She was mad.
“I never get mad,” she told Cord.
“So you’ve mentioned, several times.”
“It’s an amazing relief. Instead of feeling scared, to just let go and feel mad. I mean, what is this?” She waved her arms to illustrate. “I’ve had enough rotten stuff to deal with. Getting broken into is just ridiculously unfair. Finding your dead brother was even worse. I mean, maybe your brother wasn’t the most ethical knife in the drawer, but…” She frowned, not certain if she was making sense. Although that didn’t seem to stop her from talking. “I’m going to get regularly mad from now on. Loud mad. Mean mad. It’s so much better than being scared. When I was a little girl, I used to stand on the porch and sing at the top of my lungs, did you know that? I was a brat. A ham. An attention grabber. It took years, years, to turn me into the pissy, button-down fuddy-duddy I am today…Oh God, did I say pissy? I meant prissy. I would never say prissy…I mean pissy…oh, shoot, which one did I mean?”
“Sophie, let’s wait until the car stops before you get out, cookie.”
“And then there’s you,” she muttered. Fresh air slapped her in the face when she climbed out of the car. Good thing, since the whole street was revolving like a carousel. Suddenly, she wondered why she didn’t drink more often. This was so wonderful. The whole night looked magically sprinkled with stardust.
“Sophie?”
“No,” she said firmly, and abruptly danced down the street. Cord did that to her. Made her feel like dancing. Made her think about moonlight and stardust. It was…unsettling. Somewhere beneath the taste of all that wine was the taste of temptation. Not the temptation of stardust, but the temptation of plain old lust. No man had tempted her in years-not really tempted-the kind of temptation that made her want to strip off more than clothes. The kind of temptation to throw all her fears to the wind and just grab hold of him for the lust of it.
“Oh, no,” she muttered. “I learned a long time ago that monsters don’t hide under the bed. They’re everywhere. At least my monsters are. You can’t feel safe if you think someone’s going to disappear on you. And they all do. Everyone does. So, for darn sure, you don’t open the door to someone you’re not sure of. And for damn sure, I’m not sure of you.”
Abruptly, she found Cord standing directly in front of her. “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, Soph, but your apartment is that way.” He motioned behind her.
“Well, hell. Who moved my building?” she demanded.
If he answered her, she couldn’t hear him-possibly because her right ear was abruptly crushed against his chest. His long arm tucked her against his side as he turned her around, steering her toward the brownstone. She’d have protested, but the truth was that she’d have stumbled if he hadn’t helped hold her up.
Still, she felt the situation needed clarifying. “Look,” she said, “I don’t do this. Ever.”
“Don’t do what?”
“I don’t fall in love with men who aren’t honest with me. Cripes, it’s hard enough for me to loosen up with men who are honest with me. You’re too far off my radar, Cord. There’s no reason you’d normally be looking at me. So something isn’t kosher. I feel it. I know it. So that’s it. I’m not falling in love with you. It’d be like getting a love note from a pistachio.”
“Huh?”
“You don’t know the pistachio song? You want me to sing it?”
“No. Please God, no. Sophie, just concentrate on walking, okay?”
“Or I could sing the other song, about walking on the safe side of the sidewalk. About how she’s afraid to trust anyone, even herself. That’s me. The untruster. The safe sidewalk walker.” She repeated that phrase, charmed with herself. All those S’s and W’s. And she said them brilliantly. Several times.
Out of the complete blue, Cord suddenly lifted her in his arms.
“What-”
“Shh. No more talking for you.”
Well, the truth was, she was pretty darned exhausted. So she closed her eyes for just a second, thinking she just needed a moment to catch her breath.
Just before opening her eyes, Sophie felt the snuggly security of a warm, breathing body next to her. A male body. And so typical of a male who’d gotten exactly what he wanted, he was purring loud enough to wake the neighborhood. “Caviar, you know you’re not allowed under the covers…” Her groggy voice trailed off abruptly. Caviar didn’t seem to be the only male in her bedroom.
Cord looked downright silly, sprawled in her white wicker rocker with the flowery cushion. He’d taken off his shoes. His right sock had a hole. His hair looked raked by a tornado and his chin had sprouted a weed patch of whiskers.
He was also awake. Glaring at her with those sexy dark eyes…although the shadows under his eyes were bigger than boats.
“What on earth are you doing here?” she said groggily.
“You scared the hell out of me.”
“I scared you?”
“You had a ton of food, you know. A ton. I thought the wine would help you calm down. When we first left, I could see how shaken up you were by the break-in. And you only had half the bottle. It was just wine. After all that food. I take it you don’t normally drink?”
“Is this your way of apologizing for getting me drunk?” She peeked under the covers. Caviar looked up at her with sleepy eyes. Nothing else under there but her in all her clothes-except for her shoes-and the cat.
“I didn’t get you drunk. I was trying to be helpful, for God’s sake.”
She leaned up on an elbow. He’d stayed there all night, just because he was worried about her?
But then the rest of life came back into focus. Daylight filtered through the north window, illuminating part of the devastation from the night before. Her tall, antique-white bookcase with the glass doors-hers, not part of the rental furniture that came with the place-was in shambles, glass panes broken, books spilled all over the polished plank floors. Her shoes and purses looked strewn from her closet by a drunk ogre on a binge. Drawers were askew, revealing bra straps and socks and an upended box of old letters. “You were helpful,” she said to Cord. “I don’t care if I had too much wine. I needed to get away from this for a little bit. But now…”
Now she had a monster mess-and a job-to attend to, and she assumed he’d leave. Instead, when she got out of the bathroom, fresh showered, still pulling a purple sweater over her pounding head, Cord was still there.
She found him in the kitchen, by following the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of crackling eggs, but he stopped messing with the spatula the instant she walked in. Talk about an inspection. She felt examined, from her gray flannel skirt to the bulky fit of her purple sweater to her fresh-washed hair. His gaze narrowed on her face, though. “You don’t feel sick?” he asked her.
“Sick at the mess from the break-in, yes. Sick because of the wine, no. What?”
He motioned her to sit at the table-where he’d miraculously cleared a spot for a plate and fork, as if he owned the place. Next to the napkin, though, was a thick manila envelope. “Don’t touch it,” he said. “I’m taking it to the police this morning. But I wanted you to see it first. It was in my brother’s mailbox this morning.”
She picked up the china cup of coffee at the same time she glanced at the envelope’s contents. And then slapped down the cup abruptly.
“Good grief,” she said.