Bride by Day

“Is it?” he challenged.

Thank heaven Lois chose that moment to poke her head inside the gallery. “Have you found your project yet? I’m closing up now.”

“Y-yes,” Sam stammered. “We’re coming. Thanks, Lois. I owe you.”

“Just remember to get it back here before eight Monday morning. I’ve seen Dr. Giddings hold up someone’s graduation for much less.”

“You’re graduating?” Mr. Kostopoulos demanded when they had left the building and were once more ensconced in his car with the collage safely deposited in the trunk.

Sam averted her eyes from his striking features. “A week from yesterday. But you heard Lois. If my professor finds out what I’ve done, I’ll have to take the class over again to graduate. In any event, the damage will cost me a drop in grade.”

“Let’s not worry about that right now. If the worst happens, I’ll explain the circumstances to your professor.”

She shook her head. “Once he’s made up his mind, I doubt even you could sway Dr. Giddings.”

“We’ll see,” was all he condescended to say until they’d retraced their steps and had come in sight of his office building. That’s when she started to panic. He was expecting results she couldn’t promise to produce.

“Mr. Kostopoulos—I need special tools and am going to have to go to my apartment. If you’ll drop me off there, you can keep your appointment. I’ll phone you when I’ve finished.”

“What is your address?”

Pleased he was so amenable to the suggestion, she gave him directions, then sat back in relief because they’d be parting company shortly.

She would never be able to work with him standing over her shoulder. Not only was she nervous about the outcome, she was too aware of him on a physical level to pretend indifference to his presence.

“Turn left at the next light. My apartment is on the south, in the middle of the block. The traffic is so bad you’d better just let me out on the corner.”

As he slowed for the light, she reached for the door handle, but the catch didn’t give. Her head whipped around. “Will you please undo the lock?”

Her request fell on deaf ears because he had pulled a cellular phone from the inside of his suit jacket and was telling his secretary to reschedule his appointment for the following week.

Suddenly Sam’s heart began to race because she had this horrible premonition that he intended to come up to her apartment and watch her perform the required surgery.

There were several reasons why she couldn’t allow him over her threshold. For one thing, her one-bedroom apartment was in complete chaos. For another, there simply wasn’t enough room inside for both of them. The kitchen and living area were combined. The only place he’d be able to sit down was the couch, and it would take her five minutes just to clear a space for him.

She started to tell him he couldn’t park in the zone marked for trucks making deliveries, then realized it was pointless. A man like Mr. Kostopoulos wrote his own rules.

By the time she was freed from the confines of the car, he’d removed her collage from the trunk and had preceded her to the front doors of the building.

Once inside the outer lobby, she punched in the code which gave access to the elevator entrance. Already she was feeling claustrophobic.

Taking a deep breath she said, “It won’t be necessary for you to come all the way up. If you’ll give me a number where you can be reached, I’ll call you the second I’ve finished.”

The elevator door opened and he ushered her inside. His dark eyes swept over her once more. “I’m already in the neighborhood. There’s no point in my leaving until I get what I came for.”

At that remark, they rode the rest of the way to the seventh floor in silence. He followed at her heel until they came to her apartment three doors down the hall.

Before she could bring herself to unlock it, she turned to him, slightly out of breath. “Perhaps it would be better if you waited in your car.”

His brows furrowed. “If you’re worried what your lover will think, I’ll be happy to explain why your privacy is being invaded.”

Heat swarmed her cheeks. “There isn’t enough room for me, let alone anyone else.”

He gave a negligent shrug of his powerful shoulders. “Then I don’t see the problem. My childhood was spent in a room not much larger than a closet. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

She clenched her teeth. “Did it ever occur to you that I’m not ready for company?”

“I’m not company,” he retorted with maddening non chalance. “Come. Give me the key.”

In the next instance he’d removed it from her rigid fingers and had opened the door, signaling that she should precede him.

That brief contact of skin against skin sent a quickening through her body she’d never experienced before. The sensation electrified her, confusing her on too many levels.

“Where shall I put this so you can get started?”

The bland question indicated that he hadn’t been fazed by the brush of their fingers. She berated herself for reacting so foolishly, and marched over to the card table where she whisked away some orange peels, the visible remains of a breakfast hastily swallowed earlier that day.

Without apology she muttered, “You can put it down here.”

Of necessity, he had to follow in her footsteps, stepping over not only her hair dryer, but the spray-stained newspaper still spread on the floor.

Last night she’d given her project a final protective coating, but because of the inclement weather, her apartment had felt more humid than usual. She was so afraid the collage wouldn’t dry out, she’d gotten up in the early hours of the morning to speed the process by using her hair dryer.

“I’ll look for my hammer and chisel.”

Along with most of her other art supplies, she’d put the tools from her sculpture class in the tiny linen cupboard next to the bathroom. But since her sophomore year, she’d stored a lot of dyes and acrylics there, as well. It took some doing to find what she needed, and she ended up putting everything on the floor to be cleaned up later.

When she returned to the living room-cum-kitchen with her tools and put them on the card table, she found Mr. Kostopoulos perched on the arm of the couch studying the latest tablecloth she’d created. It was one to which she’d applied a hot wax design, then dyed, before draping across her secondhand couch to dry out.

With nowhere to pace in her postage stamp dwelling, he’d had little alternative but to plant himself there, unless he’d wanted to remain standing.

Suddenly she saw something clasped in his left hand. To her horror it turned out to be her rolling pin which she used for everything under the sun except cooking.

For the first time since meeting him, she thought she detected a tiny flicker of mirth in the black recesses of his eyes. He held up the well-worn kitchen utensil whose roller contained so many dents it resembled the surface of the moon. “I presume you keep this handy in case of intruders.”

She blinked. Until he’d mentioned it, she hadn’t thought of using her rolling pin as a weapon. “What a wonderful idea!”

Her spontaneity must have amused him because his lips twitched ever so slightly, a feat she hadn’t thought possible.

“Actually, I used it to create my collage.”

In a level tone he murmured, “Go on.”

“You want me to explain?”

“Yes, Ms. Telford. I can’t remember the last time I was this entertained by another human being.”

His comment could be taken in a variety of ways, all of them less than gratifying or complimentary.