pulled into the complex parking lot, gathered her books and papers and purse and groceries and made her way to her second-floor apartment.
And, there, on her elegantly lit landing, she came face-to-face with a man she had thought she’d never see again.
The smiling man of her terrible dreams.
CHAPTER THREE
KIERAN WAS SHOCKED by how different Claire looked. How much older.
He hadn’t seen her in two years, but still…
Part of it was her hair. She had beautiful hair, a deep, shiny brown. She used to wear it almost to her waist. When she taught, she just whisked it up into a casual twist that always had adorable bits and pieces escaping from it. Now it was cut in a sleek, chin-length bob that fit like a helmet.
And her outfit. It was the pencil-thin uniform of a corporate lady-shark. What had happened to the flowing cotton jumpers and soft pastel T-shirts?
But most of all, it was her face. Even in the worst days of her first grief, she hadn’t looked this tight and closed-in. Her brown eyes, round, large and long-lashed, had always reminded him of some gentle woodland creature.
Not any more. Now she just looked tired and strangely distant. She didn’t even seem interested enough to be shocked to see him standing on her front porch.
“Kieran,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
That was a damn good question, actually. What the hell was he doing here? Back in his hotel room, he’d told himself a thousand times to quit being such a fool, put down his car keys, order room service, raid the minibar, turn on the television, anything. But none of it had stopped him.
“I’m in town for a conference.”
She shifted her packages so that she could see him better over the groceries, but she kept her fist tightly closed around her keys. She seemed to have no intention of opening that door.
“Not here in Richmond,” she said. “I meant here. What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to say hello.” Was that true? Actually, he had no clear idea why he had come. He’d just opened the telephone book, found her name and found himself getting a map from his laptop. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
She shifted again, her keys clinking against a glass bottle, or maybe a can. “I’m doing fine.”
No, you’re not, he wanted to say. Any fool could tell she was lost. But he didn’t have the right to say anything like that. Hell, he didn’t even have the right to be standing here.
One date. That was all they’d ever had. One night when he’d sat across from her, eating salmon and salad and some stupid little bonbon dessert, and quietly going wild with wanting her.
One night—compared to Steve’s death, for which she had always blamed him. No, he’d say he had pretty damn few rights in this situation.
“I just—” He cleared his throat and began again. “I thought maybe we could talk for a while. Maybe I could take you out for coffee. I haven’t eaten dinner yet. I just got into town. Are you hungry?”
She looked at him with those shallow eyes. “We don’t really have anything to talk about, Kieran. We don’t have anything in common except Steve. And I don’t talk about Steve.”
You don’t? Oh, Claire…that’s not healthy. But of course he didn’t say that, either. He just looked at her sober face in the silvery light from the carriage lamp and wished he could go back two years and start over. God, the things he’d do differently!
“It’s been two years, Claire. Isn’t it time to let old—” But her face warned him to stop, so he did. “All right, then, how about if I promise we won’t talk about Steve?”
Her fingers must have clenched a little. The brown paper bag made a brief crinkling noise. “What topics would be left, then? Politics? The weather?”
“I could tell you about Heyday. It’s grown since you left. They’ve put in a new multiplex movie theater. Stadium seating. Four whole screens. The kids all want jobs there.” She wasn’t interested, but he kept going, determined to hit on something. “The bookstore expanded. And they put in a new traffic light.”
“Did they really. Where?”
Oh, hell. He hesitated just a second too long, as he recognized his mistake. She was smart. She knew what the hesitation meant.
“Where?”
He took a deep breath. “On Poplar Hill.”
“So much for that topic.” She turned away firmly. “I don’t mean to be rude, Kieran. I appreciate the effort you made to come. But I really think it’s better if we just say good-night.”
She fumbled with her key, trying to insert it into the lock.
“Claire.” He touched her shoulder, and she twitched away quickly. Too quickly. The oranges on the top of her grocery bag began to teeter. She shifted them, reaching out with her other hand to try to balance things, but at that very moment the door swung open, and she lurched forward.
Fruit and fresh vegetables spilled everywhere, and a box of spinach spaghetti hit the landing with enough force to split open. Thin green straws hopped and tumbled crazily, covering the concrete and bouncing down the stairs.
He caught the bag as it fell, just in time to save the sparkling water.
She knelt immediately and began scooping up bits of broccoli. “I’ll get it,” she said. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
He crouched beside her. “Let me help.”
For a minute he thought she was going to refuse. For a minute, she thought so, too. He could read it in her eyes. But obviously even she could see how impossibly rude that would be. She blinked, brushed her hair out of her eyes and nodded.
“Thanks,” she said. She dumped a handful of little green florets into the bag and began scooping up some more.
It took several minutes, but finally they had it all, down to the last strand of green spaghetti. She went in first. She left the door open behind her, so he assumed she wouldn’t call the police if he followed her in.
It was a beautiful apartment. Had she just recently moved in? The living room had high ceilings and an elegant coffee-colored molding; a brand-new, thick, champagne-beige carpet; and almost no furniture. One chair with a throw blanket across its arm, one small coffee table and a bookcase with a stereo on top—that was it. No sofa, no lamp, no stack of unopened mail on the foyer table. No tail-wagging puppy, no roommate, no—
No anything.
“It’s a nice place,” he said. “How long have you lived here?”
“A couple of years. Since I left Heyday.” She had gone straight to the kitchen. He heard the growling sound of the garbage disposal churning up broccoli—and discouraging any further conversation.
Two
