by Cathie Linz
“I know how to put in a new lock.”
“Yeah, but do you know how to fix a hot-water heater?” he retorted, certain she’d answer no.
Instead she said, “Depends what’s wrong with it.”
“If I knew what was wrong with it, I’d fix it myself,” Michael declared.
He didn’t appreciate the yeah-right look she gave him.
“Have you ever been a building supervisor before?” he demanded, taking his package back from her in exchange for her Swiss knife as he headed for his main-floor apartment. This door he hadn’t locked, thank heaven.
“No,” she replied, trailing after him and looking around his place with interest.
Michael never “sted a look like that. It either meant someone was casing the joint or, if it was a woman, that they were getting nesting instincts—imagining their chintz couch in his living room. He’d be called paranoid, were it not for the fact that his last romantic relationship had started with just such a look of interest at his living room. The relationship had ended several months ago in disaster. She’d accused him of being a loner. She was right.
“Why should I hire you if you have no experience?” Michael countered.
“I didn’t say I had no experience. I’ve taken architecture courses, I know basic construction methods. Other girls played with dolls. I played with tools. I’m good at fixing things.”
“Taken apart any stoves?” he asked, pointing to the mess in his kitchen.
She nodded.
“Can you fix that?” he inquired mockingly.
She walked into the kitchen and frowned at the appliance. “Do you have a toolbox?” she asked. “I didn’t bring many tools with me.”
What kind of question was that? Every self-respecting man had a toolbox—not that he knew what to do with it. He handed it to her and let her have at it, figuring she couldn’t mess up the appliance any more than it already was.
While she attacked his stove, Michael undid the package he’d received—which was harder than it sounded, since the thing was wrapped in clear tape from one end to the other. It took him ten minutes to get the outside paper off. The one time he shook the package in frustration, he felt that sharp pain in his head again—almost as if the pain was connected to his handling of the package. Finally he got it unwrapped. Inside was a cardboard box advertising what he assumed to be Hungarian washing powder. And inside that was a mass of crumpled newspapers.
Reaching down, his fingers finally made contact with something solid. Something warm. He couldn’t get a good grip on it with all those newspapers, though.
Tossing them aside, he noticed a sheet of white writing paper with the same spidery handwriting as the address label. Taking the sheet, he read:
Oldest Janos son,
It is time for you to know the secret of our family and bahtali—this is magic that is good. But powerful. I am sending to you this box telling you for the legend. I am getting old and have no time or language for story’s beginning, you must speak to parents for such. But know only this charmed box has powerful Rom magic to find love where you look for it. Use carefully and you will have much happiness. Use unwell and you will have trouble.
Michael had to squint to make out the spidery signature and in the end was only able to make out part of it-”Magda.” He hadn’t thought they’d had any relatives left in Hungary, but on second thought he did seem to recall his dad mentioning a Great-Aunt Magda.
He read the strange note once more. “Rom magic”…that meant Gypsy magic, Michael knew that much. His dad had Gypsy blood, but Michael didn’t know anything about any family secrets. It was just his luck that his folks had recently left on a Pacific Rim cruise, so he couldn’t call and ask them what this was all about.
Looking back into the carton, minus the newspaper, he was now able to see something. a box maybe? Picking it up, he saw that it was indeed an intricately engraved metal box, with all kinds of strange markings—half-moons and stars, among other things.
Wondering if there was anything inside, Michael lifted the lid…
Two
“All done!” Brett declared from the kitchen threshold.
Michael’s eyes traveled from the box to Brett. “Wha…at?”
“I said I’m done fixing your stove. It’s as good as new. I put that new bulb in there while I was at it. Hey, are you okay?”
Michael blinked, his head spinning. He felt so strange. Maybe he was coming down with the flu or something. That would explain the heat flashing through his body. It was just his imagination that made him think it was originating from the box he held in his hands. No, it must be the flu. It would be the perfect way to end such a miserable day.
He blinked again, relieved to find that Brett Munro was back in focus once again. She’d taken off her bulky down coat and was wearing a curve-clinging soft sweater the same blue as her eyes. She was backlit by the kitchen ceiling light, which created a strange kind of halo behind the crown of her head. It was just an optical illusion, but it made him catch his breath. So did she. In that moment, she seemed beautiful.
Brett stared back at Michael, captured by the powerful look in his hazel eyes as surely as if he’d clamped a pair of handcuffs around her wrists. She’d seen moments like this in movies, but had never been the recipient of such visual magic herself. This was a first. A momentous first. Something was going on here that would have dramatic consequences; she felt that in the deepest part of her soul. Her heart was pounding in her ears and breathing was all but forgotten.
Then the mysterious box tilted in his shaking hands and the lid flipped shut. The sharp noise punctured the tensely silent air between them the way a pin punctured a balloon.
Seeing Michael swaying, Brett immediately snapped out of her dreamlike state and rushed forward to prop her shoulder under his arm. He was just the right height for her to do that, she noted, feeling a shiver of awareness slip down her spine at his closeness.
“Here, let me take that before you drop it,” she said, taking the box he was holding and setting it on top of his rack stereo system. “You certainly don’t have much furniture here,” she noted as she lowered him into the only piece in the room—a recliner that had seen better days.
