by JoAnn Ross
He and Cait would do better, Sloan vowed. Turning off the computer, he decided to drive over to Bachelor Arms so he could be waiting for her when she returned home from the hospital.
At Bachelor Arms, Connor was finding it difficult to concentrate on the financial figures Walter Stern’s assistant had faxed to him. Difficult, hell. How about impossible? He hadn’t taken in a single number. Because his mind was filled with images of Lily.
Logically there was no reason for his obsession—as much as he disliked the term, he couldn’t deny that it fitted perfectly—with the lady. He’d always enjoyed women. But never had he wanted a woman the way he wanted Lily.
Cursing, he threw down his pen and walked over to the window, staring across the courtyard at her apartment. Her lights were off, suggesting she’d gone to bed. Reminding himself that she needed her sleep, he tamped down the urge to march over there, pull her into his arms and finish what they’d begun.
“Patience,” he muttered as he dragged his hand down his face. Returning to his stacks of dry, boring figures, he instructed himself to put her out of his mind.
Connor was still telling himself that hours later.
Of course she couldn’t sleep. As she tossed and turned, tangling the sheets and causing the pillow to fall onto the floor, Lily tried to assure herself that it was nothing more than the usual laundry list of problems keeping her awake. After all, she decided as she retrieved the pillow and tried punching it into an acceptable shape, any woman on the verge of becoming a single mother would be right to be concerned about her future. Factor in a threatened custody suit by her former in-laws, a cross-country move, a 6.4 earthquake, and anyone would suffer an attack of insomnia.
Unfortunately, Lily feared that the real reason she was having such trouble sleeping was currently residing across the courtyard.
Trouble. Mac Sullivan was definitely trouble. He probably found it amusing, stirring up the pregnant lady. In fact, he’d undoubtedly already forgotten all about that kiss.
Any lingering embarrassment was her problem, Lily told herself.
Just as the hot, persistent desire that still flowed through her blood was also her problem.
* * *
“GOOD MORNING, MAC,” Jill greeted Connor the following day.
Her sunshine yellow suit was as bright and perky as her smile. The fitted, flared jacket accented her voluptuous curves and the skirt, tighter and shorter than was customary for business in San Francisco, revealed a dazzling length of firm tanned thigh. She was wearing her hair pinned up today, although the blond strands trailing enticingly around her face diminished the professionalism of the French roll.
“When you’re finished there, I have another job for you to do.”
“I’m all done.” Connor climbed down from the ladder he’d been using to replace a cracked windowpane in apartment 2-C. “You look terrific this morning. Important client meeting?”
“Why, yes.” She looked at him with a modicum of surprise that told Connor she wouldn’t have expected a handyman to know about high-powered business dealings. “As a matter of fact, I’m having a breakfast meeting with Troy Marshall.”
When his expression remained politely blank, she said, “You know, the star from ‘One Life, Too Many Lovers’? The sitcom about the newspaper reporter whose dead wife has returned to help him find a replacement wife, but keeps accidently interfering with his love life instead?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen it.” And, if his luck held, he never would.
“Well, despite the outlandish concept, it’s really amusing. Of course, Troy makes the show work. He’s quite a hunk.”
Her eyes sparkled with an obvious feminine interest that explained the fact that not only did Jill remind him of a daffodil this morning, she smelled like a garden in full bloom.
“Well, I wish you luck,” he said.
“Thanks.” Her smile was quick and warm. “Anyway, the reason I tracked you down is because I spoke with Lily this morning.”
“Lily?” Connor tensed. His gaze instinctively swung across the courtyard to Lily’s front door. “Is she all right?”
Jill’s blue eyes narrowed with renewed curiosity. “She seemed fine. She just wanted to know if there was a vacancy. It seems her boss lost his home in the earthquake and is looking for a new place to live.
“The only vacancy I have is 1-G. It needs painting, but according to Lily, Gage Remington isn’t due back in town until the end of the week, anyway. But I thought you should probably get started. So it can air out.”
