light hazel with unexpected depth. Brett blinked. She’d never seen eyes quite like that before. It wasn’t just the color, but also their darkly brooding expression that made her feel as if she’d just been lifted into the vortex of a tornado.
“Where did you come from?” he demanded.
“Outside,” she replied. “Would you like me to fix that for you?”
Michael clutched the doorknob to his chest, which was hard to do, since he was carrying a paper-wrapped box, and glared at her. “I’ve had enough people trying to fix things around here.”
“It’s a beautiful old building,” she said admiringly, noting the etched glass panel on one side of the inner doorway.
“It’s a security risk,” he replied, following the direction of her gaze. “The place is falling down around our ears.”
“Then why do you live here?”
“I don’t have a choice.”
She made no reply, knowing what it was like to have few options. But that life was behind her now. “So what are your impressions of the building’s owner?”
“The guy was a no-good con artist,” Michael growled, wishing David Axton were there so he could punch his lights out.
His passionate reply clearly startled her. He saw the way her blue eyes opened wide, her long lashes dark against her creamy white skin. He wondered who she was visiting in the building.
“So are you going to buzz someone to let us in?” she asked.
“Most of the intercom system is busted. Those that do work are in apartments where the occupants are halfdeaf.” He was referring to the Stephanopolises, Mrs. Wieskopf and Mrs. Martinez, quelling the flash of guilt he felt at referring to them in such a way. His parents had taught him to respect his elders. But surely not when they took pleasure in torturing him the way his tenants did.
“If the intercom is broken, then I guess there’s just one thing to do,” Brett said. “Put that doorknob back on.” Seeing his distrustful look, she added, “Look, I know what I’m doing. Actually, I’m here to interview for the building supervisor’s job. It looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
The man’s expression darkened as he frowned at her. “What kind of story is that?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a woman.”
“That’s right. So?”
“The ad said I was looking for someone with experience. A handyman.”
“You? But I thought you said the owner was a no-good con artist?”
“That’s the guy who dumped the place on me. I’m just, the poor idiot who got stuck with this monstrosity.”
Her look clearly told him that she thought he was an idiot for questioning her skills. She was kind of pretty, with her short dark hair and those blue eyes with their smudgy thick lashes. Seeing the sprinkling of freckles across her cute nose, he was willing to bet she had Irish blood. She looked wholesome. His mother would approve of her. But then Michael had never dated women his mother would approve of.
She was wearing a down coat and a strange woolen hat—beret, he corrected himself. Whatever it was called, it wasn’t real practical for keeping body warmth in. Around her neck was a bright-colored scarf that looked like it had been knitted by a bunch of color-blind elves. She had nice legs encased in tight jeans and on her feet were a pair of heavy-duty hiking boots.
“As the poor idiot who owns this place,” she said, “maybe it would be best if you conducted our interview inside. It’s not much warmer in here than it is outside. Are you going to give me the doorknob to fix or not?”
“Not,” he said.
She sighed. “Why not?”
“Because things are bad enough already. I don’t want them getting any worse.”
“Then how about I talk you through fixing the knob yourself?” she suggested with the patience of someone addressing a troublesome two-year-old who was refusing to eat his vegetables. “I’ve got a small screwdriver on my Swiss knife.” She reached into her purse and pulled it out.
“I’ll do that,” Michael said, taking the knife from her. He wasn’t sure he could trust her not to run him through with it. She looked aggravated enough with him to try. “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t, but it’s Brett. Brett Munro.”
“You signed your application letter B. Munro,” he noted accusingly before handing her his package while he turned to the door.
“To avoid your throwing it into the ‘round file,’“ she retorted. “Experience has taught me to be cautious when applying for a job of this kind.”
Michael wasn’t really listening to her. Instead he was rather proud of the way he jiggled the doorknob back into place. He had to squat down to see what he was doing while trying to fit the compact screwdriver into the screw’s slot. This handyman stuff wasn’t that hard after all, if you had the proper tools.
“You have to turn the screwdriver to the right to tighten it,” she informed him dryly. Of course, with that he slid the screwdriver right off the screw, nearly gouging the wood on the door.
Muttering under his breath, he tightened the screw and moved on to the next one. Once that was done, he reached into his wallet and extracted a credit card to slide into the door jamb. Holding it just right, he hit the bolt and opened the door.
“You did that a little too easily for my comfort,” Brett told him.
“That’s why I’ve got a locksmith coming next week. I’d have gotten him here sooner, but the guy had a three-week waiting list.”
“I know how to put in a new lock.”
“Yeah, but do you know how to fix a hot-water heater?” he retorted, certain she’d answer no.
Instead she said, “Depends what’s wrong with it.”
“If I knew what was wrong with it, I’d fix it myself,” Michael declared.
He didn’t appreciate the yeah-right look she gave him.
“Have you ever been a building supervisor before?” he demanded, taking his package back from her in exchange for her Swiss knife as he headed for his main-floor apartment. This door he hadn’t locked, thank heaven.
“No,” she replied, trailing after him and looking around his place with interest.
Michael never “sted a look like that. It either meant someone was casing the joint or, if it was a woman, that they were getting nesting instincts—imagining their chintz couch in his living room. He’d be called paranoid, were it not for the fact that his last romantic relationship had started with just such a look of interest at his living room. The relationship had ended several months ago in disaster. She’d accused him of being a loner. She was right.
“Why
