maybe. Definitely not brocade. He shrugged, out of his element, although he recognized brocade when he saw it because every piece of furniture in his mother’s sitting room at the brownstone was upholstered in it. He’d been warned from the time he’d been old enough to reach it that he was not to put his sticky fingers on the brocade.
The walls were painted a rich, frothy cream; the floor was polished hard wood partially covered by a plush area rug with roses or cabbages or something that mirrored the colors in the furniture and the drapes that she’d tied back from the windows.
From the glass-globed lamps to the white tapers and delicate pieces of pottery set in artful clusters around the room, the effect was all very feminine, and yet, the room felt very comfortable. A little fussy for his tastes, but still warm and inviting. It surprised him to realize that he sort of liked it.
It was also very romantic. Like her? he wondered. Did Phoebe Richards hide a romantic side behind her utilitarian clothes and no-nonsense haircut? It would explain the dreamy look he’d seen on her face as the streetlights flashed across her features on the drive across town.
To the castle.
Her words had made him grin. They made sense now. Made more sense when he crossed the room to inspect the contents of her overflowing bookcase. He lifted a book out of a stack and smiled again.
Definitely a romance if the covers were to be believed. This one appeared to be a sweeping saga of a manly man and a virginal woman, with a royal crest and towering turrets in the background. He put the book back and discovered more of the same, along with a large collection of contemporary romantic suspense and several classics. Wuthering Heights. Camelot. Romeo and Juliet.
He felt another tug of tenderness for the woman who ate plain vanilla ice cream by herself on a Friday night, a traditional date night in Boston culture. At least it had been before he’d thrown a few things in his duffel and set out to see the world almost eight years ago.
A swift surge of anger boiled up when he thought of Jason Collins. The man was a predator. He was also slime. He was having a problem piecing together any scenario in which Phoebe Richards would be linked to him, and yet they had a history.
Daniel worked his scowl into a smile when Phoebe appeared in the doorway, a tall glass of iced tea in each hand.
“Hey, thanks.” He drained half the glass. “That hits the spot. And this is nice.” He lifted his glass to encompass the room. “Very nice.”
She attempted to hide her pleasure and pride over his statement behind a dismissive smile. “Only twenty-five more years of monthly payments and it’s mine, all mine—corroded pipes, peeling paint and all.”
He realized then what it was about her that captivated him so, besides the fact that she was pretty and refreshing and as tempting as the promise of the ice cream that was responsible for their chance meeting. Phoebe Richards was a real person. She didn’t have it in her to be anything else. Her earlier admissions of nervousness and now her smiles were as honest as her heart. It was a rarity in his world, where most women either jockeyed for a favorable position or wanted something from him. Phoebe hadn’t even wanted a ride home.
She crossed the room to the bay window where the cat waited with watchful eyes. She greeted him with a gentle scratch to the top of his head then stroked a slender hand lovingly down the length of his back. When the cat arched into her touch, Daniel damn near groaned, picturing himself the benefactor of that silky caress that was not only adoring but unconsciously sensual.
Well, there was a new wrinkle. He was jealous of a damn cat. Jealous. Of a cat. If he thought about it, it was probably as degrading as hell. He decided not to think about it.
“Guard cat?” he asked, shaking himself away from the concept and the picture of her hand stroking the tabby.
“Keeper of the kingdom,” she said with a small smile.
The smiles were coming easier for her now, and kind of like potato chips, he was afraid that he wasn’t going to be satisfied with just one.
“He’s also ruler of the roost. Arthur has made the rules and I’ve played by them since the day I brought him home from the pound three years ago.”
“Lucky cat,” he said, then looked up to find her watching him watch her hand continue to pet the purring feline.
He cleared his throat.
She dropped her hand self-consciously, her cheeks pinking prettily.
“Um, please, sit down,” she offered and perched tentatively on the edge of a side chair. “I’m not usually so lax in the manners department.”
And he wasn’t usually so easily distracted by beguiling eyes and a pretty face that got prettier by the moment. It was time to exercise the better part of wisdom.
“Actually, I need to take off,” he said, then immediately felt like a skunk when her face fell in disappointment.
Phoebe, Phoebe, Phoebe, he thought, helpless against another swell of tenderness. You are too open, too vulnerable. No wonder she made such an easy target for a creep like Jason Collins.
“Do something for me, would you?” he asked after hiding his unsettling reaction by finishing his tea in a long swallow. “Find someplace other than a frog to hide your house key. And get some decent locks on your doors, okay? You need a dead bolt,” he added and with grim determination walked to the front door. “Better yet, get a professional to come in here and set you up with a complete security system.”
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