What A Man's Gotta Do. Karen Templeton

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СКАЧАТЬ warmth beckoned from inside. “Come on in while I get the keys to the apartment.”

      He wiped his boots on the doormat, then did as she asked, quietly shutting the door behind him. The old-fashioned entryway was dimly lit, but enough for him to take in the wide staircase hugging one photo-lined wall, the faded Oriental rugs scattered crookedly on the scuffed wooden floor. And Mala. Her feet encased in thick, slouchy socks, she stood with one arm hugging her ribs, the other hand fiddling with a small gold loop in her ear. Caution hovered like a mistreated pup in her light eyes, at odds with the directness, the generosity of spirit that he now realized was what had intrigued him so much all those years ago. A tiny, fierce burst of protectiveness exploded in his chest, scaring the very devil out of him.

      “Want some coffee?” she asked. “I just made it.”

      Eddie caught the automatic “no, thanks” before it hit his mouth. Fact was, a cup of coffee sounded great, and he couldn’t think of any reason why he shouldn’t take her up on her offer. Except one.

      “I bet it’s decaf.”

      “I bet you’re wrong.”

      “Then I guess I don’t mind if I do. Black, please.”

      “Gotcha. Be right back.”

      She straightened up the crooked rug with the heel of one foot before she went, though.

      Other than the muted sound of some TV drama coming from what he assumed was the living room, the house was astonishingly quiet. And on top of the coffee aroma lay a mixture of other scents, of clean laundry and recent baths and woodsmoke. Like what most people meant when they said, “Home.”

      He grunted, looked around. He’d been in enough hacked-up houses to guess the layout of this one, although this seemed nicer than most. An office, looked like, in what had been the original front parlor to the right; through the wide doorway off to the left, he caught a glimpse of sand-colored wall-to-wall carpet, beige-and-blue plaid upholstered furniture, a warm-toned spinet piano, a brick fireplace, more pictures, more kid stuff. The kitchen would be out in back, most likely an eat-in, and there were probably some add-ons, too, maybe a couple of extra bedrooms or something.

      “Here you go.” Mala came down the hall, handed him a flowery but sturdy mug of coffee, then plucked a heavy sweater off the coatrack and slipped it on, all the while watching him, her expression still guarded. Waiting for a reaction, he realized, even if she didn’t know that’s what she was doing. He took a sip, nodded in approval. Relief flooded her features; a stab of irritation shunted through him, that she should care that much what some stranger thought about her coffee.

      “It’s real good,” he said.

      “My mother taught me, when I was still little.”

      Eddie lifted the mug in salute. “But you made it.”

      A smile flashed across her mouth, followed by a low chuckle. “You can really lay it on thick, can’t you?”

      He angled his head at her. “I’m no better at flattering than I am at conversation, Mala. The coffee’s good. So just deal with it.”

      She blushed, nodded, then slid her feet into a pair of wooden clogs by the door. “The entrance is in the back,” she said, yanking open the front door. When he glanced at the stairs right there in the hallway, she simply said, “Blocked off,” and left it at that.

      And here Mala had thought she was immune to things like slow, sexy smiles and the pungent, spicy scent of fresh-out-of-the-cold males.

      Not to mention the sight of soft, worn jeans molding to hard, lean thighs.

      Ai-yi-yi.

      The thin crust of snow crunched underfoot as she led Eddie wordlessly around to the side, then up the wooden stairs leading to the apartment.

      The key stuck.

      “It does that when it’s humid,” she said under her breath, wondering, just as the damn lock finally gave way and the door wratched open, why every other sentence out of her mouth these days seemed to be an apology. She flicked on the living room’s overhead light, stepping well out of the range of Eddie’s pheromones as he followed her inside. She cringed at the faint tang of old pizza and stale beer still hovering in the air, even though she’d cleaned up the worst of the mess more than a week ago.

      “If the lock gets to be too much of a hassle,” she said, “let me know. I’ll change it out.”

      His face remained expressionless as he took in the room. She clutched the coffee mug to her chest, hoping the warmth would dissolve the strange knot that had suddenly taken root smack in the center of her rib cage. Her nerves lurched, sending her heart rate into overdrive. “Like I said, it’s not the Hilton.”

      To say the least. Bare, white walls which needed another coat of paint, she noted. Beige industrial grade carpet. Ivory JCPenney drapes over the two large windows. The earthtone tweed sofa and two equally colorless armchairs had been in her parents’ den, once upon a time; Mala had scrounged the coffee table, mismatched end tables and black bookcase from yard sales, picked up the plain tan ginger jar lamps at Target. Not shabby—she’d seen shabby, this wasn’t it—just basic. And about as personal as a dentist’s office.

      “Feel free to hang pictures or whatever, make it feel more like home.”

      No comment. Just the buzz from that sharp blue gaze, silently taking everything in over the rim of the mug as he sipped his coffee. Mala swiped her hair behind her ear.

      “Um, kitchen’s over there.” She pointed to the far end of the room where, behind a Formica-topped bar, the secondhand refrigerator sulked in the shadows. The living room light reflected dully off the grease-caked, glass-paned cabinets: she made a mental note to buy more Windex. Her mother would have a cow if she knew Mala was actually showing someone the place in the condition it was in. “I guess what they must’ve done was knock out a wall between the master bedroom and one of the smaller ones to make the kitchen area and living room, leaving the bedroom and bath the way they were.”

      The hair on the backs of her arms stirred. She glanced over, caught Eddie watching her, his gaze steady, unnerving in its opaqueness, much more unnerving in its overt sexual interest. Over a frisson of alarm, she squatted, grimacing at some stain or other on the carpeting. Between his silence and his staring and her nerves, she was about to go nuts.

      “Why do you keep looking at me?” she said to the stain.

      “Sorry,” he said. Mala looked up. He wasn’t smiling, exactly, as much as his features had somehow softened. “Didn’t realize I was.” Then he added, “I just would’ve thought you’d be used to having men gawking at you.”

      The slight tinge of humor in his words threatened to rattle her even more, especially because she realized he wasn’t making fun of her. She stood, her cheeks burning, then crossed to the empty bookcase, yanking a tissue out of her sweater pocket to wipe down the filthy top shelf.

      “Like I said, I haven’t had a chance to clean, so it looks a little woebegone at the moment. But it’s a nice place when it’s fixed up. There’s lots of light in here during the day, and everything works. I’m afraid you’re at my mercy for heat, since the thermostat’s downstairs and I tend to think there’s nothing wrong with having to wear a sweater indoors in the middle of winter, but it’s automatic, on СКАЧАТЬ