by Alison Kent
“Well, that sucks,” Perry said, spooning sugar into her mug, offering him the same. He nodded, and she stirred before handing his mug to him. “What are you going to do now?”
“Do you have an Internet connection? Or a phone jack I can use to dial up?”
“I have cable, and this place is wired like you wouldn’t believe. The previous owners were connectivity freaks.” She pointed toward the main room. “You can set up on the desk in the living room, or on the dining room table. Either one.”
“Great. What about a subscription to the Times-Picayune? I want to dig through the archives and see if our reporter ever wrote anything on Eckton Computing or on Dayton Eckhardt before his move to Texas.”
“Here’s my login,” she said, jotting the information onto a notepad hanging on the fridge. “And I’ll be out of your way—” the ringing of the phone cut her off, and she smiled “—as soon as I get that.”
Jack left his mug on the counter, returned to the front door for the laptop case packed inside his duffel bag. He decided the dining room light would be best, and started setting the computer up on the table.
He could hear Perry’s, “Sure. No, it’s not a problem. I’ll see you tomorrow,” coming from the kitchen. And since his was the business of snooping, he listened without remorse to her side of the conversation, curious about what wasn’t a problem, and who it was she’d be seeing.
She walked into the dining room a few minutes later, bringing him the tea he’d left in the other room. He took the mug from her hand as she settled into the chair opposite the one he’d chosen. He watched her sip at her drink; she did so nervously, flexing her fingers around the mug, refusing to meet his gaze.
“What’s up?” he finally asked, when he realized she wasn’t going to come clean on her own.
She toyed with the charm at her neck. “That was Della.”
“She feeling okay?”
Perry nodded. “She’s fine. Better than fine, actually.”
“How so?”
“It’s Book’s night off. He’s going to stay over and take care of her.”
Ah. He’d wondered about that. “So you don’t have to.”
“I don’t think that’s the reason he’s staying, but no, I don’t have to go back.”
“Which means I should pack up and see about that hotel.”
“Not necessarily.”
He didn’t say anything. Just lifted his drink and waited for her to offer him exactly what he wanted.
“You’re already set up here,” she finally said, waving her hand toward his laptop. “And I’ve actually spent a lot of nights on the couch. If it’s not too short, you’re welcome to use it. Or I can sleep there, and you can have the bed.”
“I don’t have to stay, Perry. Have duffel bag, will travel, and all that. I can plug in at a coffeehouse and, if I can’t find a place, bunk in the back of the Yukon.” He’d done it often enough that it wasn’t even a hassle. “It’s not a problem. Trust me.”
“I do trust you. And I’d rather you stayed here with me.”
6
DELLA LET her hand rest on the receiver now cradled in its base, pleased that both of her calls had turned out so well. The timing had been iffy on the first; she wasn’t sure, when she finally tried to reach Book, if it would be too late to put her plan into motion.
When she’d heard Jack enter the shop to pick up Perry’s key from Kachina, Della had made her move. Still at his desk in operations, Book verified that he was off work the next day. Her only moment of panic had come after asking him if he’d like to spend the evening with her. At home. Alone.
His silence had gone on too long. She’d listened to the void, finally hearing him clear his throat and breathe before accepting. They’d talked for a few minutes more, and he’d agreed to stop by around seven. He’d even offered to pick up Chinese, a typically thoughtful gesture. She’d thanked him, certain that nerves would keep her from eating a single bite.
Months ago, she’d given him a key to the front door of the shop as a safeguard, should Perry ever be out of touch. Tonight, the key would come in handy. He could let himself in, and she could stay off her foot. Things couldn’t be coming together any better than if she’d plotted this evening for weeks.
Her conversation with Book had given Jack time to make the short drive to Court du Chaud. She’d waited a bit longer in case he’d run into traffic, made any stops or been otherwise delayed. Then she’d dialed her niece’s number and made her case. Perry hadn’t minded the change of plans at all, and that made Della smile.
As a rule, she was not a busybody—even as she recognized that was drawing a fine line between truth and fiction, considering her entire livelihood was based on what she knew about other people’s affairs. She kept her client information confidential, the same as if she were an attorney or physician.
The difference tonight was that her interference was an effort at making amends.
Hobbling around her sitting room, putting things in order, Della wondered if there had ever been another woman less suited to being a mother. The skills that it took had never been in her repertoire. She wasn’t sure when she’d first recognized that raising a family was not a lifestyle that suited her situation, but it ended up making no difference. She’d been twenty-eight when Perry had come to her as a frightened child, lost and alone, and nothing else had mattered.
They’d made their way together, Della following to the letter her late brother’s instructions for his daughter’s rearing, instead of relying on instincts that had never let her down. She hadn’t paid any heed to Perry’s wishes to be like the other kids.
The result, all these years later, was that they were both products of circumstances into which they’d been thrown, rather than the individuals, the women, they would have become had their lives not been so inexorably intertwined.