“Sure.” Connor grinned obligingly, even as he wondered what the gang back in San Francisco would say if they could see him now. “What color were you thinking of?”
“I think white is best. For a rental,” Jill decided. “Let me show it to you.”
Her sunshine scent mingled with the fragrance of the bougainvillea as they crossed the courtyard together. Once again Connor thought that, if he’d met Jill last week, he’d probably be inclined to give that sitcom hunk a run for his money. Feeling as he did about Lily, he was able to appreciate the interior decorator’s sex appeal on the same level he enjoyed a stunning piece of art. Or a particularly complex jazz riff.
Jill opened the arched door and walked inside the apartment. For some reason, Connor paused briefly, his senses suddenly flooded with uneasy feelings he couldn’t discern.
“Mac?” Jill was looking at him curiously over her shoulder.
“Coming.” He shrugged off the uncharacteristic sensations and followed her into a living room considerably larger than either his or Lily’s.
As spacious as the room was, it was the mirror that garnered Connor’s immediate attention. It was huge, at least four feet wide by five feet high. Cast in pewter, its frame was a wonderment of scrolls and flowers.
“Isn’t it something?” Jill crossed her arms in front of her saffron jacket and stood looking at the mirror that was currently reflecting both their images.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Connor said. “I’m also surprised that something so obviously valuable is included in such reasonable rent.”
“That’s what I thought, the first time I saw it,” Jill allowed. “But Ken—he’s the regular super—” she reminded Connor “—told me that there really isn’t any choice. Since it won’t come off the wall.”
“You’re kidding.” Connor walked over to the mirror and ran his fingers over the frame, which, as impossible as it was, seemed to warm beneath his touch.
“Actually, I’m not.” As she watched him take hold of the upper corners and tug, Jill said, “If it wasn’t so old, I’d think it must be stuck on the wall with that same superglue NASA uses to keep tiles on the space shuttle.”
She was right, Connor discovered. The mirror wouldn’t budge. “This is really weird,” he muttered.
“If you think that’s weird, wait until you hear the legend.”
“Legend?” Drawn to the elaborate design, he absently traced the outline of a pewter rosebud.
“Although I’ve certainly never seen her, people say that sometimes you can see a woman in it.”
“A woman?” He looked back into the mirror, seeing only Jill in her daffodil suit and himself in jeans and a white T-shirt.
“A woman. And it gets even better.” Jill’s light laugh implied she didn’t really believe in such supernatural goings-on. “She comes with a legend.”
“Most ghost stories do.” Connor reminded himself that this was Hollywood, land of professional storytellers.
“Well, this legend says if you see the woman in the mirror, your greatest wish will be granted. Or your greatest fear realized.”
Another laugh, this one not quite as self-assured. As if suddenly nervous, Jill glanced down at her watch. “Well, I really do have to run. The paint and all the supplies are down in the basement.”
“I’ll find them,” Connor agreed absently as he continued to trace the intricate scrolling.
The mirror was obviously ha
ndcrafted. He knew several auctioneers who’d undoubtedly fight like pit bulls over such a prize. Even without the legend, the mirror was worth an obvious fortune. Throw in a ghost who grants wishes and the sky was undoubtedly the limit. Providing, of course, you could get it off the wall.
Although he found that aspect of the mirror more than a little puzzling, by the time he’d located the cans of shell white paint and spread the drop cloth over the floor, he’d put the mystery from his mind.
Until he climbed down from the ladder after finishing the far wall and felt some strong, silent pull turning him toward the mirror.
It was then he saw her. Dressed in a long, pale, flowing gown, she stood as still as a doe on the edge of a forest and stared out of the beveled, silver-backed glass at Connor.
“Well, well,” he murmured. “Hello.”
He wasn’t surprised when the fantasy didn’t answer, but instead continued to look at him as if she could see all the way to his soul.
