Just Like a Man (9 page)

His head tucked low—because it looked like he was trying to avoid rain in his face when in fact he just didn't want his face to be seen—Michael ducked into a conveniently placed hedge growing between two houses up the block from Hannah's. He'd driven by twice over the course of the weekend to make a mental map of the area and plan his approach. Fortunately for him, the neighborhood was an old one, filled with overgrown trees and shrubs, and populated by neighbors who eschewed fences, most likely because the neighborhood association frowned upon them. In any event, what made for an aesthetically pleasing environment also made for good cover. So Michael had no trouble making his way to Hannah's back door without being seen. Once there, he withdrew from his pocket a small device and with a few hasty adjustments slipped it easily into the lock of her back door. A soft click told him he hadn't lost his touch, and he easily pushed the door open and stepped inside, making a mental note to wipe up his wet footprints before he left.

Then, with a swiftness and expertise that time hadn't diminished, he moved through the house, placing tiny listening devices where they would be least likely to be discovered. Of course, Hannah couldn't possibly have any idea that she would be under surveillance, so Michael could probably drop a few bugs right in the open, and she'd have no idea what they were. Nor would she guess that two tiny, undetectable cameras could record her daily life.

Gadgetry really wasn't his milieu, but he'd always found the technology created by OPUS to be nothing short of amazing. He himself had been in statistics and examination, one of the people who took the information the field agents gathered and who analyzed and scrutinized, calculated and estimated, and then put everything together. Assimilate, evaluate, articulate, just as Adrian had said. Those had been the code words of his job classification. And that part of the job he did miss.

Not that Michael—or anyone else at OPUS—was interested in Hannah's statistics, or her daily life. Well, except for those parts of her statistics and daily life that included Adrian Padgett. Other agents were watching Adrian in other capacities, but Michael had been assigned to keep tabs on his activities that revolved around the Emerson Academy. And, by extension, on his activities that revolved around the Emerson Academy's director. Because judging by the way Adrian himself had revolved around the Emerson Academy's director at the potluck three nights ago, he was certainly no stranger to Hannah. Therefore one might conclude that he was also no stranger to Hannah's house. And wherever Adrian Padgett went, OPUS needed to be as well. Even if it was Hannah Frost's house. Even if it was Hannah Frost's living room.

Even if it was Hannah Frost's bedroom.

Michael really, really hoped he wouldn't need to activate the bedroom cam over the next few weeks. Hell, he hoped he wouldn't need to activate the living room cam, either. Bad enough he'd be listening in on her. But for the first few days, at least, he'd sit in his van parked a block or two from Hannah's house, and he'd listen to Hannah's life. If he found no reason to think Adrian was sharing that life, Michael would bow out of the surveillance and feel relieved and remove all the surveillance equipment from her home. And he'd hope like hell that Hannah never found out about any of it. If there was any indication, however, that he might uncover more about Adrian by watching Hannah, then, by God, he'd keep watching Hannah.

And he'd hope like hell that she never found out about it.

Once he had everything in place that needed to be in place, Michael moved through the house a final time, giving it a once-more-over to make sure nothing was obvious to the casual observer. Or to the intent observer, either, since Adrian would certainly know what to look for, should he decide to look. But even after a close scrutiny, Michael was confident his work was well hidden. So he began to make his way back to the kitchen…

… and then realized he might never have an opportunity like this again. He might never have another chance to get a look at Hannah's life up close and personal.

Not that it was any of his business what her life was like even far away and impersonal. But he couldn't resist stealing a few more moments to see the place not from the point of view of someone working, but from the point of view of someone who might have been invited as a guest. And what he saw as a guest—however uninvited—made Michael puzzle even more over Hannah.

Her house was very nice, he'd grant her that. But it looked like a photo spread from a decorating magazine. The furnishings and appointments evoked the feel of a cottage in the English countryside—or, at least, of a photograph of a cottage in the English countryside. But it was just a little
too
quaint, a little
too
tidy, a little
too
charming, a little
too
perfect. Almost as if it were a set for a TV show or movie instead of someone's actual living quarters.

