tense and both hands clutching the umbrella, she peeked inside the room. Everything looked just as she’d left it, the afternoon sun illuminating the dusty surfaces all too well: the rumpled bed she hadn’t made, the overflowing bookcase and the overturned crate that served as her night table.
No burglar. And no cat.
She left the umbrella against the wall, straightened up and pushed the door fully open. All this for nothing. That sound she’d heard must have been something from outside, or maybe the window creaking.
She stalked inside the room and sat down on the bed. That was that. Just as well she hadn’t panicked. Much.
Sitting down had been a mistake, she realized. Now she’d have to stand up again, if only to close the front door. She sighed, postponing the ordeal, and idly contemplated the upturned crate with its miniature mountain of books and paper. Okay, it was high time to get a proper nightstand. She could afford it. She could afford a lot of things now, and it was time to stop worrying about every dime.
Then something moved just behind her on the bed and before she’d even acknowledged the movement she was standing pressed against the wall, not realizing she was screaming until her throat hurt and the screeching sound echoed off the wall and exploded in her own ears.
Justin grabbed a dish of leftover pizza out of the fridge and put it in the microwave. Irritation was making him edgy, and he wasn’t sure why he was reheating pizza right now. He wasn’t even hungry.
His neighbor needed a baby-sitter. She practically lived at her office, dragged herself home late at night looking like a ghost on a hunger strike, and when at home she didn’t seem to do much more than sleep. There was hardly ever a sound from her place, even through the thin wall.
Except when she showered. Her bathroom was just on the other side of his shower tiles. She took long showers. They sometimes coincided with his. In his weaker moments, he stood there in his own shower and lived every moment of hers. He had this crazy urge to wash that long brown hair for her. Maybe this was what they called a fetish. Maybe he was a shampoo-and-conditioner fetishist.
She was also thin, and getting thinner. No wonder, if she used her breaks to shop for clothing, instead of eating.
Women!
He stared at the pizza, turning in slow circles inside the humming microwave. It would be neighborly to bring over some food, wouldn’t it? Wasn’t it the gesture of a friendly old lady, living next door, concerned for the welfare of her neighbor? It wouldn’t smack of a secret admirer who’d spent too many hours listening to her shower, would it?
He grimaced at himself, as familiar visions of soapsuds and glistening skin intruded on his altruistic thoughts. In the last few months he’d come up with ideas for all sorts of interesting things to do with a washcloth.
He’d have to adjust his fantasies, though. The way she was losing weight, he could probably occupy himself in the shower by counting her ribs.
Justin cursed himself and yanked the microwave door open, three seconds before it was due to stop. Laura was not his type. There was vulnerability in her eyes that marked her strictly off limits to someone like him. He wasn’t a saint, but he tried not to get involved with women who expected more than he would ever want to give.
He’d just take her the damn pizza, and be done with it.
He was at the door when the scream ricocheted through the building. Adrenaline pounding through his body, he yanked the baseball bat from the umbrella stand, and half a second later was at Laura’s door.
CHAPTER TWO
IT’S just the cat, just the cat, someone chanted in her ear and she realized it was herself. She forced herself to look at the bed, expecting the white Angel to be sitting there, looking accusatory over the lack of tuna.
But no.
Laura blinked when the shape on the bed took form. It wasn’t a cat. It was bigger than a cat, not as furry, and probably wasn’t obliging enough to lick itself clean.
A baby.
She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to twenty before opening them again. Maybe stress had caught up with her. After all, she’d been working fourteen hours a day for almost two weeks now. Yes, it had to be stress. Stress working with her biological clock to create the illusion of a tiny baby sleeping in her bed. Her biological clock had probably been awakened by the unusual stimulus of a real life male in close proximity. The child had to be an illusion. For one, if it had been a real baby, it would have woken up when she screamed.
Yes. That was it. It had to be an illusion. She opened her eyes, feeling better already.
The illusion was still there.
Still sleeping. Looking very, very real, tiny nose, chubby cheeks, long lashes and all. The soft baby-snore convinced her that the infant was for real.
Illusions didn’t snore.
How could there be a baby lying in the middle of her bed? In her locked apartment? She pinched herself. If it wasn’t an illusion, perhaps it was a dream?
Nope. No such luck.
“Laura?”
Mr. Chocolate Eyes again, his voice also chocolate smooth as it snaked through the small apartment, even raised in urgent inquiry. She groaned. He must have heard her scream, and, ever gallant, come to the rescue.
“Laura?” he called again. “I heard you scream, and the door is open. I’m coming in, okay? I’m calling the police.”
She shot to her feet and out in the hallway, just as Justin barged into the apartment, body tensed for fight, cell phone in one hand, a baseball bat in the other.
“I’m fine,” she said, trying for a smile. “No need for the police. There’s no danger. I was just startled. Sorry if I scared you.”
His eyebrow rose. “The scream turned my blood to ice. What was it?”
Laura tugged at her hair, not sure herself what was going on. “There’s nothing wrong.” Exactly. There was just a strange baby lying in her bed.
“Do we have another cat burglar?”
“Haha,” she said dutifully, grinding her teeth at the reminder. “Yes. I mean, no. Not precisely.”
“Dog burglar?”
“Well, since you ask, it’s actually a baby burglar. Did you see anyone around today?”
“No, I just got home the same time as you did.” Justin slid his cell phone into his pocket. “Baby burglar? What are you talking about?”
“Someone left a baby in my apartment.”
“I see.” He left the baseball bat leaning against the wall. “Guess I won’t be needing that. You mean you’re baby-sitting?”
“Apparently. Only I have no idea whose baby it is. Come see.” Without giving him the chance to decline, she turned toward her bedroom again, relieved to hear him follow. This was too much to
