The police had arrived, although they took long enough for her to get comfortably stuck in the role of “hysterical female” in the eyes of her new neighbor. The policemen had entered the apartment, badges gleaming, guns at ready, machismo in motion, and after a brief search removed the offender. Uncuffed.
The villain turned out to be a gorgeous white kitten with a nametag that said Angel, still washing her face as she rested snug in the arms of the policeman, purring her catty little heart out. The damage was minimal: she’d dug Laura’s leftover tuna sandwich out of the garbage and had a little feast on the kitchen floor. Nothing a mop wouldn’t fix. And nothing seemed to be missing, the two policemen had informed her with identical smirks on their faces, and added that they’d be sure to book and pawprint the perpetrator before returning her to her family.
Justin, leaning against his doorjamb with arms crossed on his chest as he watched the show, seemed to enjoy this part of the action. He’d shared a knowing grin with the cops. None of them actually said it out loud, but Laura could almost hear them mutter “women” in a tone that should have gone out with black and white television.
She bit her lip and reconsidered her options. Nope, a repeat performance of her woman-in-jeopardy act was not the solution.
There was a sound from the bedroom for the third time. Not anything breaking, not the rough voices of thugs with panty hose on their heads complaining about a nylon allergy. Just a soft sound that could very well come from a cat.
To make sure she had an escape route, Laura opened the front door wide, and propped it in place with a shoe. She backed all the way out of the apartment and stood fidgeting, wondering what to do. Check out the situation herself? Or call the police, after all? She’d have to borrow a neighbor’s phone for that. There was only one phone in apartment, and it was in the bedroom.
She swore to buy a cell phone first thing tomorrow. Sometimes it seemed she was the only person on the planet without one.
“Everything okay?” Justin was at his door, arms crossed and a rather suspicious look on his face as he stared at her with narrowed eyes. “What’s wrong?”
He did not deserve those good looks, she thought, not for the first time. In fact, it was quite irritating, the way she almost felt compelled to sigh in admiration every time she got a look at that chiseled face and the wavy brown hair that looked even softer than hair in conditioner commercials.
And his eyes…Nope, she wouldn’t even go there. She didn’t want to think about his eyes. Thankfully she didn’t often see them up close. Those dark eyes framed by mile-long lashes reminded her of chocolate, and everybody knew chocolate was a sinful sensual indulgence. They could distract you even when there was potentially a homicidal maniac inside her apartment.
Definitely not good for you.
Justin shook his head and walked closer. “You’re white as a sheet. And you’re not talking. What’s up?”
Laura stared into chocolate-brown eyes as he approached. Yep. Delicious. His brow was creased in worry, but there was also a tiny smile on his lips, and she drew her brows together in a frown, trying to decode it. Was this a friendly neighbor smile, or a “women!” smirk? Was he remembering a hysterical woman with her arms wrapped around his neck, shrieking panicked nothings in his ear, doing a “helpless female” imitation like something from the eighteenth century?
Justin stopped right in front of her. “Laura, are you sure you’re not sick? I should call a doctor.”
Her spine stiffened and she straightened, giving him an excellent facsimile of a carefree smile. The corners of her lips almost moved and all. “No, thank you, everything’s fine.” He didn’t move away, so she turned back to her apartment. “Really, I’m fine. Thanks for your concern.”
Justin’s gaze searched her face. He didn’t look happy, but shrugged and turned around, vanishing inside his own apartment and leaving Laura alone with her predicament. She didn’t want to admit it, but she felt a bit better, knowing her neighbor was home. All she had to do was scream, and he’d hear it through the thin walls.
She took a determined step forward ending up on the right side of the wide open door.
Of course it wasn’t a burglar, she soothed herself. Why was she so quick to panic? She’d probably left her bedroom window open again, and Angel had decided to check if tuna was still on the menu. The cat lived somewhere close by; those green eyes and white whiskers made a regular appearance in the street. So far, Laura’s withering glares had seemed to have done the intended job of letting the cat know she was less than welcome on a repeat visit. But perhaps the temptation of tuna had been too much for the creature.
She wouldn’t again let a curious cat chase her into Justin’s arms. She would march in there and chase the cat out of there herself. This time, Angel could be the one seeking shelter with Justin.
Grabbing an umbrella, just in case the trespasser was more menacing than the furry little beast, she double-checked that the front door was still open as an escape—either for herself or for the cat—and crept toward the bedroom. The door was half-closed, and a slight draft confirmed her suspicions of having left the window open.
Muscles tense and both hands clutching the umbrella, she peeked inside the room. Everything looked just as she’d left it, the afternoon sun illuminating the dusty surfaces all too well: the rumpled bed she hadn’t made, the overflowing bookcase and the overturned crate that served as her night table.
No burglar. And no cat.
She left the umbrella against the wall, straightened up and pushed the door fully open. All this for nothing. That sound she’d heard must have been something from outside, or maybe the window creaking.
She stalked inside the room and sat down on the bed. That was that. Just as well she hadn’t panicked. Much.
Sitting down had been a mistake, she realized. Now she’d have to stand up again, if only to close the front door. She sighed, postponing the ordeal, and idly contemplated the upturned crate with its miniature mountain of books and paper. Okay, it was high time to get a proper nightstand. She could afford it. She could afford a lot of things now, and it was time to stop worrying about every dime.
Then something moved just behind her on the bed and before she’d even acknowledged the movement she was standing pressed against the wall, not realizing she was screaming until her throat hurt and the screeching sound echoed off the wall and exploded in her own ears.
Justin grabbed a dish of leftover pizza out of the fridge and put it in the microwave. Irritation was making him edgy, and he wasn’t sure why he was reheating pizza right now. He wasn’t even hungry.
His neighbor needed a baby-sitter. She practically lived at her office, dragged herself home late at night looking like a ghost on a hunger strike, and when at home she didn’t seem to do much more than sleep. There was hardly ever a sound from her place, even through the thin wall.
Except when she showered. Her bathroom was just on the other side of his shower tiles. She took long showers. They sometimes coincided with his. In his weaker moments, he stood there in his own shower and lived every moment of hers. He had this crazy urge to wash that long brown hair for her. Maybe this was what they called a fetish. Maybe he was a shampoo-and-conditioner fetishist.
She was also thin, and getting thinner. No wonder, if she used her breaks to shop for clothing, instead of eating.
Women!
He stared at the pizza, turning in slow circles inside the humming microwave. It would be neighborly to bring over some food, wouldn’t it? Wasn’t it the gesture of a friendly old lady, living next door, concerned for the welfare of her neighbor? It wouldn’t smack of a secret admirer who’d spent too many hours listening to her shower, would it?
He