Expecting...And In Danger

Three

Charlotte hadn’t known what to expect of Rafe’s apartment. She’d been pretty sure it wouldn’t resemble his parents’ home on Lake Shore Drive. Grant and Emma Connelly lived in a Georgian-style manor furnished in antiques and elegance, with landscaped grounds that included an ornamental pool and a boxwood maze. It was altogether gracious and tasteful, not to mention intimidatingly rich.

But Rafe wouldn’t be interested in gracious or traditional. He was fond of the casual, the eclectic, the downright odd. So she hadn’t been surprised when they’d arrived at a converted office building in an area that was as much commercial as residential. But still…

Whatever she’d unconsciously expected, she thought as she stood in the middle of Rafe’s living space, this wasn’t it. She rubbed the back of her head, where the threatened headache had settled, and turned in a slow circle, taking it all in.

Except for the kitchen, the entire downstairs was one big room. The floor was wooden, the ceiling high, the colors bold. Furniture and floor treatments rather than walls defined the spaces. A change from wood to tile marked the dining area, which was anchored by an enormous painting of a jester, complete with whimsical hat, tasseled costume and airborne balls of many colors.

A sectional sofa in glowing apricot created an L-shaped conversational area in front of a fireplace. The fireplace itself was modern and white; the wall that held it had been painted deep blue. That same wall also held bookshelves, three windows, a stereo and a huge-screen TV. Facing the TV were cushy chairs upholstered in green and yellow and purple. A hammock swung gently in front of the single big window on the right-hand wall. Next to it was an iron staircase flanked by a stunning wooden statue of a nude woman.

“You have a strange look on your face,” he said. “If you don’t like the place, blame my sister Alexandra. She picked out most of the furniture.”

She stopped looking at Rafe’s things and looked at Rafe. He stood in the middle of all that color, looking dark and dangerous and out of place in his beard stubble and shaggy hair. In this light, the color of his eyes wasn’t black, but blue—dark blue, like a stormy sky. “There’s a tie on your chandelier,” she said.

He glanced up, surprised. “So there is.”

A bubble of laughter rose in spite of her aching head. She turned away, fighting a smile. The room was classy, expensive, extravagant—and extravagantly messy. Things were everywhere they didn’t belong. Books, magazines, newspapers, clothing. A guitar. Two big, thoroughly dead plants. Computer parts were strewn across the glass-topped dining table, along with more papers, a pair of socks and a tool chest. The leather coat he’d loaned her was tossed across a low hassock. The wooden nude by the stairs wore a plastic lei and a Cubs cap.

She found the clutter oddly endearing. Rafe had always seemed like too much of a good thing—too sexy, too rich, too confident. His bright, sloppy apartment made him more human. Something warmed and softened inside her.

He sighed. “It’s a mess, isn’t it?”

“Ah…” She hunted for something tactful to say, but came up empty and settled for honesty. “Yes.”

“Messy doesn’t bother me, but you like things tidy. I’ll see what I can do tomorrow.” He glanced around, frowning as if he wasn’t at all sure what that might be. “It is clean. You don’t have to worry about that. Doreen comes at least once a week when I’m in town, and the woman is a demon on dirt. She’ll clean anything that doesn’t get out of her way. Nearly vacuumed me once when I was taking a nap, but fortunately I woke up in time.”

Oh, the smile was winning, damn him. She bent to straighten a leaning pile of newspapers. “Were you napping in the hammock?”

“It’s a restful spot. You don’t need to do that.”

“I can’t help myself. What’s behind the red wall?”

“The kitchen. There’s also a half bath down here. The full bath is upstairs, along with my bedroom and office.”

“And the guest room? Where I’ll be staying—is that upstairs or down?”

“Ah…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “There isn’t exactly a guest room. I used that for my office.”

Temper made her head pound. “If you think I’m going to climb into your bed—”

“You’ll be there alone…if that’s what you want.”