“No chintz couches,” he muttered, closing his eyes and leaning back to rest his head against the back of the chair.
Chintz couches? The man sounded delirious, Brett decided. And he looked pale. Sexy as all get-out, but pale. Putting her hand on his forehead, she said, “Have you eaten anything today?”
“You sound like my mother.”
This came as no surprise to Brett. Men usually thought of her as either one of the boys or the protective motherly type. She’d taken enough guys under her maternal wing to man a softball team. In fact, she was honorary manager of a team called Vito’s Market Super-Sluggers. But she wasn’t wife material. “Just answer the question. What have you eaten today?”
“Enough trouble to give a man indigestion.”
“Have any food with your trouble?” she dryly inquired.
“Naw, I had my trouble on the rocks today.”
She tried to hide a smile. So the man had a sense of humor. “You’d probably feel better if you put some food in your stomach,” she noted.
“So my mother always tells me.”
“What will I find if I open your refrigerator?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t get in there much.”
She opted to look in his cupboard instead, where she found a couple of cans of soup. “Which would you prefer,” she called out, “cream of mushroom or hearty vegetable?”
“I’d prefer getting the damn hot-water heater fixed,” he replied, glaring at the ceiling as Mr. and Mrs. Stephanopolis resumed their militant marching routine upstairs.
Looking at the way the kitchen ceiling light swayed beneath the pounding from the floor above, Brett shot him an understanding look. “Sounds like someone up there is unhappy.”
“They’re not the only ones,” Micha
el muttered.
“Your soup will be done in a minute. I picked mushroom. And I’ll make some toast…” By the time she was done cheerfully telling him what she was going to fix for him, she had it ready, and carried it out to him. “Careful, it’s hot.”
“Thanks,” he muttered.
She smiled as if she knew how hard it was for him to say that.
“If you fix hot-water heaters as fast as you do soup, you’ve got a job,” he heard himself saying.
Taking his toolbox in hand, she said, “I’ll go check it out. Is it in the basement?”
He nodded, his mouth full of soup.
“Don’t worry. I’ll find it,” she said with a confident grin.
Don’t worry? Michael was worried plenty. What on earth had possessed him to offer her a job if she fixed the damn water heater? Desperation, that’s what had possessed him. Combined with a lack of food and lack of sleep.
Michael set his empty plate and soup bowl on the floor next to his chair. He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but when he opened them again, he found Brett standing before him—a triumphant smile on her face as she waved a wrench in the air. “I did it! Your hot-water heater is working just fine now.”
For some reason, Michael’s heart sank at her declaration. He’d only felt that way once before, when the Bears had fumbled a critical play that had ended up costing them their play-off bid. Michael couldn’t help wondering what hiring Brett Munro was going to end up costing him.and he wasn’t thinking of her salary. His ad had clearly stated what he was willing to pay, and it wasn’t much, but he had tossed in a rent-free basement studio apartment into the deal.
“You won’t regret giving me this job,” Brett was excitedly saying, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t actually said she had the job yet. She wasn’t about to let him wiggle out of their deal.
“What was wrong with the hot-water heater?” Michael demanded, lurching to his feet. “On second thought, don’t tell me.” He stalked into the kitchen and flipped back the faucet. Hot water poured out. Damn.
He knew he should be counting his blessings as he heard the muffled cheers of Mr. and Mrs. Stephanopolis coming from upstairs. He’d finally found a handyman—only she was a woman, one who seemed to have the strangest affect on him.
But it could never be said that Michael Janos wasn’t a man of his word. He’d promised her the job of building supervisor and by God he’d keep that promise. But he doubted she’d be able to keep the job. Once she saw how many things were wrong with this eccentric building, she was bound to quit. Any sane person would.
“The studio apartment isn’t very big,” Michael warned her as he unlocked the door in the basement.
“That’s okay, I don’t have much stuff.”
“It needs work,” he added before giving the stubborn door a hefty nudge.
“I’m a whiz with a paintbrush,” she replied.
What did it take to make this woman discouraged? Michael found himself wondering. Then he got distracted by the sight of the sunlight hitting her hair, reminding him of that moment upstairs when she’d been standing in the kitchen doorway and the light had shone behind her head—creating an image that had left him shaken and breathless.
She wasn’t the type of woman who usually got his attention, if there was such a thing. He’d dated all kinds, but never one who had the passion for life that this one seemed to have. She was a whirlwind of activity, flying around the room—moving even when she was standing still. He could practically see her thinking as she sized up the room’s dimensions.
“This is great!” she exclaimed. “You’ve got south exposure on the windows down here. It adds a lot of light, even though the windows are high up.”
“They’re small,” Michael said.
“Size is in the eye of the beholder,” she said defensively, hugging her down coat to her chest and tucking her hands under her arms.
“Yeah, well…” Michael heard himself stumbling over his words and decided to pause and regroup. What was it about this woman that affected him so? As she’d just pointed out, she was not amply built, although the soft sweater that matched her blue eyes curved nicely around what nature had given her. She had a sweet face. Sweet big eyes, sweet lips.full and sensual. She was nibbling on her bottom lip as she looked away from him, focusing her attention on the kitchen appliances in the compact kitchen.
