by J. R. Ward
He glanced around. God, how long had it been since he’d stood in this room?
As he went through the years, he was surprised to realize it had been all the way back when he’d gone away to Harvard as a freshman. Made sense though. College had been his ticket out, and once he didn’t have to sleep under this roof, he’d made damn sure he never showed up again. It had been the same for Billy when he’d gotten a football scholarship to Holy Cross. And for Mac, who’d joined the army the very month Billy went off to college. They’d all left and never returned.
Go figure.
Sean went over to his duffel, stripped down to his boxers and grabbed his toothbrush. After he hit the bathroom in the hall, he picked a pillow off his old bed and headed for the couch.
No way in hell he was sleeping in his room.
Lying flat on his back in the dark, he thought of the penthouse he lived in down in Manhattan. Park Avenue in the seventies, a perfect address. And everything in that showstopper of a place was sleek and expensive, from the furniture to the drapes to the kitchen appliances to that million-dollar view of Central Park.
It was about as far away from where he was now as was humanly possible.
Sean screwed his lids down, crossed his arms over his chest and concentrated on going to sleep.
Yeah, right.
He lasted not even ten minutes before he was on his bare feet and pacing up and down over the knobby area rug.
* * *
Lizzie parked the Toyota in front of the row house and got out with the bag of Mr. O’Banyon’s things. Her feet were killing her and she had a headache from having had too many coffees, but at least she didn’t have to be at the clinic until noon today because she was working the later shift.
As she stepped onto the duplex’s concrete walkway, she stopped and looked up. No lights were on upstairs, but that wasn’t because someone was sleeping. It was because no one lived there anymore.
Tears stung her eyes. It was hard to imagine her cranky old friend gone. Hard to internalize the fact that there would be no more blue glow from his TV at night, no more sound of him shuffling about, no more trips to buy him the chocolate ice cream he liked.
No more talking to him the way a daughter talked to a gruff father.
She tightened her grip on the bag’s handles and hoped he hadn’t struggled at the end, hadn’t felt horrible pain and fear. She wished for him a peaceful slide as he passed, not a bumpy, frightening fall.
As she went up to the house, she felt as if there was a draft licking around her body, as if the night had turned frigid though it was in fact balmy.
It was just so hard to come home this morning. To her, there was only empty space above her now. The man whose life had animated the furniture and the objects in the other apartment was gone and the silence overhead was only going to remind her of what had been lost.
After Lizzie let herself into her place, she put her keys in a dish on her little painted table and shut the door. She was setting down the plastic bag when she froze.
Someone was walking around upstairs.
Her first thought was totally illogical: for a split second, she was sure that someone had made a mistake with Mr. O’Banyon and he’d been discharged because he was perfectly healthy.
Her second thought was that a burglar had broken in.
Except then she realized whoever it was was pacing. Back. Forth. Back. Forth.
The son had come into town.
She started for the door, but then stopped because going up to see him was ridiculous. Though she’d been close to the guy’s father, she didn’t know the son at all and it was just before dawn, for heaven’s sake. Hardly the time for a sympathy call.
After she took a shower, she sat in her living room with a bowl of corn flakes in her lap. Instead of eating the cereal, she played with it until it turned to mush, and listened to the man above her wear out the floorboards.
Twenty minutes later, she put on a pair of jeans and went up the stairwell.
The moment she knocked, the pacing stopped. Just in case he thought she was a burglar, she said, “Hello? Mr.—ah, Sean O’Banyon?”
Nothing could have prepared her for who opened that door.
The man on the other side of the jamb stood about six inches taller than her and wore nothing but a pair of boxers and a whole lot of muscle. With a gold cross hanging from his neck, an old tattoo on his left pec and a scar on one of his shoulders, he looked a little dangerous…especially in the face. His hazel eyes were sharp as razors, his jaw set as if he was used to being in charge, his lips nothing but a tight, hard line.
She could totally imagine the cold tone she’d heard over her phone coming out of that mouth.
“Yeah?” His voice was very deep.
“I’m Lizzie—Elizabeth Bond. I talked to you today—yesterday. I live downstairs.”
All at once his face eased up. “Ah, hell. I’m making too much noise, aren’t I? Worse, I’ve been at it for a while.” His South Boston accent flattened out his vowels and sharpened his consonants. Funny, she hadn’t noticed the intonation over the phone, but it was clear as day now. And she’d seen him somewhere. Then again, it was probably because he looked like his father.
“Anyway,” he said, “I’m sorry and I’ll cut it out.”
“Oh, that wasn’t why I came up. And I just got home from my shift so I missed most of the pacing.” She took a deep breath and smelled…whoa, a very nice cologne. “I’m truly sorry about your loss and I—”
“Hey, you want some breakfast?”
“Excuse me?”
“Breakfast.” As he pushed a hand through his thick dark hair, his bicep flexed up and the gleaming cross shifted between his pecs. “I’m not going to sleep anytime soon and I’m hungry.”
“Oh…well…that’s not necessary.”
“Of course it isn’t. But you just got home from work, didn’t you?”