She refused to dignify that bit of blatant provocation with a reply. Turning, she headed for the stairs.

The rooms upstairs were smaller than down, but still much larger than the living room of her old apartment. A glance through the first open door revealed a room that was mostly high-tech office, though piles of papers and odds and ends of workout equipment hid some of the computer paraphernalia.

A glance through the opposite doorway made her smile and step inside.

His bathroom was long and narrow, walled in cobalt-blue tile, with gleaming white fixtures and a large shower stall bricked in glass blocks. That long wash of blue ended at a square, step-up tub deep enough to drown in. “Oh, my.” She went straight for the tub. “I think I’m in love.”

Rafe stood in the doorway. “Who would have thought it? The efficient Ms. Masters is a closet sybarite.”

“Just a bathtub sybarite.” And Rafe had her dream bathroom. She sighed in pleasure and envy and glanced over her shoulder. “So why are the towels hung up instead of dumped on the floor?”

“Childhood trauma. My mother was fierce on the subject of damp towels left on the floor. You want to take a bath before we eat? It might help that headache you’ve been nursing.”

Her eyebrows twitched in surprise. “How did you know I’ve got a headache?”

“I’m psychic. And you’re rubbing your head again.”

She blinked and dropped her hand self-consciously.

His grin flashed. “Come on. I’ll get you something to change into.” He vanished into the short hall, his voice reaching her easily. “I’ll fix dinner while you soak. Steaks okay?”

“Don’t go to any trouble.” She followed, confused by his shifting moods and wondering about the condition of his kitchen, given what she’d seen of the rest of the place. “Sandwiches or takeout would be…” Speech and feet both drifted to a halt when she reached his bedroom.

At first all she saw was the bed—huge, unmade, with tousled sheets, scattered pillows, and the comforter dragging the floor at one corner. It looked much the way her bed had on one morning five months ago.

Had someone shared that bed with him recently?

He spoke, drawing her attention to his amused face. “Don’t worry. The mere sight of a bed won’t make me pounce on you.”

“Why bother?” she muttered. “Been there, done that.” As soon as the words were out, she cursed her slippery tongue. “I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did. You’re thinking of the last time we were in a bedroom together.”

“No.” Memories pressed at her, an insistent thrust of heat and haste and impulse. The flavor of his mouth. The feel of his hands, quick and demanding. And her own dizzy need rising to meet those demands. “Not at all.”

“I am. I’m remembering the way you taste when your pulse is pounding here.” He lifted a hand and touched his own throat beneath the jaw.

Her own hand lifted involuntarily, mirroring his gesture, and quickly dropped. Her pulse was pounding. Dammit. “I don’t care to wander down memory lane tonight. I’d rather wash the grime off.”

“Why do I like that cool, sarcastic mouth of yours so much?” He shook his head. “Hell if know.”

His lips were smiling. His eyes weren’t. They were dark, intent. Hot. Oh, she knew that expression, was as fascinated by it tonight as she had been five months ago. As fascinated as birds are said to be by the gaze of a snake. That’s superstition, she told herself. And couldn’t keep from falling back a step when he moved toward her.

His smile widened. “Your nightie,” he said, and held out what she only then noticed he held—an old sweat suit. “I told you I wouldn’t pounce, but if you get the urge, feel free to jump on me.”

“In your dreams.”

His mouth still curved in that infuriating, knowing smile. “Oh, you have been, Charlie. You have been.”

Her mouth went dry. Something fluttered in her chest—something too much like yearning. She snatched the clothes from him and escaped with as much dignity as possible.

The air was warm and moist, the water warmer and soothing. Her hair smelled of almonds from Rafe’s shampoo. Charlotte lathered her left leg, then drew the razor along her calf.

This bathroom might have been conjured out of one of her private fantasies. Oh, admit it, she thought. The entire apartment seemed to belong in one of her daydreams, not her real life.