by Janet Dailey
"The painters aren't there because the bulk of the work left for them is in the various washrooms, work that they can't do until the tile setters are finished. The tile setters aren't there because the plumber isn't finished. You see, Mr. Whitfield, it's a vicious circle."
"Why aren't the plumbers on the job?" he demanded diffidently. "The story you've just told me isn't new, Miss Andrews. I've heard it all from Bowman, along with a promise that the plumbers would be out there today without fail."
"At the time that Mr. Bowman told you that, he fully believed it would happen. The problem is that the shipment of bathroom fixtures hasn't arrived. Yesterday the plumber misinformed him that it had come in. Late this morning, Mi — Mr. Bowman found out differently. I know he regrets the delay as much as you do," Lacey added with honey-coated politeness.
But Whitfield completely ignored the last comment. "Where is the shipment of fixtures?"
"I don't know, sir. I do know they were shipped several weeks ago from the manufacturer, but they haven't arrived."
"In other words, they're lost en route and you're saying, 'Too bad,'" he jeered.
"Of course not," Lacey protested.
"Then what freight company were they shipped by?"
"I … I don't know."
"What about the manifest numbers, points of origin? Do you know any of that, Miss Andrews?" Whitfield continued his biting questions.
"No, I don't." She was becoming flustered, color warming her cheeks.
"Do you know if anyone has put a tracer on the shipment?"
"No, I don't know if it's been done," she admitted stiffly.
"Has Bowman or the plumbing contractor looked into alternate suppliers for the fixtures, or are they intending to wait for the day when they show up?" he snapped.
"I'm sure they don't intend to —"
"I damned well hope not!"
"Really, Mr. Whitfield." Her lips were compressed in a tight line. "I —"
"Really, Miss Andrews," he interrupted caustically, "it seems to me if human skill and persistence can put a man on the moon, then it should also be possible to find a lost shipment of toilets, don't you think?"
"Yes, of course —"
"Then may I suggest that since you are supposed to be a secretary, you should use your time to see what can be done about finding the shipment!" And the line went dead.
Lacey sputtered uselessly into the mouthpiece before slamming the receiver on its cradle. His clear-thinking logic made her feel like a bumbling idiot.
A tracer should have been put out on the shipment several days ago, but it galled that Whitfield had been the one to point out the oversight. Picking up the telephone again, Lacey made the first step to rectify the mistake.
Two
* * *
It was crazy, Lacey acknowledged to herself as she stretched lazily like a cat. Here it was a mild summer night and she had all the windows open and a fire burning in the fireplace. But it seemed to somehow fit her mood, with the breeze off the ocean carrying a tangy salt scent; the gentle sound of the breakers rushing in to the beach; and the crackling of flames dancing to the soft music on the stereo.
After the hectic last day at the office, with the irritating phone call from that Whitfield man, and the long drive through evening traffic to Margo's house, Lacey had virtually collapsed on Friday night, sleeping until nearly noon this morning. An afternoon swim had been the only exertion she had allowed herself, outside of cooking a high-calorie Italian dinner all for herself.
Now, with the moonlight silvering the ocean and the yellow flames lighting the blackened hearth, Lacey's sole desire was to curl up on the sofa and read. Kicking off her gold mules, she carried out her wish.
The filmy baby-doll pajamas were decidedly brief, she realized as she tucked her legs beneath her, but she shrugged unconcernedly. There weren't any neighbors close by and a peeping Tom would have to be a giant to see in the second-story windows. Here in the flat country of Virginia's Tidewater basin along the coast, there wasn't such a thing as a hill or a mountain.
The blue-bottomed lamp beside the sofa cast a small pool of light on the pages of the book in Lacey's hand. Reclining against the fluffy pillows, she found her place and began reading. Soon her head began nodding lethargically until finally the book slipped from her fingers and she dozed.
