Love Songs (34 page)

Serena’s grunt was as much at his company as his comment. But if she’d hoped he would take the hint that his presence wasn’t wanted, she was disappointed. And she couldn’t do anything to shake him, given the precarious state of her own health. It was enough to concentrate on putting one foot before the other, to combat the raging hammer in her head and the churning in her stomach. If the lights of the buildings on either side were excruciating to her vision, those of the oncoming cars were worse. When she pressed one mittened hand to her temple Tom grasped her other arm to steady her. Again she was too overwrought to protest.

What was in actuality no more than a ten-minute walk seemed a marathon to Serena. She thought she had never been as happy to see anything as she was when her apartment building came into view—then amended that at the relief she felt on finding herself on the fifteenth floor, at her own front door. She groped for the keys at the bottom of her bag, then fumbled with the lock until Tom took over the chore without a word. At that moment she could not care that he was on the threshold of her apartment. Her only thought was on getting to bed.

She was through the door and halfway across the living room without a backward glance when Tom switched on a light. Wincing, she shielded her eyes from its blinding glare, then reached the hall and finally her bedroom by sheer force of the momentum she’d established.

When she closed the bedroom door the noise reverberated through her. Stumbling forward, she pulled the curtains shut to blot out the lights of the city spread below her.

Darkness was a welcome friend. Slowly she shed her coat, hat and mittens, stepped out of her shoes, then one by one stripped the clothes from her body, draping the skirt and blouse on a chair, letting the rest fall haphazardly on the thick pile carpet underfoot.

A pair of slim bikini panties were all that was left as she stumbled to her bed, pulled back the covers and crawled beneath the heavy layers with a soft moan. The sheets soothed her; the dark enveloped her. With the quilts pulled to her ears she buried the worst of her migraine against the pillow. Her mind was a jumble of discomfort, with nausea coming and going in waves. As seconds passed into minutes and on toward an hour she sought nothing but the release of sleep.

Every so often she turned and burrowed more deeply into the bed, then moaned softly at the pain that persisted. The quiet sounds from her apartment—someone rummaging in the bathroom, the kitchen; a low voice on the telephone, at the door—failed to penetrate her door. Even if they had, she would have been deaf to them … or indifferent. The events of the afternoon had faded into a haze of pain. Nothing mattered to her but getting to sleep.

A widening sliver of light fell across the bed when the door opened. Serena was sufficiently buried beneath the covers to be undisturbed by the intrusion. When she was turned onto her back and bundled, covers and all, into a half-seated position, she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Go away,” she whispered.

“Here, Serena. Take this.”

“Aspirin won’t help.”

“It’s your prescription.”

“No! It’s too old—”

“I know. I’ve just had a refill delivered.”

“Oh—”

He handed her a small white pill and a glass of water, holding her steady as she took the medicine.

“OK?” he asked, taking the glass from her lips and putting it down on the night table by her bed.

Her echoed “OK” was barely audible.

Easing her gently back on the bed, Tom sat for a minute, then stood and left, drawing the door tightly closed, leaving her alone once more in her cocoon of darkness. Almost instantly she began to feel better, though the medication could not possibly have worked so quickly. Later, somewhere in her mind, came the soothing vision of a warm hand on the bare skin of her back, a strong arm supporting her, long fingers stroking wayward strands of hair from her cheeks. The sensations were very real, their pleasantness lingering to bring her relief until the time when the medicine entered her bloodstream and went to work. Then she fell into a deep and restorative sleep, awakening once very much later to walk to the bathroom for another pill and set her alarm before falling quickly asleep again. When she awoke the second time it was morning.

Despite the deep sleep induced by the medication, her alarm had not yet rung. Groggy, she sat up, blinked, stretched, pushed the hair back out of her eyes. She felt decidedly better. The residual ghost of her headache would ease now with a dose of aspirin. The nausea was already long gone.

Slipping from bed, she donned a robe and stepped into slippers, took fresh underwear from the drawer, and headed for a hot shower. It felt divine. Turning slowly, she soaped herself, applied a generous helping of shampoo to her wet hair, rinsed off the lot, then stood. And stood. Turning occasionally. Letting the water cascade over her gentle curves. Repositioning herself to let the steaming spray hit her neck, her back, her chest, her shoulders. It was only when she began to feel immoral at her lavish use of hot water that she reluctantly stemmed the flow.

The heat of the shower had warmed the fluffy towel that lay in waiting across its rack. With a definite sense of pampering herself she reached for it and patted the water from her body before treating it to a helping of scented moisturizing lotion. She wrapped the towel around herself, then vigorously rubbed her hair with a smaller towel before brushing through the tangles. It was only then, as she stared into the mirror at the reflection of her pale though recuperating self, that she allowed herself to think of Tom.

