The Legacy of Buchanan's Crossing (10 page)

The waiting gave him ample time to begin doubting everything from the clothes he was wearing to the entire venture. When the door finally buzzed, he stepped cautiously inside. Number seven was the third apartment on the left side of the second floor hall. The door was closed tight. Wouldn’t she have been waiting, wanting to know who she’d let in? Unless she was expecting someone, some other guy, maybe. Shit. What if he’d guessed the wrong apartment, and one of the artists or drug dealers had buzzed him in? If he went knocking randomly, he could be met with a shotgun.

Standing in front of the door, he wished the neatly hand-lettered card tucked inside the book had more information than her name and the building’s address. If she didn’t answer, he’d just have to hang onto the book awhile longer. He wasn’t in all that much a hurry to part with it anyway. He trailed his fingers over the embossed letters on the leather cover, brushed the silky pages, breathed in the distinctive scent—almost as though it were a rare and exotic woman, as though it were—

He snapped the book shut. That wasn’t why he was here. There were a truckload of reasons he should
not
be here. He was though, because…because Cayden had promised him Volume Two when he returned this one. Oh yeah, and to beg for tea to treat his god-awful headaches. The over-the-counter pain relievers weren’t cutting it. That was why he’d gone to HandiMart late Thursday night, only to find she wasn’t there, or last night either. Catching her at work would have made it easier, more casual.

A vintage brass knocker was mounted below the peephole. He tapped the door with it, exhaling in relief when a deep gong boomed like something out of a creepy old TV show. It was reassuringly Cayden-like.

A muffled familiar voice came through the door. “Why did you buzz him in without asking me…? Oh.”

He couldn’t make out the rest of the conversation. Obviously, she wasn’t alone, and that whoever she was with felt comfortable letting him into the building. A woman wouldn’t do that, not in this neighborhood.

Something sank inside him. He started walking. He’d purposely come early, hoping to catch her before she went out, not because he wanted to meet some guy who’d spent the night.

“Clint? Is that you?”

A hint of her fresh scent wafting through the hall’s stale air halted his progress. It was too late to bolt, no matter how much he wanted to, so he mumbled, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I would have called if there’d been a phone number.”

He’d said it as if it were her fault, which it sort of was, wasn’t it? It took him half a minute to get up the nerve to look at her. She was standing in the hallway wearing a long scooped-neck black sleeveless T-shirt sporting a white spider-web design. One of her shoulders was black and blue. The other was so flawless and pale it nearly glowed in the dim light of the hall. The damn T-shirt wasn’t long enough. Avoiding the sweep of white thigh, guiltily skimming the nasty road rash on her knees, he brought his gaze to her bare feet, focusing safely on her cute little black-painted toenails.

“Would you like to come in?”

The invitation, spoken in her sleep-warmed voice, instantly gave his body the wrong idea. He forced his gaze up, refusing to allow it to linger on any of her curves. She was staring at him, her hazel eyes wide and free of makeup, softly bruised, tired beneath a thick layer of long curling lashes. She looked different without all the heavy cosmetics. Not cuter, as he would have expected, yet nothing close to plain, either. What she looked was sweeter and more vulnerable, even with her hair all wild, as though she’d just tumbled out of bed. Or had been tumbled by some jerk-off goth boy. He unclenched his free hand, which had formed a fist.

“No, uh, thanks. You’ve got company.”

Her head tilted to the side, spilling red and black curls onto her injured shoulder.

“I just wanted to return your book.” He thrust it toward her like proof, even as he accepted it for the lie it was. He was doomed.

“You’ve only had it a week.” A tiny triangle formed over the bridge of her pert nose. He felt safe assuming her jaunt down memory lane wouldn’t stop where she’d lent him the book, but trot right on to what had happened the next day. Women’s minds worked that way. He was double-doomed.

A deep sigh accompanied Cayden’s frown in place of the string of curses he deserved. “It’s too early to think straight. As long as you’re here, you may as well come in.”

She was already inside, holding the door for him. A single glimpse pulled him in behind her. Whatever he’d imagined her place might be like, nothing could have prepared him for the actuality.

