style="font-size:15px;"> Arden tried to smile, but her lips trembled rather than curved. “It’s probably just from…my landlord. There’s a…a new tenant in the building. Downstairs. He’s been complaining…about noise.” She shifted her gaze, cleared her throat. “He—the landlord—has been delivering warning notices…to keep the new guy happy.”
Shaun knew she was lying, and he couldn’t help being concerned. Arden didn’t rattle easily. She was self-assured, strong, independent. And right now she was terrified.
He bit back a sigh, wondering what the hell was going on in her life, wishing he could just walk away, and knowing he wouldn’t. He reached out and gently laid a hand on her shoulder, surprised when she jumped as if he’d pulled a gun on her. He dropped his hand. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. Fine.” She stepped away from him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“The letter—from your landlord.” He caught a flicker in the depths of her dark eyes. “He isn’t harassing you about this noise complaint, is he?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Gary’s a good guy.”
He wanted to press, but she had already taken the carafe from the coffeemaker and crossed to the sink to fill it with water. Instead he leaned back against the counter and watched her, and he almost forgot the multitude of unanswered questions niggling at the back of his mind.
She was a pleasure to watch: tall and slender, with subtle curves in all the right places. She emptied the water into the reservoir, then replaced the carafe, and he felt his mouth go dry as she reached for the buttons that ran down the front of her jacket. She was wearing a blouse underneath, but still, watching her unfasten those buttons, slide her arms out of the sleeves, seemed so…intimate. She tossed the jacket over the back of a chair and turned to the refrigerator.
Shaun swallowed and tried not to notice the way the silky fabric of her blouse molded to the curve of her breasts. Then she opened the fridge and bent at the knees, her black skirt stretching enticingly over the smooth curve of her shapely buttocks as she reached for the tin of coffee.
He tore his gaze away.
What was wrong with him? This was Arden. She was practically family.
She was also a woman. An incredibly attractive woman. Although he’d never been blind to her attributes, the attraction had never before hit him in the same way. It had been a while since he’d felt more than the most basic stirring of desire, and this sudden and fierce attraction concerned him.
Why had he even suggested coming up to her apartment? Why couldn’t he have taken her less-than-subtle hint that she wanted to be alone?
Because it was Friday night and he didn’t want to be alone.
He also didn’t want to be hanging out at a smoky bar with the usual crowd, trying to seem duly enthralled with Sarah Jones, a court clerk he’d dated a few times last year. He was tired of the bar scene, weary of the dating game. Which was why he’d practically leaped at the opportunity to have dinner with Arden. He felt comfortable with her. And because he wasn’t trying to get her into his bed, he didn’t have to impress her. He didn’t have to pretend.
But if he really wasn’t interested in Arden, why was he finding it so difficult to tear his eyes from her? Why was he unable to stop imagining the subtle curves hidden beneath her tidy little suit?
In the interests of self-preservation, he moved away from her, stepping out of the kitchen to survey the modest apartment.
The living room walls were off-white in color and completely bare. No artwork or photos marred the pristine surface. The furniture was deep blue: a plush sofa and two matching chairs that were covered in some suedelike fabric. In front of the sofa was a dark wood coffee table polished to a high gloss. A matching entertainment unit sat against the opposite wall, containing a small television, a VCR and a portable stereo.
There was a short bookcase beside the front door with two framed photos on top of it. Shaun stepped closer. One frame held Nikki and Colin’s wedding picture, the other, their daughter, Carly’s, most recent school photo. There were no other mementos or knickknacks around the room. No magazines tossed on the coffee table, no decorative cushions on the sofa, no fancy lamps or little glass dishes. There were no plants or flowers, no signs of life. In fact, there was nothing in the room—save those two photos—that wasn’t useful or necessary.
Even the books on the shelves, arranged in alphabetical order, were legal texts. The room was very much a reflection of its tenant, he realized. Practical, efficient, ruthlessly organized. A beautiful façade, offering no hint of anything inside. The realization frustrated him, as did his sudden curiosity about a woman he’d known for so long. Except that he didn’t really know her at all.
He glanced in the direction of the dining room. At least, he assumed it was the dining room. It was hard to tell as the room was bare of furniture except for the packing boxes stacked four and five high against the back wall.
Beyond the dining room was a short hallway, probably leading to Arden’s bedroom. He turned away. The last thing he needed to think about was where she slept. What she slept in.
He moved back to the kitchen.
There were no dirty dishes in the sink, no crumbs on the countertop. Just the coffeemaker, currently bubbling away, and a microwave. Curious, he peeked over her shoulder as she opened the refrigerator again. She put the can of coffee inside and pulled out a carton of milk. Other than those two items, there were half a dozen containers of yogurt, a couple of cans of diet cola and a half-empty bottle of white wine. That was it. He frowned. No wonder her kitchen was spotless—she didn’t eat here.
As she closed the door again, he noticed the flutter of a small newspaper clipping that had been taped to the outside. It was the obituary of Denise Hemingway, age twenty-nine, and her four year-old son, Brian. He remembered reading about them in the paper, how they’d both been killed by Eric Hemingway—Denise’s husband, Brian’s father—before he’d turned the gun on himself.
It was hard to miss the story. Things like that might be commonplace in bigger cities, but in small-town Fairweather, Pennsylvania, domestic slayings were a rare occurrence and, consequently, front-page news. The victim, he realized, must have been Arden’s client.
He scanned further, noted that the funeral was…today.
Finally the pieces clicked into place and confirmed his earlier suspicions about Arden. She wasn’t cool or detached. She was a woman who cared about her clients, and cared deeply. Not only had she taken the time to go to the funeral, she’d shed deep, grief-filled tears for the mother and son who had lost their lives so tragically.
“How do you take your coffee?” Arden asked.
“Black.”
She filled the two mugs and handed one to him, then added a splash of milk to the other.
“Denise Hemingway,” he said, and saw her back stiffen.
She set the milk carton down before turning to face him.
“What about her?” Her eyes were stark, almost empty, her voice the same. But he knew now that it was a mask, that her emotions ran deep.
“She was your client?” he prompted.
Arden