“So, have you to come to grant my greatest wish? Or am I about to realize my greatest fear?”
Again, nothing. Telling himself that this was merely another daydream, not unlike the ones he’d been having since meeting Lily, Connor was not unnerved by the gossamer image in the mirror.
“Well, if I can offer a suggestion, there’s a lady in 3-G I could use a little help with.” He flashed his best and most irresistible smile. “If you get my drift.”
She returned his smile with an odd, strangely knowing one of her own. Then she disappeared. Like smoke.
“I wonder if that’s a yes,” Connor mused aloud.
For a brief, fleeting moment he found himself wondering if what he’d just witnessed had really happened.
“You might be a bit unorthodox, Mackay,” he told himself. “But you’re not crazy.” At least not yet.
Assuring himself once again that the lady in the mirror was merely a product of his own wishful thinking, stimulated by a sleepless night spent thinking about Lily, Connor returned to work.
Lily was not in a good mood when she returned to her apartment late that afternoon. She was hot and tired and her feet hurt. She was also damning L.A.’s mass transportation system. Having always considered herself an intelligent woman, she figured she could live in Los Angeles another twenty years and never figure out the intricacies of the Southern California Rapid Transit District.
Frustrated as she was, she was not at all pleased to find Connor in her apartment. She really wasn’t up to dealing with him. “What are you doing here?”
“Good afternoon to you, too,” he greeted her cheerfully from where he was kneeling on the floor beside her front door. His gaze skimmed briefly over her.
She was wearing the red-and-white top again, this time with a red skirt that ended at mid thigh and looked far from matronly. She’d pulled her hair back in an obvious attempt to remain cool. However, in contrast to Jill’s sexy, face-framing curls, the pale strands that had escaped Lily’s braid were clinging wetly to her neck.
“You look as if you haven’t exactly had the best of days.”
“That’s undoubtedly the understatement of the millennium.” She tossed a folded page from this morning’s L.A. Times onto the coffee table and sank down onto the couch. “I swear, this city’s RTD map was drawn up by the Marquis de Sade.” She sighed as she kicked off her shoes and rubbed her swollen feet.
Although San Francisco’s officials were always boasting about the city’s mass transit system, Connor tried to think of a single instance when he’d ridden on public transportation, and with the exception of a few cable car rides, came up blank.
“You need a drink.”
As he disappeared into her kitchen, part of her was irritated at the way he appeared to have taken over her apartment. Another, bigger part, didn’t have the energy to move from the couch.
When he returned with a frosty glass of lemonade, Lily almost forgave his trespassing. “That looks wonderful.” She took a sip. “It’s real!”
She hadn’t had real lemonade since her days back home on the farm. Her father had always joked that you didn’t have to look at the almanac to know when summer had arrived. All you’d have to do is come in from the fields and find a pitcher of Kate Padgett’s ribbon-winning lemonade waiting for you on the porch.
“Of course.” He grinned, pleased he’d found some way to please her.
“Amazing.” She put her feet up on the coffee table, took another sip of the tart yet sweet drink and knew what heaven tasted like.
“Oh, I’m just full of hidden talents.”
Lily had no doubt about that. “So,” she said, steeling herself against his not inconsiderable charm, “what did you say you were doing in my apartment?”
“I was putting a dead bolt on your front door. It wasn’t all that safe.”
That same thought had occurred to her last night when she’d bolted the chain. “Thank you.”
“Hey, it’s my job.”
“So you say.” She sipped the lemonade and eyed him thoughtfully over the rim of her glass. “I’m still having problems with that.”
That she was perceptive as well as beautiful was not a surprise. Connor had never been the kind of man drawn to gorgeous airheads. Telling himself yet again that she’d just given him the perfect opening to tell the truth, he instead sat down on the edge of the oak coffee table.
When he took her feet into his lap, Lily stiffened. “What are you doing?”