“Ah, yes.”
“So you’re probably hungry, too, right?”
Come to think of it she was.
“And I’ll even put my pants on for you, Elizabeth.”
Absurdly, a rush went through her. And she had the illicit, inappropriate thought that while he was making love to a woman, his voice would sound fantastic in the ear.
God, how could she even think like that?
“Lizzie,” she said, walking in. “I go by Lizzie.”
* * *
Sean tracked the woman as she went by him, very aware of her smooth, gliding stride. Tall and lean, she was wearing an old pair of blue jeans and a four-sizes-too-big Red Sox T-shirt he was willing to bet she’d be sleeping in later. Her shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense way and the ends were damp as if she’d just showered. She smelled of Ivory soap.
Which he liked.
“Lizzie it is, then,” he said as he closed the door. “And you can call me Sean, of course.”
As he spoke, he realized his Southie accent had resurfaced and it was strange to hear the speech pattern of his childhood back in his words again. During his years at Harvard, he’d assiduously tamed the telltale rs and learned a different, less regional way of talking.
Less regional. Ha. Try more upper-class.
Lizzie stopped in the middle of the room, her pale green stare going over everything as if she were inspecting the place. She had smart eyes, he thought.
“So you’re a nurse?” he said.
“I am, but I wasn’t treating your father. I was a friend of his.”
Had he heard that right? “A friend.”
“Yes. I’ve lived downstairs for the past two years so we got to know each other. He was lonely.”
“Was he.”
“Very.” As she nodded, she ran her hand over the back of the Barcalounger. “We had dinner together a lot.”
For some reason, the sight of her touching his father’s chair creeped him out.
“Well, then, I guess you know the way to the kitchen.” Sean reached into hi
s duffel for some jeans. “You mind if I don’t put on a shirt? Damn hot up here.”
He was surprised when she blushed. “Oh…no. I mean, yes, that’s fine.”
As she headed out of the room, he pulled on his pants and thought of his father.
Lonely. Yeah, right. Not with this tenant around. Eddie O’Banyon had been a loner by nature, but it was funny how a pretty young woman could get a man to feeling sociable.
And she’d obviously spent a lot of time up here. Not only did she know where the kitchen was, but along the way, she shifted the edge of a cheap picture that had tilted off center and straightened a pile of mail. He had the feeling she was the reason the place was so clean.
While Sean worked his way up his button fly, he was willing to bet she was also the reason his father had gotten off the booze, too. Nothing like love or some serious attraction to the opposite sex to turn a guy around. At least temporarily.
Except what had she seen in him?
Sean cursed under his breath. Like he had to even ask that? On impulse, he removed his gold watch and tucked it into his duffel. If she’d been attracted to what little cash his father had had, there was no reason for her to know he was swimming in the stuff.
As he went into the kitchen, he wondered if she knew who he was. He figured chances were fifty/fifty. His face had been in the newspapers often enough, but it was the kind of thing that, unless you were into the world of high finance, you’d probably overlook. Although maybe his father had mentioned something.
Not that Eddie had known much.
“So cop a seat and I’ll cook for you,” Sean said, nodding to the table in the center of the room. “All I got are eggs and bacon, but the good thing is that’s hard to screw up.”
“Sounds perfect.”
He went to where the frying pan had always been kept and what do you know, the thing was still there. “Scrambled okay?”
“Fine.”
As he got the bacon going and grabbed the eggs out of the fridge, he kept his tone casual. “So you knew my old man well, huh?”
“He was very kind to me.”
I’ll bet. “You lived here two years, you said?”
“Since I got out of nursing school. I wasn’t around much as I work at a clinic in Roxbury and I moonlight at BMC a lot, but we spent some time together.” A sad smile lifted her mouth. “Your father always said I worked too hard.”
Did he? What a prince. “And you took care of this place, too, didn’t you? I mean, it’s pretty obvious. He never was into housekeeping when I knew him.”
“Well, at first he wouldn’t let me. But after a while, he needed help.” She cleared her throat. “When was the last time you saw him? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“A while. He told you not to call me until it was over, right?”
As she stayed quiet, he cracked eggs into a bowl and started to beat them with a fork. The choppy, liquid sound cut through her silence.
He looked over his shoulder. “Didn’t he?”
“Yes. It felt wrong not to, but I respected his wishes.”
When her green eyes lifted to his, he stopped dead.
Check out that stare, he thought. So compassionate. So…kind.
As he looked at her face, something popped in his chest, like a lid being released. And what came out of his inner soda can was a yearning that unsettled him. He literally wanted to dive right into those warm eyes of hers.
“I think the bacon is burning,” she said.
He cursed and got back with the program. As he transferred the strips onto a paper towel–covered plate, he asked, “So where are you from?”
“The north shore. Essex. My mother is still up there.” Lizzie laughed a little. “I was hoping to introduce your father to her. Maybe they could have been friends. But your father liked to keep to himself.”
Or maybe keep Lizzie to himself? “You got a husband or a boyfriend there, Lizzie?”
