she turned and pointed toward the east. “See those big trees? The courts are right behind them. An indoor lap pool, also. The neighbors love pairing up for a tennis match, if you’re interested. We’re very friendly around here.” Didn’t she always wave at the sweating fools when she walked by on her way to swim laps in cool indoor comfort?
“And I suppose you’ll tell me the management that ‘loves children’ isn’t a lie, either.”
At last, firm ground. “I love children,” she stated unequivocally, frowning when he continued to look skeptical. “You certainly are being unreasonable for someone who’s expecting a Norman from Dallas any minute.”
“Gimme a break, doll. Am I supposed to be happy I gave up my big apartment for a doghouse in your backyard?”
She narrowed her eyes.
The makeup she’d carefully applied after his unexpected phone call was no doubt melting with her sweat. The wraparound denim skirt she’d anxiously selected clung, hot and itchy, to her hose. She’d worked every spare minute for the last month on the haven he’d just called a doghouse, hoping to use it as her summer office. Enough was enough.
“You called me, remember? You were the one who made plans to move into an apartment without seeing it first. I’ve been standing out here without the benefit of air-conditioning for fifteen minutes—ten minutes past my previous record—and I have nothing to show for it but sunburn and your verbal abuse.” She lifted her stinging nose high enough to do her Hamilton ancestors proud. “Considering you have the manners of a mongrel, a doghouse is exactly what you deserve. However, I’m offering you a charming efficiency apartment any number of people would be thrilled to lease. I decorated it myself. Now, do you want it or not?”
Joe looked as if he were choking on his answer.
“No?” Catherine inclined her head regally. “Well, then, perhaps I’ll call Norman when he arrives and see if he’s interested. Can you give me the telephone number, Allie?”
The wide-eyed girl nodded.
“Leave my daughter out of this,” Joe practically snarled. “Show me the damn apartment.” Spinning around, he glared ahead.
Catherine almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“How can I refuse such a gracious request?” Pulling the keys from her skirt pocket, she brushed by Joe and mouthed “ego management” to his daughter in passing. After a startled second, Allie’s brown eyes sparked with feminine comprehension and amusement.
A warm glow spread through Catherine as she headed for the stairs leading up to the efficiency. Hearing footsteps behind her, she grinned in triumph.
“What are you smiling at?” Joe snapped.
Catherine started to turn.
“Would you chill?” Allie said to her dad, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “First you want me to be happy about moving. Now you don’t want me to smile. Make up your mind.”
His grumbled “Sorry” restored Catherine’s grin. She’d felt an instant rapport with Allie and looked forward to gaining the girl’s friendship.
Reaching the unshaded staircase, Catherine began climbing the steps, the biting smell of hot cedar reminding her not to touch the railing. At the small landing she stopped and inserted her key into the cherry red door.
“Well, here we are,” she stated the obvious, turning the knob and pushing forward with a sudden feeling of doom.
Maybe she’d been a wee bit hasty not telling Joe about his roommates.
CHAPTER THREE
HALFWAY UP THE STEPS Joe paused to rest. He’d come a long way since his surgery two months ago, but climbing reminded him why his contract hadn’t b
een renewed. Rubbing his left knee, he watched Allie tentatively follow their new landlord into the apartment. He should take his daughter’s advice and “chill.” But it was damn hard to do with Catherine’s little speech ringing in his ears.
The nerve of her, implying he’d been gullible, or worse—foolish—to act decisively and quickly. How many opportunities, how many good times would’ve passed him by in the past year alone if he’d waited to plan every detail in advance? More than she’d experienced in her entire uptight life, he’d be willing to bet.
His mosquito of a conscience buzzed out of nowhere and bit deep.
If he’d planned the off-season vacation his daughter”d begged him for, instead of flying off to Vail on impulse, maybe he’d still be on the Astros roster. Maybe Allie wouldn’t have cried her heart out when his mother left. Maybe—
“C’mon, poky,” Allie called down from the doorway,
Joe straightened and blinked. She had the filled-to-bursting look of someone hiding a good secret. Thank God. The apartment must meet with her approval. He waved and she ducked back inside.