“Displaying yet another of my inimitable talents,” he said easily. “You look like a lady who could use a foot massage.”
There was something far too intimate about having her feet nestled so familiarly in his lap. But she couldn’t deny that the firm pressure of his fingers against her aching arch felt sublime.
“Don’t tell me this is part of your job.” Exhausted, she leaned her head against the back of the couch.
“I’m a handyman.” The clever touch moved on to her toes. Lily felt her eyes grow heavy. “The way I see it, my job around Bachelor Arms, at least until Amberson gets back, is to be handy. And offer tenants whatever personal services they require.”
Caution, along with a strong streak of common sense, kept her from touching that provocative line. “This really has to stop.” Her voice held scant conviction. “I told you, I don’t go out with men.”
“Did you hear me asking you out?” He changed to the other foot.
“No.” Lily allowed her eyes to drift shut. “If I recall correctly, you just wanted me in your bed.”
“I still do.” When she attempted to jerk her foot away, he tightened his hold. “I’m not about to lie and tell you that my feelings have changed in that regard, Lily. But I also figure that right now, you need a friend more than a lover.”
He relaxed his touch and skimmed his fingers up her ankle. “So, I’m volunteering.”
She wanted to trust him. Truly she did. But although Lily’s only sexual experience had been with Junior—which had, to her disappointment, proven not nearly worth waiting for—she realized that Mac Sullivan was too virile a man to be content with mere friendship.
“You make it sound so easy,” she murmured.
He tilted his head and studied her frowning face. “And you make it sound so difficult.”
“I’ve developed this strange idiosyncrasy recently.” Opening her eyes again, she met his friendly gaze with a warning look of her own. “I’ve discovered I prefer making my own decisions.”
“That’s always the best way.” He glanced at the classified newspaper page she’d tossed down on the table. The entries circled in red, then crossed out in bold black strokes, told their own story. “However, everyone needs a little help from time to time. Did I mention that I’m a dynamite car shopper?”
Damn him, anyway. He’d hit upon the one thing with which she honestly could use some assistance. After a not very auspicious visit with a banker from the neighborhood Citibank branch, she’d spent the entire day trudging from Santa Monica to Downe
y, and still hadn’t been able to find a decent car in her admittedly limited price range.
Deciding that Mac was safe—within limits—she closed her eyes again. “I don’t believe it came up.”
“You can’t keep riding buses. Not in this town.” He reached over and picked up the paper, frowning as he noticed which listings she’d selected as possibilities. There was no way he was going to let her risk her life in any of these clunkers. “We’ll go shopping tomorrow morning. For something decent.”
Expecting an argument, Connor was surprised when she didn’t instantly respond. Looking up, he observed her closed eyes and softly parted lips and realized that she’d fallen asleep.
He laid her feet on the couch, picked up the empty glass from where she’d dropped it on the carpet, carried it into the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher. Then he went into the adjoining bedroom and retrieved a pillow from the bed.
Her scent lingered on the flower-sprigged case. As he placed it beneath her blond head, desire curled painfully in his gut. Unable to resist touching her when she was helpless to protest, he trailed his fingers slowly up her cheek.
“Sleep well, sweetheart,” he murmured softly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
With that, he let himself out, locking the door behind him. Crossing the brick courtyard, he returned to apartment 1-G. The pungent aroma of drying paint hit him the minute he opened the door, almost, but not quite, driving Lily’s sweet scent from his mind.
He walked over and stood in front of the mirror. Although he could only see his own reflection, Connor wasn’t a man inclined to pass up any opportunity.
“If you really do exist,” he said, “and your gig really is granting wishes, I’ll tell you mine.”
He took a deep breath, dragged his hands through his hair, tamped down the desire that always came with thoughts of her and said, “I want Lily.”
Although he’d regrettably been living a lie since arriving in Los Angeles, Connor had never, not once, in all his thirty-one years, uttered a more truthful statement.
