Cindy raised her eyes.
“Okay, okay, I’m going. I’ll try not to wake you up when I come home.” She waved and then left, locking the door behind her.
Cindy worked in silence for two hours, interrupted only once by a phone call. She left a note for Paula saying that Mr. Axelrod in 12-C wished to inform her that his bathtub was leaking, and would she please contact the plumber. She was thinking about making coffee and taking a break when the doorbell rang at about nine-thirty.
Cindy got up to answer it, taking care to look through the peephole before she threw the bolt.
Andrew Fox was standing in the hall.
Her heart beating a little faster, Cindy opened the door.
He leaned against the jamb and folded his arms.
“Hi, Lucinda,” he said quietly. “Remember me?”
Chapter 2
Cindy was silent, painfully conscious that her hair was screwed into a straggling bun on the top of her head and that there was a badly chewed pencil stuck in it. She was also barefoot and wearing ancient, paper thin jeans faded to white at the seams. These were topped by a bleach spotted sweatshirt bearing the slogan: “Run for Life—The 1983 Juvenile Diabetes Marathon.” Why, just once, couldn’t she be wearing a black lace negligee when an attractive man appeared unexpectedly? Or at least a cocktail dress with high heels. But no. On such occasions she was invariably attired in the most ragged, ridiculous clothes she owned. It seemed to be a curse from which there was no escape.
He shook his head. “No response,” he mourned. “How quickly they forget.”
Cindy snapped out of it. “Of course I remember you,” she said, recovering.
“Good.” They stared at each other. “Well,” he went on, “do I stand out here in the hall like a student selling magazines?”
“I’m sorry, come in. Please excuse me. I just wasn’t expecting anyone.” She stepped aside and he walked past her into Paula’s apartment.
“Paula’s not home,” she said, watching as he looked around.
His light eyes moved back to her face. “I know that. I came to see you.”
Cindy’s pulse jumped. “Oh, yes?”
“Nice place,” he commented. “Last time I saw this apartment it was a mess.”
“When was that?”
“A couple of days before Paula moved in. She was having it painted, and Johnny and I carried some stuff up for her. He was here for a visit.” He eyed her levelly. “Paula didn’t seem to know what to do with me. I think she was afraid I was going to set a signal fire on the balcony.”
This so accurately described Paula’s attitude toward him that Cindy couldn’t suppress a giggle. He smiled at her response.
The telephone rang, interrupting their shared moment. Cindy moved to get it, took the message for Paula and hung up. She glanced around for a pencil with which to write it down. Fox stepped in front of her and removed the mangled pencil from her hair.
“Looking for this?” he asked mildly.
“Thank you,” Cindy said briskly, as if she had placed it there for safekeeping. This attitude was a little difficult to maintain as her hair, loosened by his action, tumbled from its confinement and fell over her right eye, obscuring her vision. Coughing delicately, she shoved it behind her ear unceremoniously, bending to scribble quickly on the pad.
“Lucinda, Lucinda, let down your hair,” Fox recited softly.
“I didn’t let it down, it fell down. Besides, that line is supposed to be for Rapunzel.” She tossed pencil and pad onto the telephone table.
“A princess by any other name...” he said, shrugging.
“I’m not a princess.”
He nodded wisely. “Oh, yes, you are. Take it from me. I can spot a princess a mile off, Lucinda.”
“Please stop calling me that,” she said faintly. “It makes me feel like I’m back in fourth grade, being called on the carpet by one of the nuns.”
“Okay. Cindy it is,” he replied, chuckling.
Annoyed at her loss of composure, Cindy gathered her hair in her hands, planning to bind it up again. Standing there facing him with it falling about her face made her feel childish and awkward.
He saw her intention and stayed her hand, closing his strong brown fingers around her wrist. “Don’t do that,” he said quietly. “Your hair is so pretty, such a nice color, not too brown or red and just a little gold at the tips. What do you call that shade?”
“Golden brown?” Cindy replied, swallowing, intensely aware of his touch.
“It looked beautiful this afternoon, like a beacon in that dull street, a glossy mane flowing over your shoulders.” His hand moved to touch the strands lying against her neck, and his fingertips brushed her skin.
Cindy closed her eyes. She had to put him at a distance, fast. She was definitely getting out of her depth.
She stepped back, away from him. “Do you always pay such extravagant compliments to women you’ve just met?” she asked frostily.
He hung his head, clasping his hands behind his back and staring at the floor. “I think I’ve just been put in my place,” he said, sighing dramatically. His mocking tone and exaggerated attitude of contrition had the desired effect on Cindy: her high-handedness became ridiculous in her own eyes. She was beginning to see that it was impossible to gain the advantage with him. The best she could hope for was a draw.
“Look, Mr. Fox,” she said evenly, deciding to try the forthright approach, “suppose you tell me why you came here.”
“Drew,” he corrected, dropping his chastened schoolboy act and resuming his normal stance.
“Drew,” she repeated dutifully.
“Actually,” he said, “I came here to apologize.”
Cindy frowned, puzzled. “Apologize for what?”
“For your injury. I stopped off at the hospital tonight and Paula fixed me up.” He touched the neat patch of gauze that had replaced his makeshift dressing. “She told me you got cut too, and I feel responsible.”
“Don’t be silly,” Cindy said, turning away. “It’s nothing.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Let me see.”
Cindy thrust her arm behind her back.
He shook his finger in her face, “Let me see it, princess, or I’ll turn you over my knee.”
He seemed ready to do just that, so Cindy offered the hidden arm reluctantly.
Fox took her hand and pushed the sleeve back from her wrist, turning her arm over to see the inside. He gently probed the edges of the bandage, his touch firm and sure.
“No redness, no swelling. And another nifty wrapping job by Paula Desmond, R.N.” He looked up to meet her eyes. “I guess you’ll be okay.”
“I told you I was all right,” Cindy responded huffily, trying to pull her hand from his.
“Wait a minute,” he cautioned. “Not so fast.” Before she could react he raised her trapped fingers to his lips.
“What are you doing?” Cindy gasped.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he murmured, his mouth caressing her hand.
“No, it’s not,” she replied, tugging harder, but to no avail.
“I’m kissing it to make it well,” he said softly, trailing his tongue along her knuckles.
“My arm was cut, not my hand,” she said logically, trying to hang on to some shred of sanity. The moist warmth of his mouth was traveling up her arm like an electrical current.
“I’ll kiss that, too,” he responded, his lips moving past her wrist.
“Stop!” she cried, in a voice so loud and anxious that he obeyed her, surprising both of them. He released his hold, and she scrambled backward, her eyes wide.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, alarmed. He hadn’t intended to scare her.
Cindy didn’t know what to say. Fear didn’t exactly describe what she felt.
Fox watched her, his light eyes vivid, almost otherworldly in his dusky face. His black hair shone like polished ebony in the artificial light, and the white bandage stood out against it like a lonely patch of snow on dark macadam. In his tight jeans and loose cotton shirt, his expression alert, but patient, he looked like the modern embodiment of one of his ancient ancestors, who knew how to wait and listen.