The hall was deserted, just one harmless front door and four equally harmless steps leading up to the two first-floor apartments. When Mrs. Wissler lived next door, Greer had generally taken sanctuary in her neighbor’s kitchen after one of her telephone calls and stayed there until the shaky feeling passed. Unfortunately, Mrs. Wissler had moved three weeks before. Except for Greer, the whole building was deserted. The two single men in the upstairs apartments were rarely home on a Friday night.
She didn’t need anyone to hold her hand anyway. What good was a degree in psychology if it didn’t help you deal with a simple problem in a logical, rational manner?
Still mentally scolding herself, Greer settled on the third step, folded open the foil covering on her dinner and tucked her white robe around her legs. She was just putting the first bite of lasagna into her mouth when the front door flew open. Her fork stayed suspended in midair.
The man was a rapid blur of yellow hard hat and short sleeves and grocery bag. Greer caught only a quick glimpse of tanned square face and blue eyes before he turned rapidly. Unfortunately, Truce chose that instant to leap at him from the steps. The stranger couldn’t see over his grocery bag, and the next thing Greer knew, an orange had settled on her lap, a head of lettuce was sitting next to her, the hard hat was on its last bounce at the door, and a most irritated man was draped half on her legs, half on the stairs.
“Good Lord. Are you all right?” Greer exclaimed.
Very blue, very furious eyes squinted dazedly in her direction. “Is that your cat?”
There was a time and a place for honesty. This really didn’t seem to be it. Declining to answer, Greer lowered her eyes, rapidly set down her lasagna and scrambled to pick up the lettuce and orange. “I’ll take care of all this. Are you hurt?”
“No.” He spat out the word with all the friendliness of a guard dog.
He was definitely irritated, but Greer didn’t mind. Even hostile company was welcome after one of her phone calls. And she was honestly fascinated by refilling the man’s grocery bag. People revealed so much about themselves by what they bought at the grocery store. This man was clearly a bachelor who was going to die soon of malnutrition. Oranges, lettuce, beer, three containers of cashews, apples and two packages of Oreos. The Oreos were the worse for wear after their tumble. “I’ll replace these,” she said seriously as she turned back to him.
“Just…” He grabbed the bag from her and set it safely next to the apartment door opposite Greer’s. Out of harm’s way, said his body language.
Her lips twitched. “Honestly, I’m sorry,” she said gravely.
“You usually eat your dinner sitting on the stairs in the hall?” he growled.
“Not…exactly.”
“You just happened to pick tonight.”
“Not…exactly.”
“And Battle Cat-is it exactly yours?”
“Truce?” Greer glanced down at the feline who was winding in and around her bare legs. “You have to be kidding. I’ve never seen that animal before in my life.”
He was silent for a minute, and when Greer peeked she could see a grin sneaking up on the corners of his mouth. And he was staring at her. Leaning back against the opposite wall, the stranger was clearly catching his breath, but at the same time his eyes were busy wandering over her legs-which she instantly tucked together-and then at the sexy hint of chartreuse satin slip-which she hurriedly buried under the lapels of her robe.
Her attempts to hide her figure were by long habit quick; the stranger’s eyes were quicker. They settled on her oval face, the frame of bouncing nut-brown hair, the straight nose with three freckles, the untannable cream of her complexion, and her eyes-and by the time his eyes met hers, she had the sudden inexplicable urge to fidget.
It wasn’t wearing only a robe that bothered her, or even that he checked out her figure. Men inevitably checked out her curves on first meeting, but few, very few, spent more time looking at her face. Regardless, fidgeting wasn’t her thing. Sensibly, Greer plopped back down on the step and picked up her fork and TV dinner.
“I take it you’re my neighbor-unless you regularly wander through strange apartment buildings finding halls to eat your dinner in?” There was an ultrapatient quality in his low-pitched voice, as if he’d already resigned himself to sharing the building with a kook.
“You should never sign a lease until you know the people you’re going to live across from,” Greer said gravely. “Anyway, it’s not the way it looks.”
“No?”
“No. It’s the crank calls. Not that my reaction to them is in any way rational. I admit that my behavior is ridiculous.” Greer forked in another, small mouthful of lasagna. “Can’t help it, though,” she admitted. “In the beginning, it wasn’t so bad. Actually, I thought it was kind of funny. He was nice. Honestly. I mean, he never called in the middle of the night, and one time when I told him I had company, he laid off for three days-”
“Wait a minute.” Her stranger took a breath and then sank down on the top step, lazily stretching out long, denim-clad legs as if resting up for a siege. “Go on,” he said politely and cleared his throat. “I must have missed the transition. Like the whole relationship between eating dinner in a hallway and receiving crank calls. Never mind. You were telling me that your obscene caller didn’t phone for a few days?”
“He isn’t an obscene caller. He’s just a breather.”
“I see.”
“Which is why it’s so ridiculous to get upset. He doesn’t say or do anything terrible. And I thought I’d get rid of him when I had my telephone number changed, but no such luck. Anyway, I would hardly have been out here in the hall if I’d thought anyone was going to be around.” Greer dropped her fork, rubbed her palm on the thigh of her robe and whipped out her hand with a determinedly friendly smile. “Greer here. Mostly because my mother was a frustrated actress. Lothrup’s the last name. And you’re…?”
“Becoming rapidly exhausted,” he said flatly. His palm enclosed hers. His hand was very warm, very callused, and he withdrew it very, very quickly.
Greer repressed a smile. The fury had clearly left his eyes, and a deliriously wicked twinkle had replaced it. Well. An exasperated twinkle perhaps, but there was humor in there somewhere. “I really am a very good neighbor,” she assured him gravely. “You can ask the guys upstairs. I mean, your business is your business. I pick up mail and water plants, when people are on vacation. Deliver chicken soup when someone has a cold. Generally keep the cat I’ve never seen in my life out of sight. In a pinch, I’m not opposed to sewing on a button. Not to imply that men aren’t fully capable…”
She had to stop for breath, which was probably just as well since she seemed to be chattering like a nervous mynah bird. Most people found Greer reserved on first meeting. But then, most people didn’t meet her after one of her confrontations with The Breather. And whether the stranger meant to or not, he was winning an awful lot of brownie points by keeping his attention above her neck while they talked.
There was a dance of amusement in his eyes as he motioned for her to continue eating. “I get the message,” he said gravely, “but somehow I have trouble picturing you in the role of resident housemother.”
Wrong, sweetie, Greer thought with amusement. Other men had made the same mistake, and Greer had no doubts she could set her new neighbor straight in time. Figure or no figure, the femme fatale role just wasn’t her scene. Eye shadow looked clownish on her; she wasn’t about to mask her freckles with makeup; and over the years she’d learned that even the most ruthless predators didn’t make passes at mother figures. The defense mechanism had evolved naturally. Greer liked taking care of people, and that included men.