As she blushed again, he became absorbed in the pink tint on her face. To the point that when she dipped her head, he found himself leaning to the side so he could keep measuring her cheeks.
Man, the women he knew in Manhattan did not blush and he realized he liked it. Or hell, maybe he just liked this particular woman turning red.
“Lizzie? Was my question too personal?”
“Not at all. I don’t have a husband. Or boyfriend. Too busy.”
Good, he thought. Then frowned.
Wait a minute. Not good. Doesn’t matter. None of his business.
Besides, maybe she’d been saving herself for his father. God, what a cringer that was.
“What about you?” she asked. “Are you married?”
“Nope. Not my thing.”
“Why not?”
Well, there were a whole bunch of why nots. The first of which was prenups could be broken and he had no intention of someone in stilettos walking off with his hard-earned cash. More than that, though, you had to trust your wife wouldn’t play you. And he’d long ago lost the illusion that faith in lovers or business associates could be justified.
Hell, maybe he’d never had it. His two brothers were really the only people on the planet he believed in.
“No particular reason,” he said, dumping the eggs into the pan. As a hiss rose up from the hot iron, he tacked on, “Other than I’m a loner.”
She smiled. “Like your father.”
He whipped his head around. “I am nothing like my father.”
As she recoiled, he didn’t apologize. Some things needed to be stated clearly and he was not like that abusive, drunken bastard on any level.
“You like a lot of pepper in your eggs?” he said to fill up the silence.
CHAPTER THREE
Sean O’Banyon might be a little touchy about his father, but he made a very good breakfast, Lizzie thought, as she put her fork on her clean plate and eased back in the chair.
Wiping her mouth on a paper towel, she glanced across the table. Sean was still eating, but then again he had twice the food she’d taken to get through. And he was slow and meticulous with his meal, which surprised her. He seemed like the kind of tough guy who wouldn’t bother with good table manners. But his were beautiful.
And…boy, yeah, the way he ate wasn’t the only beautiful thing about him. That chest of his was sinfully good to look at. So were his thick eyelashes. And his mouth—
Lizzie cursed in her head. What was her problem? The man asks her in for breakfast right after his father dies and she’s checking him out as if he were an eHarmony candidate?
Then again, it was probably biology talking. After all, when had she last been alone with a man? As she counted up the months, then hit the one-year, then two-year mark, she winced.
Two and a half years ago? How had that happened?
“What’s wrong?” Sean asked, obviously catching her expression.
Yeah, like she was going to parade her Death Valley dating life in front of him? “Oh, nothing.”
“So what was I about to ask you? Oh…your mother. You said she’s still up in Essex?”
“Ah, yes, she is. She’s an artist and she loves living by the sea. She keeps busy painting and sketching and trying out just about every kind of creative endeavor you can think of.”
To keep her eyes off him, Lizzie folded her paper napkin into a precise square—and thought about her mother’s origami period. That year, the Christmas tree had been covered with pointy-headed swans and razor-edged stars. Most of them had been off-kilter, mere approximations of what they were supposed to be, but her mother had adored them, and because of that, Lizzie had loved them, as well.
For no particular reason, she said, “My mother is what they used to call fey. Lovely and…”
“All in her head?”
“Precisely.”
“So you take care of her, huh? She relies on you for the practical stuff.”
As Lizzie flushed, she murmured, “Either you’re very perceptive, or I’m quite transparent.”
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“Little bit of both, I think.”
As he smiled, her heart tripped and fell into her gut. Oh…God, he was handsome.
“How long are you in town?” she blurted. And then couldn’t believe she’d asked. It wasn’t that the question was forward on the surface, but more because she was angling to see him again in a situation just like this. The two of them alone.
Can you say desperate, she thought.
“I’m going back to the city tomorrow—well, that’s today, isn’t it?” He wiped his mouth and took a drink from his glass of orange juice. “But I’ll be back. I’ve got to clean out this place.”
“Are you going to sell?”
“No reason to keep it. But I’ll make sure you’re in the loop.”
“Thank you. I really liked living here.”
“Hopefully you won’t have to leave. I can’t believe anyone would want to turn this into a one-family.”
“I think I’m going to want to move, though.”
“Why?”
She looked around. “It won’t be the same without him.”
Sean frowned and fell silent so she got up and took both their plates to the sink. As she washed them with a sponge she’d bought a week and a half ago, she tried not to think that Mr. O’Banyon had still been alive back then.
“So you and my father were real tight, huh?”
She held a plate under the rushing water. “We used to watch TV together. And we always ate dinner up here on Sundays. We also looked out for each other. It was nice to think someone wondered whether or not I made it back from my night shifts. Made me feel safer.”
And cared for.
With her mother, Lizzie had always been the watcher, the worrier, the keeper…even when she’d been young. For the time she had known Mr. O’Banyon, it had been really nice to be something other than a ghost on the periphery of someone’s artistic inspiration.
Feeling awkward, she asked, “So do you live right in Manhattan?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve always wanted to go there,” she murmured as she put the plate in the drying rack. “It seems so exciting and glamorous.”