Climbing the remaining steps without much enthusiasm, he reached the landing. The place would be sophisticated of course. And probably as sterile as the woman who’d decorated it. He hoped like hell the carpet wasn’t white. Assuming a carefully bland expression, he drew in a breath and crossed the threshold.
A riot of colors assaulted him.
Green. Purple. Red. Orange. Some others he’d seen on paint chips that never got taken home. Closing his eyes, he gave his pupils a minute to adjust from sunlight to lamplight, then risked another peek. He hadn’t hallucinated.
Lord have mercy, he’d just committed to living in a crayon box for a month.
“So what d’ya think?” His daughter’s eyes, soothing pools of familiar brown, had never seemed more beautiful. She gestured widely and grinned. “Does this place rule or what?”
Rule? It conquered. Overwhelmed.
“Catherine did everything herself. The kitchen curtains. The wallpaper. Even that painting over the sofa. Can you believe it?”
He turned and studied the rectangular canvas of purple and orange flowers, saved from dime-a-dozen blandness by rich texture and disturbing boldness. His mind stumbled. The artist of this painting was no uptight sterile woman. Even his untrained eye detected passion in the vibrant brush strokes.
Catherine laughed uneasily from somewhere behind him. “I’m sure your father’s more interested in the practical features of the apartment. For example, the sofa folds out to a bed.”
He heard the swish of her long denim skirt. Felt the fabric brush the back of his slacks. Inhaled the scent of lush summer blooms and heated female skin. She smells like the painting looks, he thought, spinning around to confront this unforeseen threat to his plans.
She took half a step back. “It’s…it’s a brand-new mattress. Top of the line.”
Noting Allie had wandered to the kitchen, he gave Catherine a thorough inspection. Mascara smudged her left eyelid. Her nose glowed with sunburn. A tight low ponytail did nothing to flatter her narrow face. Hardly a femme fatale. Hardly a threat.
Relaxing, he slid one hand into his pocket. “Where’s Allie going to sleep?”
“There’s a roll-away bed in the closet. I’m told it’s fairly comfortable.”
“What about this thing?” He measured the sofa with a doubtful eye. “I’m not exactly petite.”
“Oh, that mattress is big enough for two and quite comfortable—” She broke off with a frown and glanced away.
Oh-ho! So that’s how it is! He jiggled his pocket change irritably. “Big enough for two, is it?” he said for her ears alone.
Her cheeks pinkened to match her lifting nose. “Three, if everyone cooperates.” She held his gaze long enough for him to feel like a fool, then walked toward the kitchen. “There’s a trick to unfolding the roll-away bed, Allie. And the pilot light sometimes goes out on the stove. How about taking the ten-cent guided tour?”
Allie’s enthusiastic nod made Joe stare. Whatever happened to “This sucks big-time“?
Ignoring him completely, Catherine glided around the apartment touching features with the grace of Vanna White turning letters of the alphabet. He’d never seen a woman move like that. So erect, yet so fluid a book on her head wouldn’t have wobbled.
They spent a long time in the walk-in closet talking about bed latches, linens and storage space. The bathroom tour drew Allie’s appreciative, “Cool.” After that Joe quit paying attention and sat on the sofa with a sigh.
For a man who supposedly understood women, he couldn’t seem to get a handle on Catherine. Take this apartment, for instance.
In his living-room experience acceptable colors ranged from beige to dark brown. Fabrics matched. Walls were covered with family photographs or framed prints. The only purple in sight was grapejuice stains on the carpet. But this…
He stretched out his legs and gazed around. This place was as foreign to him as a subtitled movie.
Now that the shock had worn off, he could tell there was a weird sort of order to everything. Somehow the green-checked sofa blended with the floralpatterned armchair. The glossy green patio table and chairs looked good against the purple back wall. Even the Mardi Gras masks hanging like pictures didn’t spook him the way they had at first. The black iron doorstop, though, would definitely have to go.
Joe examined the thing with a shudder. He hated cats. All cats. Even fake ones. He leaned forward and squinted. Stood up and moved closer. Bent down and reached out.
