The unfamiliar need to smile certainly couldn’t have anything to do with seeing Ms. Walker again. Any woman who lived in a cozy house like this could only lead him into the kind of emotional morass he’d spent his entire adult life running away from.
The stone path to the house ran between artfully random beds of brightly colored blooms. A patch of tall, pink flowers on bare stems stood by the front door like dainty sentinels, but gave off a sweet perfume that screamed “female territory”.
He’d take that as a warning. He knocked on the door, then noticed the doorbell. Before he could decide whether to ring, the door opened.
It took him a full minute to recognize the woman on the other side as Rosalie Walker, lady lawyer. Gone were the dark-colored suits, high-necked knit tops, and sensible black heels.
In their place was a floaty dress covered with flowers that mimicked the display outside, a pair of sandals that displayed bare, oddly appealing toes, and a length of shapely leg.
The only recognizable thing was her wary expression. She’d let her dark-brown hair curl around her face, but pushed it back when she saw him as if uncertain what to do with the hand that wasn’t holding the door.
“Hello. Please come in.”
In sharp contrast to her sleekly efficient office, Ms. Walker’s living room was like something out of a country living magazine. A closer look revealed that the floral curtains and sofa covers had probably been home-made, and not recently. Worn patches marred the soft-brown carpet and the armchair she steered him away from had at least one bad spring.
“Genteel poverty” was the best description of the decor, although owning a house like this free and clear in L.A. ruled literal poverty out of the question. He would have to rethink the sugar-daddy hypothesis, though. For some reason, his mood brightened.
“I’m afraid I don’t have all the paintings ready,” she told him once he was settled on the sofa. “Can I get you something to drink while you wait? I’ll only be a few minutes.”
He could imagine what kind of ultra-feminine beverage she might consider appropriate to the occasion. “No, thank you.”
She disappeared down the hall that led toward the back of the house, but he wasn’t left alone. The two cats he’d seen in the window before, one white with black splotches, the other black on top and white underneath, crept from behind the broken armchair.
The mostly black one jumped on the sofa and sat down next to him, eyes alert, tail twitching. The inner guard, he decided, now he was past the pink sentinels outside.
The mostly white cat jumped up beside him in a more leisurely fashion. It sat very close and put one front paw, then the other, on Morgan’s thigh. Daintily it lowered its coal-black nose and sniffed his crotch.
Strangely uncomfortable at the cat’s inspection, Morgan managed not to push it away, intrigued with what it might do next. He’d never been allowed to have pets as a kid.
The initial part of the procedure complete, the animal walked its front paws up his polo shirt, claws out enough to gain some purchase, but not enough to scratch. Reaching Morgan’s face, it sniffed again, then butted its head against his cheek.
He refused to flinch, or to follow the instinct that made him want to run his hand down the animal’s sleek body.
Was the creature purring?
“Smudge!”
The cat turned to give its owner the look of someone doing his duty, then dropped its paws to the sofa cushion and assumed the same position as its comrade.
The pink on Ms. Walker’s cheeks when she rushed over made his mind wander to other ways he might make the prim lady lawyer blush.
“I hope you’re not allergic. He’s never done that before. All I can think of to explain it is that Aaron has a beard, so he’s not used to clean-shaven men.”
Aaron? And the cat was only familiar with one man? Morgan’s mood went sour again.
“Guys.” Both cats looked at her. “Off the sofa.”
They both jumped down and sauntered away, tails high.
“Smudge and Sylvester. Rescue cats. Brothers. Neutered.”
“Where did you set up the paintings?” he interrupted gruffly. “In your mother’s studio?”
A shadow flickered in her eyes. “You can only display one or two at a time in there. I picked out a dozen and put them in the dining room.”
She led him across the tiled entry to where she’d leaned the larger paintings on the chairs that went with the undistinguished dining table and split the smaller ones between the buffet and sideboard. He could see at once that the prospect of selling dozens of these paintings would make the art dealer’s heart pound with avaricious delight.
Rosalie stood in the archway between the entry and dining room while Morgan Danby wandered from painting to painting, occasionally picking one up to hold it to the sunlight.
With an effort, she managed not to fidget with the stress of having this man within yards of Joey’s bedroom, despite the fact that Joey himself was safely down the street on his playdate.
At least she wasn’t afraid of Mr. Danby, even if he did claim Charlie for a brother. Maybe it was because the change from suit and tie to a blue shirt that accented those killer eyes and jeans that hugged his admirable physique made him look like the proverbial guy next door.
If the guy next door was a movie star. Too bad such an attractive package was wasted on such an arrogant, and for her, dangerous man. When he’d tried to be friendly, to act like the careless charmer he appeared to be, the effect had been pretty devastating.
At the same time, the melancholy she sensed under all the charm made her want to know more about him. He’d tolerated her cats, who tried even Aaron’s patience. Mr. Danby seemed to care about his stepmother. And he’d understood how Rosalie felt about her mother’s paintings.
Reality jolted her back a step. Being physically attracted to Morgan Danby was bad enough. She didn’t dare allow herself to like the man.
Finally he picked out one of the smaller paintings, an iris in vivid purple. “This will be a good sample, and that.” He pointed to one of the larger ones, a hillside of poppies and lupins with a single scrub oak to one side. “Do you have any more with children in them?”
She shook her head. “Just the one in my office. My mother gave it to me as a Christmas gift one year. She wasn’t interested in people as subjects. She thought it was intrusive to try to show what someone ‘really’ looked like. She preferred flowers.”
“Luckily flowers sell well.”
“I’m not doing this for the money.”
He nodded absently and handed her the smaller painting. “Would you mind carrying this out to the car for me while I get the larger one?”
For a moment her body quivered with relief that he was leaving. She took the painting and followed him out to the shiny black sports car.
Mrs. Peterson across the street was making a show of raking her already perfectly manicured lawn, eyes fixed on the stranger’s expensive car.
“Nice day,” she called with a wave.
Rosalie waved back. Once Morgan clicked the car’s locks, she opened the door and bent to set the smaller painting on the passenger seat.
“How’s Joey?” Mrs. Peterson asked.
Rosalie straightened so quickly out of the car’s narrow doorway that she hit her head hard enough to make her ears ring. “He’s fine.”
Morgan’s face twisted for a moment,