“They all work,” Michael stated as she opened the fridge and peered inside. “They’re just about the only ones in the entire building that do,” he added in a muttered aside. “I’m told that awful color of green was popular at one time.”
“Avocado,” she replied.
“Never eat them.”
“I was referring to the color of the appliances. Avocado appliances were very popular in the sixties.”
“Which probably makes that refrigerator about as old as I am,” he said.
She turned to study him with the same thoroughness she’d given the fridge. The brief animosity she’d felt toward him when she’d been in the vestibule earlier had evaporated. Now she was intrigued by him. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing. After all, he was her boss for the time being.
Not that she felt intimidated by him. She was confident of her abilities. She knew she’d do a good job here, in a building just crying out for tender loving care.
TLC was something Brett specialized in. She fixed things for a living—stoves, hot-water heaters, men who needed understanding, stray animals who needed food. She worked with them all until they were well enough to function on their own. Michael Janos didn’t look like the kind of man who needed any fixing, however. He was the epitome of a loner. A lone wolf. But even wolves mated for life, she reminded herself. The lone ones were the ones who had lost their mates. Had that happened to him?
Tilting her head, she gazed directly into his eyes, searching for a few answers. Instead she found a matching curiosity. He had incredible eyes, striking flames in her soul with their mysterious combination of light and shadow. She felt as if she could look into them forever, as if at some point in her past she had spent a lifetime looking into them—which was ridiculous since she’d never met him before today. She’d never have forgotten a face like his. There was a noble elegance mixed with a raw power in everything from the curve of his high cheekbones to the thrust of his jaw. There was nothing traditional about him, except for the chauvinistic fact that he didn’t think a woman could do a handyman’s job. Reminding herself of that, she tore her gaze away. It was like ripping an adhesive bandage off a wound.
Tempted though she was to return her attention to him, she forced herself to concentrate on other things, imagining where she’d place what little furniture she had. The apartment—with its single narrow main room, tiny kitchen area and bath—might be considered a decorator’s nightmare. Brett considered it to be home.
Michael recognized that expression—the nesting look. Whenever he saw it in a woman’s eyes he got nervous.
“You should meet the tenants,” he stated abruptly. Okay, so the basement flat hadn’t discouraged her from taking the job. But surely the strange assortment of people living in the building would make her think twice. if she had a lick of sense. So would the long list of repairs each of those tenants had.
As Michael led her upstairs to the door of the apartment next to his, he felt as if he were leading a lamb to slaughter. The two elderly ladies that lived there might look like solicitous souls, but they were as tough as nails.
He pounded on their door. Nothing short of pounding could be heard by either of them. Mrs. Weiskopf came to answer the summons. “You here to fix my leaky kitchen faucet?” she demanded of Michael.
“No, but she is,” he heard himself answering.
Mrs. Weiskopf switched her eagle gaze from him to Brett. “Where are your tools?” she demanded suspiciously. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No joke. Mrs. Weiskopf, meet Brett Munro—our new building supervisor.”
“About time you got a
woman to do a man’s job,” Mrs. Weiskopf retorted with the sting of her infamous sauerkraut.
“Who’s at the door?” her flat-mate, Mrs. Martinez, demanded. “You’re letting all the heat out.”
“There’s enough heat in that spicy food you’re cooking in the kitchen to warm the entire building,” Mrs. Weiskopf retorted.
“Is this your girlfriend?” Mrs. Martinez asked Michael with the interest of a born matchmaker.
“No, she’s the new building supervisor. I just hired her.”
“Hired her?” Mrs. Martinez repeated with raised eyebrows. Taller than Mrs. Weiskopf by a good half foot, she was also twenty pounds heavier. Her dark hair was streaked with white, but wasn’t yet the silvery gray of her flat-mate’s. Brett couldn’t tell which of the women was the oldest. She could tell which one wanted her hooked up with Michael. The other one, Mrs. Weiskopf, just wanted her leaky faucet fixed. That was a job Brett could do.
“If you’d like me to look at the faucet now, I should be able to get an idea what’s wrong with it. Then I’ll know what tools to bring later today to fix it.”
“Later today?” Mrs. Weiskopf and Michael both repeated in unison.
“Didn’t you want me to start as soon as possible?” Brett addressed her comment to Michael.
“Yes, well.”
“This afternoon is fine,” Mrs. Weiskopf interjected. “Come right this way. The toilet doesn’t work right, either. Keeps running water even when no one uses it.”
Twenty minutes later, Brett left the elderly women’s apartment with their praises ringing in her ears, and their cooking in her hands—homemade sauerkraut in a plastic bowl and fresh salsa in a glass mason jar “because It’s so hot it would melt plastic,” Mrs. Martinez had said.
Michael couldn’t believe the women’s hospitality. In the short time he’d known them, they’d always treated him as if he were personally responsible for everything that had ever gone wrong in their long and eventful lives. Now, just because Brett had jiggled a few things inside their toilet tank and promised to replace a faulty gasket in their faucet, the two women thought she could do no wrong.