An hour later something wakened her. Tiredly she glanced around, deciding it had been a log cracking in the fireplace. Closing the book, she set it on the chrome and white stand beside the lamp and switched off the light.
As sleepy as she was, she knew she should go to bed, but it was so pleasant and comfortable in front of the fire. Snuggling deeper into the pillows, she gazed at the yellow flames licking the nearly disintegrated wood in the fireplace.
From the bottom of the entrance stairs she heard the rattle of the doorknob, and the remnants of sleep fled as every nerve screamed in alertness. Some burglar was breaking in! And she was there all alone with no neighbors near enough to hear her cries.
Her bare feet didn't make a sound on the patterned rug as she darted to the telephone beside the other sofa. But the line was dead when she picked up the receiver. Panic raced through her veins.
It was too late to run. The front door had already been opened and there was the quiet even tread of footsteps on the stairs. Instinct sent Lacey racing madly to the fireplace. There was a brief clang of metal against metal as she grabbed the poker from its rack.
The footsteps on the stairs paused for an instant and she froze a foot or two in front of the fireplace. Both of her shaking hands were clutching the poker, holding it like a baseball bat in front of her.
The steps resumed their climb. With only the flickering, dying flames of the fire to provide light in the darkened house, the stairwell was encased in shadows. Yet from these shadows emerged a darker figure, halting immobile at the head of the steps.
Breathing became painful for Lacey. She swallowed, trying to ease the paralysis in her throat.
The figure moved nearer, into the haft light cast by the fire. Dark trousers gave way to a lighter-colored top, a knit of some sort, Lacey guessed unconsciously, judging by the way it outlined the breadth of his chest and shoulders. The man's face was all angles and planes, the firelight casting more shadows than it revealed. Yet the rough contours of his face gave her the impression that he was regarding her with curious — if not amused — surprise.
He took another step nearer and her heart jumped into her throat, blocking any bravado words of challenge. The shadows dissipated and she found herself staring into a pair of blue eyes, dark as indigo.
They began to make a slow, assessing sweep of her, traveling down the long column of her throat, over the jutting curves of her breast, noticing the slimness of her waist and hips, and following the length of bare legs to her bare toes, then reversed the order.
Lacey wasn't aware that the firelight flickering behind her made the filmy pajamas virtually transparent. Her only sensation was the way his eyes seemed to burn through her, increasing her feelings of danger.
When the unnerving pair of blue eyes leisurely made their return to her face, they skimmed over the fine bones and the sophisticated short cut of her silky brown hair. Lacey trembled when his gaze finally ensnared hers, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the poker tighter.
"Bob told me I would find everything I want here, but I didn't realize he meant it literally," the intruder mused, his tone riddled with suggestion.
Lacey brandished the poker. "Get out of here!" Her voice was a croaking whisper, making a mockery out of her attempt to threaten him.
She heard his throaty chuckle and wanted to run, but her legs were trembling. She had never been so terrified in her life as she was at that moment. There were so many things that could happen to her and she was trying desperately not to visualize any of them.
"You'd better get out of here," she warned again, this time with a steadier voice, "or I'll … I'll call the police."
&nb
sp; She glanced at the telephone, inching closer toward it. She knew it was dead, but she was taking the chance that he had nothing to do with it.
"Sorry —" there was laughter in his voice, rich and low "— but the telephone has been temporarily disconnected."
As she breathed in quickly in despair, a tiny sob of panic made itself heard. She saw the male contour of his mouth curve into a smile that was oddly gentle, if mockingly indulgent.
"Why don't you tell me who you are and what you're doing here?" he suggested.
His question struck her as being so absurd that she was speechless. It became obvious that her presence wasn't going to intimidate him into leaving. She would have to think of something else.
"I'm not here alone, you know," lied Lacey. "My husband has gone to the store and he'll be back any minute. You'd better leave before he comes."
"Is he now?" The intruder merely smiled. "That's good. Maybe when he gets here, you'll put down that poker and start explaining a few things."
