“Damn.”
His gaze shifted to Nancy, struggling to pry a coffee filter from the stack. He freed his hands from his pockets, held one out to her. “Here. Let me.” He half expected a feminist, “Forget it, I can do this myself” response. Instead, she practically smacked him with the package.
“Be my guest. Brain’s okay, but the coordination sucks…thanks,” she muttered when he handed her back both package and extricated filter. She flipped her hair over her shoulder; it didn’t stay. He watched the interplay of muscles underneath crossed straps as she filled the carafe with water. Thought of that painting. Told himself forty-one-year-old men didn’t get hard that easily.
A large ginger cat jumped up on the counter; she pushed it down again. Ah. Safe topic, guaranteed to keep the hormones in check. Sure, he liked cats as well as the next person, might even consider having one, in the right mood. One. Living in a zoo was something else again. “Aren’t seven cats a bit…much?”
She clicked on the coffemaker, laughed. “You’re more diplomatic than my mother was about it. But since nothing I do is right in her eyes, anyway, I don’t put a whole lotta stock in her opinion.” He heard pain in that statement, possibly unacknowledged, and felt an unexpected twinge of empathy.
Nancy shifted to lean heavily on the edge of the counter, bending over to remove her shoes, which she carried out of the room. Again, he followed, until he realized she was headed toward her bedroom. “I’ll be right back, but I just cannot deal with this torture instrument—” she pointed in the general direction of her bosom “—a second longer.” She disappeared into the room, leaving her door open a crack. “Anyway, about the cats,” she called from the other side. “See, I couldn’t have any in my apartment. So I figured, when I moved here—” a groan of undisguised relief drifted from behind the door “—I’d get me a cat. One cat, maybe a cute little kitten, you know?”
Clad in an oversized red sweatshirt, gray leggings and thick socks, she padded back out into the living room, pulling her hair back into one of those funny long clips. Had she given up on the seduction idea, or was she wearing a black lace teddy underneath her outfit?
Curious woman.
She crossed the room, rubbing at a spot high on her rib cage. “So, anyway,” she said, stopping at the kitchen door, one hand on the frame, “I get to the pound—there’s a small one, right outside town—and they had these six grown cats. No kittens. And I realized, since there didn’t seem to be a run on the place, the ones I didn’t take would be…” She lowered her voice. “You know.”
Rod leaned back against the arm of the sofa. “So you took them all.”
“What else could I do?”
What a gal. “So where’d the seventh come from?”
“Wouldn’t you know—a stray wandered up onto my porch the day after I brought these guys home. It was either take him in, or send him to that place.” She shrugged. “Um, coffee’s ready. You want it in here or out there?”
Impulsive. Kindhearted. Crazy. Oh, yeah…he definitely needed to leave as soon as possible. “Kitchen’s fine,” he said.
Her smile shot straight to his groin.
Did he have any idea how nervous she was? How close she was to making a fool of herself? He had to hear it in her nonstop prattling—she could hear her mother saying, “For God’s sake, Nancy, give it a rest!”—see it in her incessant movement. Distractedly, she pulled a pair of crockery mugs from the cupboard.
Why can’t you do anything right, Nancy? Why can’t you be like Mark?
No. Her brother wouldn’t lower himself to a cheap seduction, that was for sure. But then, having married the Jewel of Scarlet River, New Jersey, the summer after he got his master’s degree in Computer Engineering—a real degree—and then in due course presented his parents with two adorable grandchildren, her brother probably didn’t find himself in the position of being sex-deprived on a regular basis. Not if Shelby Garver was anything like Nancy remembered, at least. Her mouth quirked up into a half smile. Her mother should only know.
“Nancy?”
Rod’s voice brought her back to the land of the somewhat-living. “Sorry. Lost in thought.”
Instead of sitting, he took the mugs from her hands, set them down, poured the coffee. A small, insignificant thing. But since no one had done anything for her since she was about five, she was fascinated to discover how much the gesture pleased her.
“Sugar?” he asked.
“And milk, yes,” she said, reveling in letting him serve her. He fixed the coffee, handed her a mug. He took his black, she noticed. She also noticed the crease in his brow as he regarded her over the first sip.
He set down the mug, linked his arms over his chest. “You look like someone who needs to talk.”
She nearly laughed. Oh, yeah, right…like he was going to relate to being the child who always screwed up, no matter how hard you tried. So she shook her head. “Not about that. Besides…” She moved over to the table, took a seat. “It’s my house. I get to grill you.”
One side of his mouth hitched north. “Oh, really?” He scraped back the other chair, dropped down into it. Somewhere along the way, he’d removed his jacket. Now she was faced with a mind-boggling array of torso muscles encased in soft, luxurious, black-as-sin cashmere. Hoo, boy. “You’re pretty sure of yourself,” he said, his voice rumbling through her senses like a lazy freight train.
She wasn’t sure of anything. But she smiled, took a swallow of coffee. “I’m a salesperson, remember?”
“Damn good one, too, from what Elizabeth tells me.”
The first flicker of pride she’d felt in ages warmed her blood. “I used to be.”
“Used to be?”
“It was easier in Detroit, I guess. I’m starting over out here. And I was doing a lot of commercial stuff. Now it’s mostly residential, which yields less return for time invested.” Then she laughed, slapped the table. “Hey! You shifted the conversation to me when I wasn’t looking—”
His hands shot up, as did both corners of his mouth. “Oh, no. You did that to yourself.”
“Piffle. You knew exactly what you were doing!” Laughing, she leaned forward, pointing at him. “Let’s get one thing straight—I’m the manipulative one here, got that?”
Rod leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest again. He wasn’t frowning, exactly, but he sure wasn’t smiling, either.
“And why is that?” he asked softly. “Why do you feel you have to force things to go the way you want them to?”
Her own laughter died as the old, chronic hurt twisted her heart. “Because,” she said on a deep breath, daring to meet his gaze, “single women have to take care of themselves. And since the world at large ain’t too keen on giving its women what they need, forcing things to go our way is generally our only option.”
He didn’t seem to take offense. “Survival instinct?”
“Maybe.”
He surprised her by reaching across the table, capturing her hand in his. “Platinum butterfly,” he said, lifting her fingers to his lips. Just as soon as she collected a few brain cells, she was going to ask him what he meant. He beat her to it. “Durable, exquisite, delicate, all at once.” He let go of her hand, leaned back again. “Quite a combination.”
The calico cat jumped out of her way when she shot up from the table, not knowing where she was going.
“I