ago, after countless how-are-you-doing calls, he had taken the phone off the hook. He should have expected that, when his brothers couldn’t get through to him via Ma Bell, they’d show up at his front door instead. It just went to show how muddled his thinking had grown lately that he hadn’t anticipated an unannounced visit.
The doorbell echoed again.
Carlo had half a mind to pretend he wasn’t home and to let them stand there, out in the freezing cold. He would have, too, if he hadn’t been certain they’d do something drastic in response. Like bashing the door down. Or dragging out the police force and the fire department to bash it down for them.
With a resigned sigh, he placed the square of wood beside the carving knife and stomped into the living room.
“Don’t worry,” he growled, throwing the door wide. “I haven’t died…yet….”
Instead of his brothers, a woman stood there. She was lovely. Clad entirely in black, from the turtleneck encircling her long neck to the slacks and leather boots peeping from beneath her thigh-length wool coat, she was the picture of elegance. Even her purse and gloves were black.
A short silence greeted his announcement before she softly replied, “I’m happy to hear it.” Her voice was low and husky, as if she were fighting a cold, or on the verge of hoarseness.
Hair the color of corn silk fell to her shoulders and glinted in the sunlight. Her features were delicate, well defined, her cheeks rouged by the cold air. Her mouth was full and parted in an oh of surprise. And her eyes… Death by chocolate was the only term Carlo could think of to describe them.
He suddenly grew conscious of how he must appear to her in his rumpled jeans and flannel shirt. He searched his memory, but couldn’t remember if he’d even bothered to comb his hair that morning.
“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling and running a hand over his hair, hoping to flatten down any stray strands. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Obviously.” She sounded amused.
He hadn’t looked at a woman in over a year. Initially his injuries, and the months spent in recovery and rehabilitation, had been the cause for his lack of interest. Later, when he’d gone back to work, he’d immersed himself so thoroughly in his job that he’d lacked both the desire and the energy called for when embarking on even the shortest-term relationship.
Today, however, he was definitely looking. Oh, yes, he was. And that took him by surprise. For six days he hadn’t been able to work up an interest for much of anything, except whittling.
Maybe this was what he needed. A temporary diversion to take his mind off his troubles. Why, he wondered, hadn’t he thought of it earlier? The good news was, she was staring at him with an equal measure of startled surprise and unexpected awareness. That was promising. Very promising indeed.
She was probably some do-gooder, out collecting for charity. Or an Avon lady going door to door. Whatever it was she was selling, Carlo was definitely buying. In bulk.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“I suppose I should introduce myself.”
She offered her hand, and he took it, marveling at the perfect fit when his fingers wrapped around hers.
“My name is Samantha Underwood.”
Carlo felt his fingers go rigid with shock. It couldn’t be.
“James Underwood’s wife…er, widow,” she amended, confirming his worst fears.
He dropped her hand like a hot potato and took a step back. His chest felt suddenly thick, as if it were congested with flu. Only it wasn’t the flu he was suffering from. It was something worse. Far worse. Guilt. And shame.
First he’d been honored for bravery he didn’t possess. Now the wife of the man whose death weighed on his conscience was standing before him.
What could possibly happen next? he wondered in near desperation. Would James Underwood pay a personal visit, the way Marley’s ghost did Ebenezer Scrooge, and demand retribution for Carlo’s misdeeds?
This couldn’t be happening, he told himself as his heart thudded madly and a wave of anguish surged through him. Fate was simply having a huge practical joke at his expense.
Yet it was happening. For there Samantha Underwood stood, plain as day and twice as beautiful. And he’d been leering at her as if he was the Big Bad Wolf and she was Little Red Riding Hood.
What could she want from him? To denounce him? But if that were the case, why had she offered him her hand?
“You weren’t expecting me, were you?” she said at his continued silence.
Not even in his worst nightmares.
Given that the Bridgeton police force was not the largest one around—then again, it wasn’t the smallest, either—some people might think it odd that he and Samantha Underwood had never met. But James Underwood had only served under Carlo’s command for a little over a year when he died. And Carlo made it a practice not to socialize with his men, or to form close friendships with them. Things got too messy when personal feelings intruded on professional relationships.
He drew a ragged breath and struggled for composure. “Should I have been?”
Consternation crossed the fine features of her face. “Didn’t the mayor call you?”
Douglas Boyer? Why would he be calling Carlo about Samantha Underwood?
“No.”
“I’m sorry. When I spoke to him earlier today, he told me he’d clear the way for this meeting.”
Knowing the mayor the way Carlo did, the man had, in all probability, tried. Unlike most politicians, Douglas Boyer made a point of following through on his promises, campaign or otherwise. He would have fulfilled this one, too, if Carlo hadn’t taken his phone off the hook.
“It’s obvious my being here is inconvenient,” she said, sounding embarrassed. “I’ll come back another time. Have the mayor contact me with whatever is good for you.”
A rush of cold air alerted Carlo to the fact that she was still standing on his doorstep. It also alerted him to the fact that his manners were woefully lacking.
He couldn’t let her go like this, not without first discovering the reason for her visit. It would drive him crazy if he didn’t.
“There’s no need to come back later. Please, Mrs. Underwood, come in.”
He led her into a living room that literally sparkled with cleanliness—not because he was a normally fastidious housekeeper, but because, whenever his hands tired from whittling, cleaning provided a welcome distraction to the thoughts that crowded his mind whenever he had an idle moment.
When he relieved her of her coat, he saw that she was model slender. That slenderness, however, didn’t stop her from having curves in all the right places.
“You have a lovely home,” she said, looking around her as she took off her gloves.
“Thank