He took another step forward and Lacey raised the poker to strike. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, her stomach churning with fear.
"Don't come any closer," she threatened shakily, "or I'll bash your head in!"
He stopped, the lazy smile still curving his mouth. His stance was indolent, but Lacey wasn't deceived. There wasn't any spare flesh on his muscular frame and a man that physically fit could react in a split second, like a predatory animal.
"I believe you would try," he acknowledged, but in his acknowledgment he was implying that she would be no match for him even with the poker.
Behind Lacey a log in the fireplace popped loudly. The explosive sound startled her to the point that, for a scant second, she thought she was being attacked from the rear.
Before she could assimilate that the sound had been caused by the innocuous popping of a burning log, the steel teeth of a trap had closed around her right wrist, the hand with the major responsibility of holding the poker.
A strangled "No!" was torn from her throat as the weapon was ripped from her grasp.
Adrenalin surged through her system. Where once her limbs had been shaky and weak with fright, they now throbbed with new strength. She struck out at her attacker, arms and legs flailing at anything solid. And there was a great deal that was solid.
At first he was satisfied to merely hold her arm and ward off the bulk of her blows, but as her accuracy improved, he changed his tactics. Lacey felt herself being bodily twisted onto the sofa. Primitive alarm raced through her frantic heartbeats when she felt the force of his weight following to press her against the cushions.
With panicked breaths, she strained to rid herself of the crushing weight of his chest — to no avail. His sheer maleness was awakening all sorts of danger signals and she reacted all the more wildly. The bruising fingers pinning her shoulders to the sofa and thwarting the ineffectual hammering of her fists easily kept her his captive.
As she made a superhuman attempt to twist away, she felt the delicate strap of her pajama top tearing beneath his fingers. It was an inadvertent happening, but the touch of his hand against her now bare skin made her blood run cold with terror.
His body heat had already burned its male imprint on her. She heard him curse softly when she muffled a sob of fear by sinking her teeth into her lip. She detected a trace of liquor — Scotch — in the warm breath that fanned her cheek.
"Will you stop struggling?" he demanded roughly. "I don't want to hurt you."
His assertion flashed through her brain. Immediately Lacey recalled some professional advice she hand either read or heard that suggested a woman should not do anything to incite an attacker into further violence.
Gradually she stopped fighting his hold, although her muscles remained tense, waiting for his next move and the slimmest chance of escape. Her breathing was labored and deep.
"That's better," he said in approval, and shifted to one side, easing the weight from on top of her while retaining a firm hold, as if knowing she would run at the first opportunity.
"Let me go!" Lacey flashed in a hoarse voice. She knew he wouldn't, but needed to make the demand so he would realize she wasn't totally submissive.
"Not yet."
In the dim light she caught the brief glimmer of white teeth and knew he was smiling — laughing at her. It stung that she was so helpless in the face of his superior strength.
He seemed to move toward her and she cringed into the cushions. But his arm reached above her head to switch on the lamp beside the sofa.
Lacey blinked warily in the blinding light, calming under the inspection by the dark blue eyes. She couldn't hold his gaze for long. It was too strangely disturbing, oddly making her feel guilty, and the sensation rattled her.
"Now for some explanations," be stated, eyeing her steadily. "What are you doing in this house?"
"I'm … I'm living here." Lacey frowned in confusion.
Doubt flickered sardonically in his narrowed gaze. "You own the house?" he queried.
"Well, no, not exactly." She wondered why his question made her feel so uncomfortable. She had a perfectly legitimate right to be in the house.
Her left hand was free and she raised it to brush a glistening brown strand of hair from the corner of her eye. His narrowed gaze followed the movement, as if anticipating that she might be intending to strike out at him again.
"Not exactly?" He repeated her phrase. In the blink of an eye, her left hand was caught by his. "And what about your husband? You said he'd be here any minute. Yet your ring finger is bare and there's no sign that you've ever worn a ring on that finger."
