at work? And what if he was? Why should that matter to him, Judd? Other than being the woman who’d saved Emmy’s life, Lise Charbonneau was nothing to him.
Yet she was beautiful in a way Angeline could never be. A beauty that was much more than skin deep, that was rooted not only in courage but in emotion. He said brusquely, “I’ll be staying in the hospital overnight with my daughter. I’ll drop by in the morning, Lise, to see how you are.”
“Please don’t,” she said sharply. “You’ve thanked me. There’s nothing more to say.”
As Dave raised his brows again, Judd said implacably, “Then I’ll be in touch with you later on. McDowell, thanks again—your team did a great job.”
“No sweat, man.”
Judd marched out of the room and down the corridor toward the elevator. He wasn’t used to being given the brush-off. Hey, who was he kidding? He was never given the brush-off. Women seemed to find his looks, coupled with his money, a potent combination, so much so that he was the one used to handing out brush-offs. Politely. Diplomatically. But the message was almost always the same. Hands off.
Lise Charbonneau hated his guts. No doubt about that. Dammit, she’d been scarcely conscious and she’d found the energy to let him know she thought he was the lowest of the low. And all because of Angeline. Who in the end had dumped him as unceremoniously as if he’d been a pair of boots she was tired of wearing. Trouble is, at the time that had hurt. Hurt rather more than he was prepared to admit. During the eleven years it had lasted, he’d done his level best to hold his marriage together, and to preserve the intensity of emotion that had poleaxed him when he’d first met Angeline. But he’d failed on both counts. Hence his propensity for brush-offs whenever a woman showed any signs of getting too close, or having any ambitions toward matrimony.
Been there. Done that.
He’d have to phone Angeline first thing in the morning: assuming that she was home in the elegant chateau on the Loire that was the principal residence of her second husband, Henri. Who was, incidentally, no longer richer than Judd. Judd, however, couldn’t lay claim to a string of counts and dukes in his ancestry. Far from it. If he rarely thought about Angeline, he even more rarely recalled his upbringing on the sordid tenements of Manhattan’s lower east side.
The elevator seemed to take forever to arrive, but finally he was pushing open the door to Emmy’s room. The little girl was lying peacefully asleep, just as he’d left her. She had her mother’s dark blue eyes and heart-shaped face; but her long, straight hair was as black as his, and she’d inherited both his quickness of mind and ability to keep her own counsel. He’d loved her from the moment she’d been born. But only rarely did he know exactly what she was thinking.
As he reached over and smoothed her hair back from her face, she didn’t even stir. He’d wanted to make the same gesture with Lise, although from very different motives. Motives nowhere near as pure as the love of a father for his daughter.
He hadn’t seen the last of Lise. He knew that in his bones. Although if she were involved with Dave, he’d be one heck of a lot smarter to keep his distance. If he hadn’t liked the first brush-off, why would he like the second any better? And he’d never tried forcing himself between a woman and her lover. Never had to, and he wasn’t about to start now.
Put Lise Charbonneau out of your mind, he told himself, and focus on getting some sleep. Tomorrow he had to look after Emmy, insurance agents, the police and contractors for repairs. He didn’t need the distraction of a flame-haired woman who thought he was the scum of the earth. Scowling, Judd lay down on the cot that the nurses had provided and stared up at the ceiling. But it was a long time before he fell asleep, because two images kept circling in his brain.
Emmy sleeping in the attic because she was lonely.
And the dirt under Lise’s fingernails. Dirt from a fire in which she’d risked her life for Emmy’s sake.
CHAPTER TWO
THREE days after the fire and her shoulder was still killing her, Lise thought irritably. She hated being off work and having so much time to think. And even more she hated feeling so helpless and ineffective. It was nearly noon, and all she’d accomplished so far today was to have a shower, make her bed and buy a few groceries. The cabbie had been kind enough to carry them upstairs to her apartment door. But she’d had to put them away, one thing at a time, because she could only use her left arm. She wasn’t sleeping well, she’d watched far too much TV the last three days, she’d read until her eyes ached, and yes, she was in a foul mood.
She pulled a chair over to the counter, climbed up and reached for the package of rice. But as she lifted it in her good hand, she bumped her sore shoulder on the edge of the cupboard door. Pain lanced the whole length of her arm. With a sharp cry, she dropped the rice. It hit a can of tomatoes, the bag split and rice showered over the counter and the floor.
Lise knew a great many swearwords, working as she did with a team of men. But not one of them seemed even remotely adequate. Tears of frustration flooding her eyes, she leaned her forehead against the cupboard door. What was wrong with her? Why did she suddenly feel like crying her eyes out?
She needed a change. That was one reason. Desperately and immediately, she needed to alter her lifestyle.
It wasn’t the first time she’d had this thought. But its intensity was new. New and frightening, because if she quit her job at the fire station, what else would she do? She’d worked there for nearly ten years. She didn’t have a university degree, she had not one speck of artistic talent, and anything to do with the world of commerce reduced her to a blithering idiot. She couldn’t even balance her checkbook, for Pete’s sake.
So how could she quit her job?
With her good hand, she reached for the box of tissues on the counter; but as she tugged one free, more rice pellets rattled to the counter. The counter needed wiping. The sink was full of dirty dishes. Her whole life was a mess, Lise thought, blowing her nose and clambering down from the chair. And how she loathed self-pitying women. Maybe she’d make herself a large cherry milk shake and eat six brownies in a row. That might give her the energy to clean up the rice. If not the refrigerator.
Somewhat cheered by the thought of the brownies—she’d made them from a packaged mix, with considerable difficulty, yesterday—Lise pulled the pan out from on top of the bread bin. But as she opened the drawer for a knife, someone knocked on her door.
It was a very decisive knock. Puzzled, she walked to the door and peered through the peephole.
Judd Harwood was standing on the other side of the door.
The last person in the world she wanted visiting her.
She yanked the door open, said furiously, “No, I do not want to see you and how did you get past security?”
“Waited until someone else opened the main door,” he said mildly. “You look god-awful, Lise.”
“Make my day.”
“Looks like someone ought to, and it might as well be me.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
But as she tried to push the door shut, he neatly inserted his foot in the gap and pried it further open. She seethed, “Judd, I’ll holler blue murder if you don’t go away.”
He