The doorstop opened slitted green eyes and hissed. Something gray streaked up close and bit Joe’s outstretched hand.
“Son of a bitch!”
“Romeo!” Catherine rushed forward and scooped the gray cat from the floor.
Clutching his injured hand, Joe glared at the scruffiest, ugliest, meanest-looking excuse for a famous lover he’d ever seen. Satanic yellow eyes glared back from the cradle of Catherine’s arms. At her feet, the black doorstop yowled plaintively.
She looked down, her expression softening. “It’s okay, Juliet, he’s not hurt. See?” Catherine lowered the huge gray tomcat to the floor, where he began grooming himself as if soiled irreparably by the incident.
Joe pointed a wounded finger. “He’s not hurt? I need a rabies shot, for cryin’ out loud.”
Frowning, she reached for Joe’s hand, examined his punctured skin with a small sound of dismay, then twisted toward Allie. “Honey, would you get antiseptic and bandages from the medicine cabinet please?
Crouched on the floor stroking the black cat, Allie looked up and met Joe’s stare. Traitor, he accused silently.
Her golden skin flushed. “Sure thing,” she mumbled, loping off to the bathroom.
“Romeo’s had all his vaccinations. You won’t need a rabies shot,” Catherine assured him.
“Where the hell was he hiding all that time?”
“Under the couch. He probably thought you were going to hurt Juliet. He doesn’t like men.”
“No kidding,” Joe muttered.
Bending her head, Catherine probed his wound. “Does it hurt much?”
Like he’d been stabbed with hot pokers. “Nah.”
“Such a manly man,” she said, amusement lacing her voice. “Is this my cue to swoon?”
“You wouldn’t be the first one, doll.”
Her green gaze lifted. The air hummed between them. Her shift in mood from skeptical to speculative didn’t surprise him. His fierce desire to satisfy her curiosity did.
Allie ran up, breaking their locked gazes. “Here’s the stuff you wanted,” she said breathlessly.
Catherine released his hand and reached for the supplies.
“Does it hurt real bad, Joe?” Allie’s expression offered an apology for not asking him earlier.
“Nah.” He grinned and deepened his voice. “I’m a manly ma—Ow-w-w!’
“It’s only a little iodine,” Catherine said sternly,
dabbing his fingers with the stinging liquid. “Quit fussing. Manly men don’t whine.”
He dropped his chin to his chest and thrust out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout. Allie giggled. Catherine glanced up and snorted. Reclaiming his hand with a shake of her head, she set to work.
Absurdly pleased, he nodded toward the two cats now vying for Allie’s attention. “What the bell are they doing here?”
She froze, then continued bandaging his fingers. “They live here.”
His good humor fled. “Excuse me?”
“They live here,” she said louder, as if the problem were his hearing, not the cats.
“Don’t you mean they lived here?”
“No.” She finished wrapping his last puncture wound and offered a bright smile. “There you are. Good as new.”
He caught her wrist as she stepped back. “Cats weren’t part of our deal.”
“Didn’t I mention them?” She shrugged elegantly. “Oh, well, they’re so little trouble it must have slipped my mind.”
“Catherine…” he warned.
Her expression sobered, all flippancy gone. “I can’t keep them at the house, Joe. My father is allergic to cats.”
“So have the house cleaned before he comes back from England.”
“I tried that after his book tour. It nearly put him in the hospital. He’s severely allergic.”
“So keep ‘em outside. This neighborhood is a friggin’ cat paradise. All those trees to climb, birds to chase—”
“Dogs to chase them,” Catherine finished, her tone grim. “Juliet’s declawed. She couldn’t defend herself or even climb a tree for safety. I have to keep her inside. And Romeo is devoted to her. He’d die if I separated them.”
Joe made a sound of disgust and released her wrist. “Gimme a break. They’re just cats, for God’s sake.”
Some emotion veiled her face, a vulnerability that said the animals, were much more than casual pets, much more than he could comprehend. The next instant her eyes narrowed, so like the doorstop’s it was eerie.
“The students who rent this apartment come and go, but Romeo and Juliet stay. This is their home. If you can’t share it with them, I’m afraid our deal is off.”