The stairway to the upstairs loft, which was half the size of the first floor, stood to the right of the single large room. It curved around a small kitchen farther to the right. All he could see through the sheer dark brown curtain “walls” was a cafe table and two chairs in front of an open window. A decent-sized daybed sat in front of the fireplace on the left outside wall, in the “living room.” It wasn’t hard to picture what it would be perfect for on a cool night.

He dragged his gaze and thoughts to the less fantasy-provoking authentic-looking Queen Ann chair sitting with its back to him at an angle to the fireplace and another window. More antiques were displayed on the mantel. A pair of sabers, French probably, were crossed above it. The wall next to the window he was facing was solid bookshelves overflowing with leather-bound volumes, scrolls, manuscripts, and more interesting artifacts. Candles in a wide variety of shapes and colors were scattered everywhere.

Upstairs, a large pair of curtains at the top were tied back to reveal a wall of windows, shelves, and stands holding more candles, plus enough plants and flowers to open a green house. Her bedroom was a far cry from the dungeon or coffin he’d presumed she would sleep in. It smelled like rain-soaked wind blowing across a green field. It smelled like…Cayden. A large thick mattress surrounded by brightly-colored cushions sat in the corner, her unmade bed.

Which reminded him she had company. He began a second sweep of the room, doing a double-take when he caught a large male form in his peripheral vision. Once he registered it was a full-sized suit of armor wearing a familiar but tattered dress, he released a bark of laughter. It also wore a Dr. Who-length scarf wrapped around its neck, and a large stuffed crow perched on its shoulder.

The bird’s head was cocked. His shining eye looked so real Clint reached out to touch its wing. When it aimed a jab at him with its beak, he barely pulled his hand back in time. The bird withdrew, cocking its head the other way.

“Clueless bastard.” The words were amazingly clear in the scratchy voice.

“Nevermore! How often have I asked you not to use that language? I think you’ve had enough raspberries for today. If you can’t behave yourself, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Cayden was scowling at the bird with her arms folded across her chest. The crow surveyed him, flapped its wings, flew to perch at the top of the stairs, and peered down. Clint wasn’t sure if he was more comfortable with the big bird up there or on the level with him. At least now he knew whom she’d been talking to.

“I’m sorry he startled you. I wish I could say it was an accident, but I think he did it on purpose. It’s one of the ways he gets his jollies.”

Clint merely nodded. He had no more clue what to say to that than he did to anything else on this crazy ride.

Cayden’s yawn was sexy enough to curl his toes all by itself. Then she stretched her arms, arching into it. The T-shirt rode up, lifting those full braless breasts, effectively ending his ability to think.

She appeared oblivious to her effect on him. “I need a strong cup of tea. May I get you something?”

He gulped and managed to croak out, “Thank you. Whatever you’re having will be fine.”

“Good, I don’t have a coffee maker. Feel free to check out anything that interests you. The second volume of Poe is on the bookshelf.” She nodded to the back wall. “It’ll be a few minutes. Or would you rather come in the kitchen with me while I fix it?”

“That’s okay, thanks. I’ll, uh, chill out here.”

He needed to pull himself together. Being with Cayden in that narrow space, watching her reach into cupboards in her short T-shirt, could scramble his brains for good.

A stunning roll-top desk sitting to the left of the window in the back beckoned, offering an excellent distraction. He’d probably missed it because the bookshelf on the other side of the window had commanded his attention. The desk had been modified to accommodate a computer display and keyboard. The act would have sickened him if it hadn’t been so creatively and flawlessly executed, and if the computer setup wasn’t so awesome. The keyboard had been assembled from the keys of various antique typewriters, the display from an early TV screen. It even had rabbit ears on top. He chuckled when he spotted the gilt-framed autographed poster of Dr. Seuss on the wall above it.

He turned at the squeak of a cupboard door. The curtain screening the kitchen off from living room didn’t extend this deep into the space. The view into the kitchen was impossible to resist.

Cayden put a pot of water on to boil and reached for a can of tea. What on earth was Clint MacAllen doing in her apartment? She’d have to ask him that, along with a couple of other questions. She’d have to remember
not
to ask him why he had to look so hot in such dull clothes. The dress slacks and button-down shirt would have been a big turnoff on any other man.

