“Who’s that?” Lauren asked.
“Gloria. She’s practicing her swing.” He whistled softly. “That’s a beauty.”
Irritation grated through Lauren. What on earth had she been worried about? Adam hadn’t changed. “The swing, or the girl?”
“Both, actually.”
“I knew you couldn’t be serious about all that settling-down talk.”
“I am serious.”
“Shall we?” the woman called to him.
“Lauren, I’ll call you later. We’re getting ready to tee off. Maybe we can get together again for dinner tonight. I’ve got to go.”
“Wait—”
He hung up. She stared at the phone a moment, then blew out a breath. What was she upset about? He was the same old Adam. All was right in the world.
Relief flowed over her. She had just been imagining the glimmer of awareness between them last night. She should have known not to let her housemate’s crazy ideas get to her.
Lauren turned back to her computer and frowned. So why was she suddenly feeling…jealous?
“ELLIOT, CAN YOU SEE Adam with a wife and kids?”
Lauren leaned in the doorway of her partner’s office. She couldn’t get her mind off Adam’s comments. Why did the thought of him as a family man send trepidation racing through her?
Elliot peered up at her over his half-rim glasses. No doubt, she was interrupting a brainstorming session. A red feather boa taken from a rack of lingerie in the corner draped his shoulders.
“Adam? You mean your Adam?” he asked.
“He isn’t my—never mind. Dumb question.” She turned to leave.
“What’s bothering you, doll?”
She pivoted back toward him, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
Elliot pursed his lips. “Adam wants to settle down, and you’re afraid you’re going to lose your best friend.”
With a sigh, she sank against the door frame. “Oh, God, it’s so stupid. I really do want him to be happy. I just feel so…disturbed.”
“Let me guess. He wants you to help him find this wife.”
She gave him a wry smile.
“And she’s supposed to be some upstanding citizen willing to sacrifice all for her husband and little bambinos.”
A small grin tugged at her lips. “That’s amazing. Do you read palms, too?”
“No, doll, I just see the obvious.”
“Obvious?” She stared at him. “How can it be obvious? I’ve known the man all my life, but never saw this coming.”
Elliot shrugged. “You don’t see the two of you together.”
She stared at him, eyebrows raised.
“I suspected this all along.”
“Suspected what?”
The desk chair creaked as he shifted back. He smoothed his hand down the row of red feathers. “C’mon, Lauren, surely you have some inkling?”
Exasperation rose in her. “Of what?”
“Seems to me you’re an upstanding citizen willing to sacrifice all for your cause.”
She stared at him in disbelief.
“First Kamira, now you. I am not in the market for a husband. And kids are out of the question!” She sliced her hand through the air to emphasize her point.
Elliot laughed. “For now, at least, but were you to put your mind to it…”
“My mind is on this agency. I don’t have time for anything else. You of all people know that.”
A loud buzzing announced a visitor’s arrival in their exterior office. Lauren turned as the mail carrier entered. She moved beside him as he set a stack of mail and a package on the desk they’d use for a receptionist, if they ever acquired one.
“Hey, Frank,” she greeted the heavyset man. “We thought you’d forgotten us.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. Got a late start. Had to run the missus downtown.”
“What have you got for us today?”
He pulled on his bushy eyebrow. “Usual junk, that package, but at least no bills.”
Her gaze fell on the parcel. “What’s this?”
His shoulders shifted in a shrug. “Beats me. No return address.” He heaved his mailbag more securely on his shoulder and backed toward the door. “You have a good one.”
She nodded, her attention on the mystery package. She turned it over in her hands. It bore a printed label, addressed to her. As Frank had said, the sender hadn’t included a return address.
Whatever it was, it had a solid feel to it. Anticipation stole over her. Was it another gift from a secret admirer?
“What’s that?” Elliot’s voice sounded beside her.
She started, then chastised herself for being jumpy. “Don’t know.”
He reached around her to scoop up the mail from the desk. “So, open it.”
For just a split second, she hesitated. Then, with a sigh, she tore at the tape binding the box. She held her breath as she removed the lid. A rectangular gift lay inside, adorned in floral wrap and tied in a satin bow. She lifted it out, then peered inside the empty container. “No card.”
“Here.” Elliot stooped to pick up a folded sheet of paper that had fallen to the floor. He handed it to her.
She opened it, then silently read the typed words.
Let me lie,
let me die on thy snow-covered bosom,
I would eat of thy flesh as a delicate fruit,
I am drunk of its smell, and the scent
of thy tresses
Is a flame that devours.
—George Moore (1852–1933)
“What’s it say?” Elliot peered over her shoulder.
She clutched the note to her chest, while heat bloomed in her cheeks. “It’s private.”
He