Lacey had been caught in her lie and she felt as guilty as she had when she was a child. "It becomes obvious that you weren't expecting your husband, despite your provocative garb."
His gaze flicked to the filmy yellow pajamas more or less covering her breasts, the torn strap resting in her cleavage. Lacey was hotly reminded of the little clothing site had on — and the firm outline of his male length beside her on the narrow sofa.
"I don't think," he continued, "you're expecting anyone."
"You can't be sure of that," she retorted.
"Can't I?" he countered smoothly. "Women invariably cake themselves with makeup and dab perfume in erotic places when they plan to entertain their lovers. Your face is scrubbed clean and —" he turned her left hand and lifted the inside of her wrist closer to his face, catching the clean fragrance of soap instead of expert-sire perfume "— you aren't wearing Chanel No. 5."
"So what!" Lacey jerked her hand away. "None of this is any of your business and I don't have to explain to you. You're the one who broke into the house and accosted me. You …" She stopped short, realizing she shouldn't have reminded him of his reason for being there nor that she could easily identify him to the police.
The metallic glitter in his eyes reinforced the thought. "I broke into the house?" He repeated her words with a steely coldness that rang a familiar note in her memory, but Lacey was too caught up in the present to dwell on it. "You have an uncanny knack for telling tales."
"Telling tales …?" she began indignantly.
"Yes, tales." His hand moved. In the next instant he was holding a key in front of her face. "I used a key to get into the house. You are the one who broke in."
Lacey stared at it open-mouthed. "That's impossible!" she exclaimed finally. "Just because you say that's a key to the door, that doesn't mean it is."
"Believe me, it is." He smiled lazily, folding his fingers around the key and placing it back in his pocket. "So it's time for you to cut the innocent act."
"Act?"
He ignored her look of outrage. "You have two choices. Either get dressed and get out — I presume you do have some other clothes — or if you're desperately in need of a place to sleep tonight, I can recommend my bed." His finger traced the hollow of her collarbone, sending fiery tingles over her skin. "The last couple of nights I've found it to be quite comfortable, if slightly em
pty."
"The last couple of nights!" Lacey burst out angrily.
"I think this house has developed an echo," he chuckled.
"You accuse me of telling tales! You have to be the absolute tops," she sputtered. "You're nothing but a liar! Trying to con me into thinking you have any right to be in this house. Well, you just got caught in your own snare. I'll have you know that I've been sleeping in this house for the last two nights, as well, and I certainly haven't seen you."
"You don't give up, do you?" he declared with an exasperated sigh, and swung his feet to the floor to stand up.
"No, I don't," Lacey retorted, her brown eyes snapping. "And since you've so magnanimously given me the choice of staying here with you or going, I'll leave!"
"Good." His mouth had thinned into a grim line. "And pass on the word to any of your friends who were thinking this house might be vacant and available for a few nights' free lodging that it isn't."
Lacey was on her feet, halfway across the living room headed toward her bedroom, when he finished his comment. She stopped, glaring at him over her shoulder.
"I'll pass the word along," she promised impulsively. "As soon as I'm dressed, I'm going to get into my car and drive straight to the police." Turning away, she muttered aloud, "Margo was right to worry about leaving this place empty while they were away."
Long strides cleaved the distance between them. The soft flesh of her arm was grabbed to spin her around. She clutched at the drooping side of her pajama top, feeling the inherent intimidation of his looming height. But she faced him boldly.
"What did you say just now?" he demanded.
"I said I was going straight to the police," she returned coolly.
"Not that." He frowned impatiently, not relaxing his biting hold of her arm. "The last part that you muttered under your breath."
"About Margo?" Lacey questioned with surprise.
His gaze sharpened. "Who's she?"
"The owner of the house, of course. Didn't you know that?" she asked sarcastically.