It was an interesting look at the human condition, wondering what path each would have chosen had tragic events not determined their way. Her only regret was how insular their world had become as she’d looked after Perry, and Perry, in turn, had looked after her.
And, foolish or not, Della had always put her niece’s needs above her own. Which was why she hadn’t yet allowed herself to admit her feelings to Book Franklin.
She’d always told herself that if Perry were settled, if Perry didn’t depend on her, if Perry this and that, if Perry a dozen different things, then exploring a relationship with Book would be an option.
The truth was that, at forty-eight years old, she didn’t know where to begin. Because somewhere along the line, the dynamics had changed. Now Perry was the one doing the looking after, a reality Della had come face-to-face with today. Into Perry’s life had walked the amazing Jack Montgomery, and what did Perry do but throw up a protective wall to keep him away.
As weak as Della had been feeling the last few days, from the migraines brought on by her visions, she appreciated the buffer her niece created for her between Sugar Blues and the world.
What she didn’t like was how Perry hid behind the wall as well. Which was why, when presented with the opportunity to play interfering, busybody matchmaker, Della had jumped at the chance. Now all she could do was hope her manipulative ways didn’t come back to haunt her.
Hearing the bell chime on the door as Book let himself in, Della hopped and limped back to the chaise lounge where she’d already spent too many hours. The aroma of the food he’d brought with him wafted ahead and made her realize that she was hungry after all.
But then, the empty sensation deepened, tightened. And none of what she was feeling had a thing to do with the food. It was a sense of anticipation she’d not let herself experience in years; a hope, a flutter of girlish excitement. And it hit her the moment he walked through the door that she’d loved him for a very long time.
He still wore his suit coat, though his shirt collar was unbuttoned and the knot of his tie hung loose. He’d wrapped one arm around the paper bag he carried, almost like he
was charging ahead with a football.
It made her smile, the way he was so unequivocally male, the way her heart raced when she noticed. She laced her fingers tightly together in her lap and watched him come into the sitting room from the landing, well aware of the tension created by her invitation.
“That smells wonderful,” she said, hoping to put them both at ease. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was till you got here.”
“Good. Because I brought more than plenty.” He unloaded the containers onto the coffee table, surprising her with a six-pack of beer, then sliding the table closer to the chaise lounge and handing her a pair of chopsticks. Only then did he look around for a place to sit.
“Here. I’ll make room.” She shifted her legs to the side of the seat, and then she waited, her pulse accelerating, a sheen of perspiration breaking out between her breasts.
He hesitated, and she wasn’t sure of the cause until he said, “Do you need anything from the kitchen? Something other than beer? Do you want a glass? Do you need a fork or a knife?”
“I’m fine,” she said, still nervously waiting. “Book, I don’t bite.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” he said under his breath, causing her to wonder if he knew he’d spoken aloud.
But he did sit, and the world didn’t come to an end when his hips made contact with her legs. He pulled a bottle from the six-pack, twisted off the top and handed it to her.
Their fingers met when she took it from his hand, the bottle cold, his skin warm. She reacted strongly, a sharp shiver that caught her unawares. He held her gaze for a very long time before bringing his own bottle to his mouth and turning away to drink.
Della drank, too, hoping the buzz from the alcohol would ease what she was feeling, would soften the tension into something sweet. Right now it was unbearable, and she didn’t want anything about her time with Book to be that way.
“So, what did you bring me to eat?” she asked, setting her drink on the corner table at her shoulder and snapping her chopsticks together.
Book opened the closest carton. “Spring rolls.” Opened another. “Sesame chicken.” Opened a third. “Mongolian beef.” Opened a fourth. “Kung Pao shrimp.”
She leaned forward, clipped a spring roll with her chopsticks and sat back. “You know these things are my favorite foods in the world.”
Book chose the beef. “I seem to remember that. The last time we ate dinner together it was Chinese. You and the spring rolls were inseparable.”
“My weakness,” she said, sighing before biting down. “Mmm. I don’t know what it is, but I think I could live on these.”
“When was the last time you had them?”
She had to stop and think. “I believe it was the last time you brought them to me.”
“Sounds like it’s absence making the stomach grow fonder.”
She laughed. “Or it’s the company that makes everything taste so good.”
Book chuckled, dug through the beef and came up with a sliver of bok choy. “If I didn’t know you as well as I do, Della Brazille, I’d think you were flirting with me.”
She considered him over her bottle of beer. “Would that be a bad thing? If I were?”
He stopped chewing. He stopped picking through the meat and the vegetables. He stopped moving altogether, for a time that seemed longer than she was able to wait.
Finally, he set the carton of food on the table, his chopsticks sticking up like a television antenna, and cocked one knee as he shifted on the seat to face her.
She started counting the beats of his pulse at his temple, but lost track long before he spoke. “What are you asking me, Della?” He shook his head to delay her answer. “I mean, I heard you. I just don’t know how honest you want me to be.”
She closed her eyes because she already had her answer. She’d heard it in his words, in the tone he’d used when he’d spoken. But she’d seen it even more clearly in his expression, something she was certain he’d meant to hide.