Thank goodness he’d worn something different from what he’d had on Thursday afternoon. His appearance at the studio had shocked her. The sight of his hard body hugged by the faded T-shirt and jeans with all of those rips and holes had nearly cost her the match with Trip.

If Clint had been dressed like that today, she wouldn’t be able to breathe, much less maintain control over herself or the situation. She needed that control. The stakes were high and getting higher by the day. Gran—

The kettle whistled a stop to that train. Cayden poured the hot water in the teapot to steep while she found a tray and a pair of tea cups. They didn’t match each other or the sugar bowl, but they were both beautiful Viennese porcelain. She added a pair of scones in case he was hungry. Weren’t big men always hungry? She had no idea. The occasional boys she’d dated before she moved to Springfield had mostly been of the small, thin, pseudo-intellectual petulant variety, selected more because she was comfortable with them and their ability to appall her parents than because she felt any real physical attraction to them. None of that was true of Clint, although she doubted her parents would approve of him, either.

With that comforting thought, she carried the tray to the table in front of the bookshelf. Clint was leaning over her desk. The shirt stretching across his wide shoulders was sticking to his back, which puzzled her. The apartment was warm, but not hot enough to sweat.

He held one arm low across his body as he sat down without meeting her eyes. His ears were red, too. What could he possibly be so embarrassed about? She poured him a cup of tea and set the plate of scones in front of him.

“Oh, I forgot the honey butter. I’ll fetch it if you’d care for some.”

“No thanks, this is fine. Nice. I wasn’t expecting… You certainly have a staggering collection of antiques. This right here—” he held up the tea cup, absurdly tiny in his hand “—is European, must be over a hundred years old.” He slanted his head in the direction of her desk. “Your setup, it’s well, wow. I couldn’t stomach the idea of anyone daring to mess with a roll-top that fine if the craftsmanship weren’t so remarkable.”

She beamed. “You like it? I hunted flea markets and on-line auctions for months to find all the components. The woodworking was the most difficult aspect. Not my specialty.”

“You put the whole thing together yourself?” His voice and expression layered incredulity.

Cayden set her tea cup on the table with slight clink and serious attitude. “You don’t believe I’m capable?”

He examined the tea cup again, peered around the room, set the cup down, and shook his head. “Good Lord, how should I know what you’re capable of? The more I learn about you, the more confused I get. I’m sorry. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“You mean Barbie’s not into soldering irons?” She blinked in artificial surprise.

So what if she was just noticing that his face was as kind as it was handsome, or that it was so filled with a mix of sincerity and confusion she wanted to kiss it? She wasn’t going to get all gooey over him again, especially not right after she’d reminded herself he had a girlfriend, and a dreadful one at that.

“Barbie?” His broad grin told her when the light blinked on. “About that…” A guilty expression, followed by one of irritation, crossed his face. “Oh yeah, well what about Trip-the-Ken-doll?”

“It’s not my fault Trip’s my cousin. You can’t choose your blood, Clint, whether you want to or not. You can choose your companions, though.”

“Your cousin? Oh.” His broad shoulders relaxed. “I fired Dillon, and Darcy dumped me.” His curled finger rose to his lip, too late to halt what had clearly been an unintended confession.

Deciding to cut him a break, she poured him another cup of tea and said, “Your taste in companions isn’t all bad. Bill’s a decent guy. Sounds like you’ve had a tough week.”

“Bill is a nice guy. He’s been with Green Man pretty much from the get-go. Dealing with Dillon and Darcy bummed me out at first. All I feel now is relief. Monday morning was the real hell.” He went on before she could speculate on how his Monday had compared to hers. “And while I’m cleaning up messes, look, I hardly know where to begin apologizing. First off, I shouldn’t have left you alone out there in East Granby. You got hurt and tore that pretty dress—” he snorted “—not that you didn’t find a place for it.”

“Dr. Seuss wears it well, doesn’t he?”

“Dr. Seuss?” He laughed, loud and deep. He pointed at the poster over the desk. “Which explains that. What’s with the Dr. Who scarf, though? It
is
a Dr. Who scarf, isn’t it?”

“Good catch. He was born here in Springfield, you know.”

“Dr. Who?”

“Dr. Seuss. I couldn’t resist fusing them.”