green-the-next gaze strayed to the basket of muffins in her hands. “Are those for me?”
Chapter 2
It was a good thing Sonny Randle had quick reflexes, otherwise he’d have a shiner the size of Oregon thanks to the rocklike frozen muffin his ex-wife had hurled at him just before she’d turned and fled the kitchen.
He ignored the slight tremor in his hand as he re-filled the red plastic cap of his thermos and stood at the sink sipping his lukewarm coffee and watching Mel storm across her driveway and back into her house. A moment later, one by one, he watched the interior shutters on the south side of the house snap closed.
Okay. No surprise there. It was exactly what he’d expected. The muffin had been unanticipated, however. Actually, he was probably lucky that she’d thrown a muffin at him instead of a brick.
Suddenly one of her shutters opened a fraction, just enough for Sonny to discern her silhouette as she peeked out. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew her eyes were giving off hot blue sparks and she was grinding her teeth and clenching her fists, already making a mental list—complete with Roman numerals and subheadings—of what she was going to do to get rid of the menace next door.
He smiled and lifted his hand in a friendly little wave, then watched the shutter snap closed again.
You can run, babe, and you can hide, but it’s not going to do you any damned good. Now that I know what I did wrong, I know how to do this right. And we’re so right, Mel. You and I.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” a voice called from the hallway. “Where do you want this couch?”
“Be right there.”
Sonny drained the last of his coffee and screwed the cap back on the thermos without taking his eyes off the battened-down house next door. Right about now Melanie would be wound in a tight little ball in the corner of her own couch, her long legs tucked beneath her and her soft, shiny hair hooked firmly behind her ears and her lower lip wedged between her teeth while she took pen in hand to compose her battle plan.
The siege had officially begun.
Number One on her list was calling city hall, but that proved to be useless on a Friday at almost six o’clock when everyone had gone home. Melanie swore as she slammed the receiver back into its cradle, then looked at her list again because she was so upset she’d forgotten what Number Two was.
Right. Call Mike Kaczinski, Sonny’s partner, to see just what the hell her ex-husband was up to. She didn’t believe for one millisecond that he had taken out a loan, low-cost or otherwise, to buy the place next door. Cop on the Block, her aunt Fanny’s sweet behind! Lieutenant Sonny Randle not only worked undercover vice, he also ate, slept, and breathed it. What did he want a house for? He was never home!
Melanie stalked to the window again and opened the shutter a quarter of an inch. Squinting fiercely, she could see the movers close the back of their truck as they prepared to leave. There was no evidence of the new alleged homeowner. She craned her neck and angled her head so she could look down his driveway where his horrible muscle car sat like a black pit bull chained to a cement block. Wonderful. If he really was moving in, she had that roaring engine to look forward to at all hours of the night.
It was starting to get dark so she closed the shutter tightly and turned on a lamp in the living room. The exposed brick of the walls was always warm and comforting, and seemed no less so now that she was about to have a nervous breakdown. She went back to her cozy corner of the couch, pulled up her feet, and hugged her arms around herself, pretending for a moment that this wasn’t happening, that the perfection she’d experienced just half an hour ago was still possible.
She gazed around at the lovely haven she’d created for herself here in this more-than-a-century-old house in its antiquated cranny of the city. Almost all of the furniture had belonged to her parents so, just like them, it was an odd blend of elegant and eccentric. The camel-back Victorian sofa was upholstered in a rich rose silk and piled with bright needlepoint pillows that her father had designed. Just to her right, on the marble-topped table beside the sofa was the bronze-and-stained-glass lamp Pop had made, with its shade like lovely bits of melted rubies and emeralds and sapphires. Scattered across the floor were the Persian rugs her mother had collected.
On the other side of the foyer, the dining room was an odd but somehow perfect blend of American and European antiques. Beyond that, the kitchen was a cozy mix of blue-and-white Portuguese tiles and gleaming copper and brass.
While the whole house was colorful and eccentric, it was also neat and orderly, just the way Melanie liked it. The way she needed it. There was security in order, in having everything in its proper place. She wasn’t fussy, though. And she certainly wasn’t Felix Unger, although that’s who she’d felt like when she shared Sonny’s Oscar-Madison-like space.
Sonny.
Damn.
Casting a baleful glance at the list she’d left by the phone, she realized she couldn’t call Mike Kaczinski. Not at the Third Precinct, anyway. If he had been involved in last Friday’s shooting, along with Sonny, then he’d probably be on leave or vacation, too. That also meant that the new Cop on the damned Block would have time on his hands and nothing to do but aggravate her until he went back to work.
Fine. Let him try. She’d keep her shutters closed and her doors locked and she wouldn’t answer the phone. There was plenty of food in the fridge and freezer. She didn’t have to go out. At least not until…
Oh, my God. Her appointment Monday at eleven.
No. Don’t even think about that right now, she warned herself. Don’t think about the little vial packed in dry ice that arrived just yesterday at Dr. Wentworth’s office from the sperm bank in Chicago. How long did those little guys last? She couldn’t remember.
If she cancelled and set a new appointment for next month, that would shift everything. Everything! Instead of being born in January, her baby wouldn’t be born until February. Then, instead of being a determined and hardworking Capricorn, Little Alex or Alexis would be a quirky Aquarius. Oh, Lord. Instead of having a little photocopy of herself, she’d be giving birth to a Sonny.
She was shuddering at the very thought when her doorbell suddenly chimed.
Don’t answer it. Let him stand out there all night, all weekend, all year.
But being the orderly soul that she was, Melanie couldn’t stand not responding to a ringing phone or the repeated ding-dongs coming from her front door. She opened it a crack, then let out a tiny bleat of relief when she saw that it wasn’t Sonny, but rather Joan Carrollis from down the street. Melanie practically pulled her in by her lapels, then slammed and locked the door behind her.
“What in the world…?” the little brunette exclaimed.
“I’m sorry.” Melanie reached out to realign the lapels of Joan’s navy blazer. “I just didn’t want… Oh, never mind. Did I miss anything at the association meeting the other night?”
Joan and her husband Nick, both CPAs, had been the co-treasurers of the Channing Square Residents Association since its founding. Melanie liked the forty-ish woman and appreciated her no-nonsense style not to mention the precision with which she kept the association’s books.
“No,” she said, “you didn’t miss a thing, but if you haven’t been