Her gift was both a blessing and a curse. And right now, as in the kitchen earlier with Jack, she wished she was blind to the energy she was picking up from Book.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” she asked, opening her eyes again and taking him in. “How long we’ve known each other. The horrors we’ve shared. Yet we’ve never really been honest as a woman and a man.”
He hunched forward, his shoulders straining the fabric of his suit coat, and spread his hand on the seat cushion next to her leg, giving her the choice, to touch him, or not to touch him.
“Is that what you want?” He flexed his fingers in the fabric. “Do you want me to tell you the truth? To admit how much you mean to me?”
She placed her drink on the table at her side and straightened, covering his hand, wrapping her fingers around his, then reaching up to caress his cheek. She didn’t say a word. All she did was touch him, feel him, sense him.
And then he shook his head, a sly smile crossing his mouth. He turned his palm up and laced his fingers through hers. “I don’t have to tell you anything, do I? You already know.”
“I know, yes,” she admitted, hearing his breath catch, his pulse pound harder and faster. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to hear it, anyway. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a man declare his feelings to me.”
He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to the center of her palm. She couldn’t even begin to describe the winds of change sweeping through her.
“I’ve never been very good at expressing myself with words,” he admitted, his voice tight, his tone gruff.
Oh, but her heart was filled to the brim and on the verge of bursting. “That’s hard to believe, when you have such a very nice mouth.”
He arched a brow. “Then let me use it to show you how I feel.”
PERRY WOKE with a jolt, uncertain what had startled her from sleep, feeling as if she were in an unfamiliar place when she knew that she wasn’t. She was sleeping in her bed. In her room. In her own home, surrounded by all of her things. And then she remembered.
The thing that was different was Jack.
When she’d told him she wanted him to stay the night, he hadn’t reacted. At least not in the ways her limited experience with men had taught her to expect. He didn’t leer or make any sort of off-color remark about getting lucky.
He’d just shrugged, nodded and continued to hook up his equipment with no more than an agreeable, “Sure.”
She’d figured that feeding him would be the hospitable thing to do. Unfortunately, she wasn’t much of a cook. If she didn’t have salad fixings on hand or leftover containers of takeout, she usually did no more for herself than open a can of soup or make a turkey sandwich. Turkey and soup she had. The deli was her friend.
But the occasion had seemed to call for more effort. After all, Jack was the first man to sleep over since she’d purchased the town house. Not that he was sleeping with her, but he was company. And he had gone out of his way to take care of the repairs to Della’s kitchen door.
So she’d boiled pasta, opened and heated a jar of gourmet marinara sauce and grated fresh parmesan over the top. He’d thanked her and dug in, but hadn’t been much for conversation, intent instead on his research.
His focus had given her time to study him while eating in silence. Study, and wonder about the man he was. A man who would come into the lives of two women who were strangers, and make himself indispensable in less than two days.
Several minutes into their hushed meal, he’d reached into his laptop case for a pair of reading glasses, grimacing when she’d grinned at him putting them on.
She couldn’t help it. He’d looked so…scholarly, so Indiana Jones, what with the touch of gray at his temple, frowning at his screen as he read and jotting illegible notes onto a yellow legal pad. But then she’d taken in the rest of him and realized what a contradiction he was.
She’d been at work when he’d cleaned up and changed in Della’s little-used first floor s
hower. He still wore his Reeboks, today with a pair of black jeans, and instead of yesterday’s hoodie, he’d warded off the cold with a bomber jacket over nothing heavier than a T-shirt.
It was that T-shirt that had finally gotten to her. He’d sat there beneath the dining room’s low-hanging light fixture, reading, eating, taking notes, his movements economical and concise, but still drawing her gaze.
She’d watched the flexing of his biceps beneath the tight cotton sleeves, watched the binding of the fabric over the balls of his shoulders and the pull over his chest when he stretched.
She’d seen it all earlier when he’d been working on Della’s door, but she hadn’t been this close, and it hadn’t been dark, and they hadn’t been alone. Looking away and focusing on her food had put a huge strain on her minimal willpower.
She’d been too aware of having him there. Of what a calming presence he was. Of how easily he’d made himself at home.
Not once in her life had she felt the need to have a man around to provide security or a sense of safety, or to make her complete. But Jack being there, just…being there, had seemed right in more ways than she had fingers to count.
He’d come out of nowhere, bulldozed into her life with a hailstorm of demands, then turned around and in the next breath was so much a part of her existence she didn’t remember what the day before had been like without him around. And it was that realization as much as exhaustion that had finally sent her to her room.
In much the same way it had her jolting awake now.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and eased to her feet. She’d slept deeply, though not long. The bedside clock read 1:00 a.m., and she’d climbed between the sheets at ten.
After a bathroom stop—one that included brushing her teeth and a quick fluff of her bed-head hair—she made her way down the hall, pausing at the living room door.
The main room was dark, but the light was still on in the dining nook. And Jack still sat at the table, jotting notes, glasses perched on the end of his nose.
