dumpling to shine. Was that so awful? It was to Chelsi, who had not been consulted. This latest act of her mother’s was apparently the last straw for the little girl. As if totally over it with the demands of feminine vanity, she stiffened and began screaming her protest.
ALL TREY HAD DONE was push the doorbell. But now, standing outside the impressive and intimidating red-brick Southern Colonial mansion that reposed in a neighborhood of such magnificence that Cinda’s house actually seemed small by comparison, he stood stiffly at attention. Four years of military training were hard to overcome. So was the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
But if Trey thought that tune had given him a terrifying flashback of boot camp proportions, it was nothing compared to the woman who opened the door. Tall, slender, with short hair the color of steel, and dressed in an approximation of an army uniform, she eyed him like the lowly enlisted man he’d been. “Yes?”
Trey told himself that this feeling that he’d strayed onto top-secret, off-limits property was ridiculous. He forced a smile and put his best mannerly foot forward. “Hi. I’m Trey Cooper. Mrs. Cavanaugh is expecting me…ma’am.”
With the doorbell music dying out, the only sound Trey heard now was a baby crying in the background. It didn’t faze the middle-aged woman standing in front of him, though. She slowly roved her gaze up and down him. No doubt about it—this was an inspection. Trey thought of his khaki slacks and light blue knit golf shirt, neatly tucked in and belted…thank God. As he’d had a haircut only this morning, it should pass muster. When the silent woman’s gaze lowered to his feet, Trey fought a nearly overwhelming urge to look down to see if his loafers had the appropriate shine.
The woman’s gaze flicked back to his face. Trey met her eyes. She never smiled. “You’ll do. Come in.”
Exhaling as if his life had just been spared, Trey stepped over the threshold and inside the home’s grand and tiled foyer. He heard the door—one of a set made of highly polished wood—close behind him. But he forgot the intimidating woman and the crying baby as he looked around, barely biting back a low whistle of appreciation for the grandeur of Cinda’s home. He had one conclusion only. He was in over his head here.
The only house he’d ever seen that he could compare this one to was Jude Barrett’s own. Other than his boss’s place, Trey had never seen anything like this. His parents’ home, where his mother still lived, was a five-room, white wood square of a house with a screened-in front porch, big trees outside and a neglected flower bed. And his apartment here in Atlanta was a nondescript, one-bedroom, furnished box in a complex of over one hundred units skirted by concrete and parking spaces.
Trey tried to picture himself coming home here, closing a door behind him, and calling out, “Hi, honey, I’m home.” And then Cinda, smiling, would come greet him—
Someone touched his elbow. Trey jumped and whipped around. His escort was there, right at his back. But she was smiling—about like he expected a praying mantis would before it devoured its prey. The woman leaned in toward him and looked him right in the eye as she whispered, “If you hurt her, I’ll hunt you down and rip your beating heart right out of your chest, do you hear me?”
The skin on the back of Trey’s neck crawled. He swallowed. “Yes, ma’am. Loud and clear.”
She stepped back. “Good. Then we understand each other.” With that, she did an about-face and began walking away. Trey put a protective hand over his heart. “Follow me,” the woman said over her shoulder. “Mrs. Cavanaugh awaits you in the family room.”
The queen has granted you an audience, peasant, was how she said it.
Feeling way off his game here but committed to the course, Trey fell in step, thinking this gray-haired character would even scare Peg the Nurse up in New York City. Down a wood-floored hallway they traveled, sweeping past the wide stairs that obviously led up to a second floor. Trey finally found himself in a room that alone had to be bigger than his mother’s entire home.
So this was what it was like to be a millionaire. The room demanded his attention. It was all windows and open spaces and white carpet and big pieces of furniture. Big paintings and sculptures, too. And flowers. Fresh ones. Everywhere. Beautiful. Colors impinged on his senses. He called them red, white and blue, but no doubt some interior decorator had fancy names for them that Trey would never be able to wrap his tongue around.
Just then, he became aware that the crying baby was close by and that the crying was subsiding into hiccups and sniffling. Trey looked around but didn’t see anyone else. Then…Cinda stood up from where she’d obviously been sitting on the other side of a big cushy beige-colored sofa.
Catching sight of her, locking gazes with her, Trey’s breath caught. He forgot his surroundings and his escort. His mouth was suddenly dry, his palms sweaty. For him, no one existed except Cinda. She filled the room with her smiling warmth and her beauty. She lit up the—
Pow! Trey was smacked hard in the middle of his back, hard enough to rock him off his feet. He tripped forward, gasping, and heard Cinda do the same. She put a hand to her mouth and looked as surprised as he was.
From Trey’s left, the austere, serious-minded woman who’d brought him this far said, “Breathe, soldier. You forgot to breathe.”
Ever dutiful, Trey breathed. In and out. In and out. And stared at his…what? Assailant? Arch-enemy? Someone to whom he’d forgotten he owed a huge amount of money? “Thanks,” he managed to croak out. “I’ll try to remember that from now on.”
“Good. It makes life a whole lot easier.” She got in his face. “And I want you to enjoy what you have left of it, son.” Leaving him with that cheery thought, the woman zipped around on her heel and marched out of the room.
Swallowing hard, Trey watched her go. He made certain that the woman was gone before he turned to Cinda and remarked, “She loves me. We’re engaged.”
Cinda laughed. “Well, I’ll certainly look forward to that wedding.”
Grinning, Trey noticed how much Cinda had changed in the last six months. Not surprising that she would, since she’d been nine months pregnant when first he saw her. Though beautiful even then, she was more so now. Motherhood agreed with her. Slender and tanned, she stood there in a dress that showed off her figure. Her face was thinner, too, highlighting her cheekbones and sensual mouth. And those wonderful amber eyes. They were enough to stop a man’s heart from beating.
Trey realized he was staring. He also knew that Cinda was watching him do so. He inhaled, trying to rouse himself to action. The polite thing to do was go over to her, sit and visit and make a fuss over the baby. But he’d be damned if he could get his legs to cooperate. That was when it hit him. Wait a minute. Baby? She has a baby in her arms. How had he not noticed before now? He pointed to the child. “Have you always been holding her?”
Cinda raised her eyebrows. “It seems like it some days, but I’ve only had her for six months, remember? You were there.” She pointed to her child. “This is Chelsi Elise.”
“She certainly is,” Trey said, thinking himself ridiculous. “And she’s beautiful. But I must be losing it. I didn’t even notice you were holding her when you stood up. All I saw were stars.”
Cinda’s expression melted into one of apologetic sympathy. “Oh, I know. You poor man. I should tell you that was Major Clovis—the woman who brought you in here and smacked you on the back. She’s my nurse, assistant, secretary…bulldog.”
Trey