From one room to the next, Michael received the same impression. There was nothing in the place that evoked a sense of who Hannah Frost really was. There were no photo-graphs of family members, no collections, no memorabilia. Nothing that might offer any insight into where she had come from, what she liked to do, or who she might be under the starched, pressed suits.

It was one thing, Michael thought, to keep yourself hidden from the outside world. But it was something else entirely to hide yourself in your own home.

He returned to her bedroom, the one room he would have expected to find something that offered at least a clue as to who she might really be. But her dresser contained only a mirror and a brush, a bouquet of fresh flowers, a small porcelain tray onto which she had placed a couple of stray earrings, and a bottle of perfume. A writing desk tucked into the corner of the room held only a calendar, a clock, a cup of pencils and pens, a scratch pad, and a small, orderly stack of as-yet-to-be-paid bills. All things functional. No things personal. Even the bottle of perfume didn't appear to have been used, because it was full. And although Hannah, he had noticed, smelled very, very nice, he was reasonably sure the scent didn't come from a perfume bottle.

Before he realized what he meant to do, Michael moved to the dresser and lifted a hand to one of the drawer pulls. He stopped himself before opening the drawer, reminding himself that his job did not include snooping into Hannah's private things. But he couldn't quite force himself to drop his hand. His heart, he was amazed to discover, was thundering in his chest. Never, not even once, had he become edgy while on assignment. Even in matters of life and death, he had always been able to remain cool. So it wasn't the fear of getting caught that made his heart race the way it did. It was the simple prospect of learning something about Hannah that he had no right—or permission—to learn.

In for a penny,
he told himself,
in for a pound.
And he tugged gently on the metal drawer pull.

Before the drawer was even open, he was assailed by a soft, sweet scent, and he immediately identified it as the one he associated with Hannah. He discovered the reason for that soon enough, because the drawer he had opened, as luck would have it—or maybe it was just a sixth sense he had about these things… or, at least, about Hannah—was her lingerie drawer. And sitting atop the collection of garments was a silky, tasseled sachet in the shape of a tiny boudoir pillow, the color and, he presumed, fragrance of lavender.

Finally, he was learning something more about Hannah, something deeply personal and very interesting: She liked beautiful underthings. Because beneath that sachet lay an assortment of filmy, delicate confectionery—bras and slips and panties fashioned of the merest lace and the softest silk, in the gentlest palette of colors Michael had ever seen, each decorated with tiny pearls or miniature bows or little satin roses. It was quite a contrast to the severe suits in which he'd seen her attired so far. And, somehow, knowing that this was the sort of thing she wore underneath them made Michael itch to learn more.

Impulsively—because, honestly, he had no idea what possessed him to do it—he filched a pair of peach-colored panties from the silky melange and tucked them into the pocket of his coveralls. Then he replaced the lavender sachet exactly as he had found it and eased the drawer closed again.

And then he had to lean against the dresser for a minute, holding on to its edge as if it were his only link to reality, because his heart was pounding so hard it was dizzying him and making him see spots.

Good God, what was wrong with him? he wondered. He'd never gotten sick on an assignment before. And hell, he'd done things infinitely more dangerous than bugging the home of a school director. Hell, he'd even done things more dangerous than stealing a woman's underwear. This was nuts.

Although he had been quick in completing the job he had come to do, it was long past time for Michael to be leaving. So he hurried back to the kitchen, eliminating any sign that he had been there as he went, and slipped back out the way he had come in. The rain had lessened to a fine mist, and the sun was up, if obscured by thick slate clouds. But by now the majority of the neighborhood's residents would be at work, and the few who remained at home, if they saw him, would see only a man in utility coveralls returning to a utility van with a phony license plate. Michael was in no danger whatsoever.

Unless Hannah Frost came home from work tonight, looking for a pair of lavender-scented, peach-colored underwear.

Hannah came home from work toting two overflowing bags of groceries and feeling more exhausted than she had felt in a very long time. Probably that was because she hadn't slept well the last few nights. And probably
that
was because she had lain awake in her bed for hours, pondering two conundrums that defied solution.

The first conundrum was Adrian Windsor. She couldn't imagine what had gotten into the man, but since the fourth-grade potluck three nights ago, Adrian had called her four times—twice at home, and twice at school.

