Killing Time. Leslie Kelly

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      Like Mick. He hadn’t cut her any slack either. It had been a real pleasure to cut his jacks-over-eights full house out from under him with a royal flush.

      If only he didn’t look so darn cute. So male, so king of his domainish. She couldn’t imagine why she had ever thought this house belonged to the nice old lady—his mother, for heaven’s sake. Because while it was old, and tastefully decorated with antiques, it did scream male inhabitant.

      The rec room with the completely drool-worthy forty-three-inch flat-screen TV and the five-speaker surround-sound system should have been a tip-off. Little old ladies didn’t usually watch their Matlock or Murder She Wrote reruns in such high-tech surroundings. Caro had just been too deep in lust with the TV setup to question it.

      The rest of the house had held similar hints. From the paneled office with the cherry desk—which she’d originally thought might have belonged to the nonland-lady’s late husband—to the overstuffed leather furniture in the living room, she should have expected this. Well, not this. Not Mick. But she should have at least considered the possibility that the woman she’d met was not the owner of the house.

      When they were finally alone, Mick walked over to plop on the recliner facing the TV. Following him, Caro found the remote and clicked the off switch. Nothing happened. Spying another remote, she grabbed that one and tried again. Still nothing. “Do you not have batteries in this town?”

      He didn’t even look around. “The little one’s for the stereo. The silver one for the CD player. The fat black one works the DVD and the really long one runs everything else.”

      Great. A remote-inept roommate. “Ever heard of universal?” she asked, digging into the sofa cushions for the long “everything else” one.

      Mick wasn’t helping. “Can never figure out how to get the damn things to work. The one time I tried it, it kept turning on my coffeepot. I thought I’d end up burning my house down.”

      She saw a nearly hidden smile. “You’re so full of it.”

      “And so are you. You know damn well you’re not planning on staying here. Why didn’t you slap my face and walk out the minute you realized what I’d done to you?”

      He gave her one of those lopsided, cocky grins, as if daring her to get close enough to slap his face. She didn’t take the dare. Stepping close to Mick would make her hand itch to do something far removed from slapping.

      She already wanted to touch him. Had wanted to touch him since that first moment in his office. But that was a dangerous, slippery road, one she couldn’t afford to travel. She took one tiny, nearly imperceptible step back.

      “So tell me,” he said, apparently not noticing the sudden flush in her cheeks, “why haven’t you left yet?”

      She crossed her arms in front of her chest, still standing over him. “Where, exactly, do you suggest I go?”

      “So you definitely don’t want to be roomies?”

      “Not even if you’ve turned into Tom Hanks from Bosom Buddies.”

      He rolled his eyes. “Still living life as a sitcom, huh?”

      She glanced around the dirty room, which still held a hazy cloud of smoke and a strong smell of liquor. “Still living life as a frat boy, hmm?”

      He chuckled. “Christ, how did I survive eight years without hearing those smart-ass comebacks?”

      That made her catch her breath, and Mick instantly seemed sorry to have said it. He stared at her, their eyes meeting and exchanging a long, unspoken conversation. Where has the time gone? Where have you been? How has life treated you? What brought us together and what was it, really, that tore us apart?

      None of the questions were asked. Much less answered.

      Instead, Caroline voiced another one. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you set me up like this?” She instantly regretted it, especially when she heard the note of vulnerability in her own voice. Dammit, she’d pulled off strong and in-control all evening. Why’d she have to go and turn into a girl now when they were alone?

      He met her stare unflinchingly. “Because I was mad at you and I was being a mean-spirited shit.” He rose from his chair and stepped closer, sending prickles of awareness throughout her body. “I’m sorry.”

      Mick had never been a liar—as someone who reveled in his badness, why would he ever need to be? So Caro knew he was telling the truth now.

      “I was going to tell you earlier—before you thoroughly trounced me at cards—that I’ve arranged for you to have Sophie’s house. It’s vacant. And I’ll give you back all your rent money.”

      She shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t live in Sophie’s house.”

      “Oh, for God’s sake, Caroline, is a clean, vacant, pretty little house worse than living here with someone you despise?”

      She thought about it. He looked slightly insulted that it took her so long to answer, probably because he’d been angling for a protestation that she didn’t despise him. He wasn’t getting one.

      “I can’t live in Sophie’s house, Mick, because of my allergies.”

      He quirked up one brow.

      “Cats. Remember?”

      “What about them?”

      “I’m allergic.”

      “The house has been thoroughly cleaned.”

      “You don’t get it,” she replied, breathing an exasperated sigh as she dropped to the sofa and waited for him to sit opposite her. After he did, she continued. “I have major allergies. Those few minutes I spent in her house nearly made me break out in hives. No matter how much it’s cleaned, unless the place has been HEPA-vacuumed and recarpeted, I can’t spend more than a half hour in there or I’ll end up in the hospital.”

      He looked stymied. “Have you always been allergic to cats?”

      She nodded, crossing her arms. “Don’t you remember Coolie? My hairless? I had pictures of him all over my dorm room.”

      Mick frowned. “I always thought he was a rat.”

      She picked up a pillow and threw it at him.

      “So, Sophie’s place is out.” He looked sheepish. “Damn, I really am sorry.”

      Caro recognized the look. Mick was a notorious prankster, a joke-player, but whenever one of his harmless pranks turned out to be a little less than harmless, he’d always been the first to apologize and try to make things right.

      She didn’t let him off the hook that easily. “You should be.”

      Mick leaned forward and dropped his elbows onto his jean-clad knees. Caro followed his every movement with her eyes, wondering why eight years hadn’t been enough to make Mick Winchester look old and unattractive. She didn’t know that eighty years could.

      He СКАЧАТЬ