The first time had been early Saturday morning, to reiterate his invitation to accompany him to London. When Hannah had pointed out that she couldn't possibly take time off from work—and that it would be inappropriate for her to socialize with a member of the board—Adrian had backed off.

But then he had called her that afternoon to ask her if she wanted to see
Rigoletto
the following weekend, since he suspected she was the sort of person who loved opera. When Hannah had pointed out that she wasn't much of an opera fan—and that it would be inappropriate for her to socialize with a member of the board—Adrian had backed off.

But then he'd called her "just to talk." Twice. At school. And Hannah hadn't known how to tell him without insulting him that she didn't like "just talking"—whether she was at work
or
at home. So she had "just talked" for five minutes and then excused herself with some fabricated reason why she had to hang up.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that Adrian had moved from being attracted to Hannah to wanting to become her hunka hunka burnin' love. And Hannah just wasn't sure what to do about that. Other than be absolutely certain she had no intention of becoming Adrian's hunka hunka anything, burnin' or otherwise. Not just because it would be inappropriate for her to become romantically involved with a member of the board that way, but because Adrian just didn't… float her boat. Rev her engine. Toast her melbas. Burn her hunka. That sort of thing.

And it also didn't take a genius to realize that Adrian's sudden acceleration of attention had come about, oh… a nanosecond after he'd recognized Michael Sawyer at the potluck. And Hannah still couldn't stop thinking about—or puzzling over—the way Adrian had looped his arm around her waist and tried to pull her close, as if she were his own personal love muffin. Never, ever, had he done something so boorish and ill-mannered before. And it simply wasn't in the man's nature to do anything boorish or ill-mannered, least of all manhandle a woman in Hannah's position. He could have done it only as a reaction to Michael's presence. Or, perhaps, to see what kind of reaction he might get from Michael.

The question Hannah wanted an answer to was:
Why?

Short of asking Adrian—or Michael, whom she also intended to avoid—she supposed she wasn't going to receive an answer. But that didn't make the question stop circling around in her brain. Nor did it keep thoughts of Michael—and, to a lesser degree, Adrian—from circling around in her brain. The worst part, though, was how thoughts of Michael continued to intrude into her brain after she fell asleep at night. And those thoughts were the ones over which she had no control.

So if, say, he wanted to appear in a dream, she couldn't stop him. And if, say, he wanted to appear in that dream holding a banana, she couldn't stop him from doing that, either. And if, in that dream, he offered his banana to her, she couldn't help that. Nor could she help it if she also appeared in that dream, holding a doughnut, through which she slid Michael's banana after he offered it to her. And she also couldn't help it if they were both naked in the dream. She couldn't help that any more than she could help waking up all hot and sweaty and agitated afterward, with her tangled sheets bunched between her legs.

Still, she was confident that the dream wasn't symbolic of anything. Unless maybe it signified that she needed to go to the grocery store because she was running low on phallic symbols… ah, food, she meant. Surely that would have been the way Freud would have interpreted it. So here she was, home from work with two bags of groceries. Bags of groceries that did
not
contain bananas or doughnuts, since Hannah suspected maybe an excess of carbohydrates might just be to blame for her sleep problems in the first place. So she'd bought lots of protein and vegetables—hot dogs and sausages and pickles and cucumbers and zucchini and… and… and…

Hmm. Maybe it was an excess of something else she should be worrying about.

Shaking the thought off almost literally, Hannah kicked closed the back door and settled her burdens on the kitchen counter. Then she shrugged out of her trench coat and hung it on a peg on the basement door to dry. It had rained all day, a development that rather suited her mood, and she looked forward to a cozy evening at home. Alone. Just her and her phallic symbols. And also a private celebration to which she had been looking forward. Because among the groceries she unpacked was a birthday cake, chocolate with white frosting, her favorite. It wasn't a big cake, but it was beautifully decorated with pink and yellow roses and pale blue trim. Across the top of the cake, plastic pastel prima ballerinas posed in perfect pirouettes, and fancy pink script across the middle read,
Happy Birthday, Hannah.
And Hannah smiled, because it was exactly the kind of birthday cake she had always wanted as a little girl, the kind of cake she'd never once had.