Tom Reynolds. The devil of her memory. The uninvited visitor to her shop yesterday. The inquisitor. The cause of her migraine headache. Then … the self-appointed guardian who had seen her safely home. The silent protector. The gentle caretaker. All in all, a potpourri of conflicting characteristics. Who
was
Tom Reynolds?

Her gaze grew puzzled as she noticed the new bottle of medicine that he had had the presence of mind to order. Why had he waited outside
Sweet Serenity
last night? Why his insistence on walking her home? Why had he bothered to see to the medicine and make sure she was sound asleep before leaving? It made no sense.

Shaking off the last of her fogginess, she faced the future. It was a new day. She felt vastly improved. And she would
not
, she vowed, be driven to another headache by Thomas Harrison Reynolds. Seeing him yesterday had been a shock which she was now over, although there remained the matter of her past, which he had recalled. Intuitively she sensed that he wouldn’t betray her, though she knew that, for her own peace of mind, she would eventually have to confront him about it. She’d have to know for certain that her life in Minneapolis would be safe from the taint of the past. But that would be for another time, should their paths cross again. For now, there was the day to welcome.

It was a relatively steady hand that applied her makeup, working more carefully with color around eyes dulled by last night’s headache, adding a bit more blush than usual to still-pale cheeks. She stroked through her hair with a natural bristle brush, bringing up a fine luster, pushing willful curls this way and that until she was satisfied with the results. Then, encouraged by the normality of her appearance, she set out for a cup of hot, strong coffee.

Her apartment was small but well-planned. Its single bedroom and bath opened off a hallway from the living room. The kitchen had two open archways, one opposite the bedroom, the other leading directly into the living room. It was through the first that she entered, humming softly to herself. The fresh, dark brew was dripping into the pot within minutes. Its aroma never failed to please her. Smiling, she savored its richness, then headed for the living room and the
Tribune
that would be on the mat outside her front door.

She managed to set only one slippered foot into the living room. Then she gasped. For rising slowly to a sitting position on the sofa, his back to her, was the figure of a man. She had no idea that he’d spent the night; the thought hadn’t entered her mind. Yet there before her was a sleep-disheveled, very groggy Tom Reynolds.

His back was a broad expanse of white shirt; his dark head was bent forward. Serena stared, fascinated, as he put a hand to his neck to massage away the cricks that her sofa had undoubtedly planted. His fingers worked at his taut muscles and he stretched to relieve the stiffness.

Her eye followed the manly ritual, yet she was touched by something totally non-physical. Unobserved as he thought he was, he seemed utterly human and very vulnerable. Despite his great status, he was prone to the same aches and pains as the next man. And he was here, in her apartment … still. Why?

She emerged slowly from the doorway to walk hesitantly around the sofa, pausing in front of it when Tom looked up, sending a momentary quiver through her. Yesterday he had been immaculate in his appearance and handsome; now he was tired, his chin shadowed by a beard, seemingly at a disadvantage. Seemingly, yet not. For he was still more attractive, crumpled shirt, heavy eyes and all, than any other man she had ever known.

“Good morning,” she heard herself announce softly and quite civilly.

Tom looked dubious and sounded even more so. “Umm. Is that smell what I think it is?” He raked his fingers through his hair as he shot a glance toward the kitchen.

“Uh-huh. Would you like a cup?”

“‘Like’ has little to do with it. ‘Need’ is more the issue.” In one surprisingly fluid movement he was off the sofa and headed toward the kitchen. “If you’ll excuse me…”

Serena quirked an auburn brow at his grumpiness, smiled, then followed through on her original intention. When she returned to the kitchen with the paper in hand she paused on the threshold, this time with a note of trepidation. After all, she wasn’t sure why Tom was still here. And nothing was worth another headache.

Reading her thoughts, he looked up from the coffee cup he’d found and filled. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“You slept well?”

“Yes.”

“The pills helped?”

“Uh-huh. And … thank you.” She looked down, unsure for a moment. “I’m not sure I could have done
anything
last night, let alone think about getting a refill on my prescription.”

He shrugged, standing up to lean against the counter by the sink. “It was the least I could do.” His eyes were unreadable.

Standing awkwardly by the door, Serena wasn’t quite sure what to do. It seemed to be a recurrent ailment when Tom was around. Finally her own need drove her toward the cabinet, a cup, and some coffee. “I’ll repay you for whatever you spent on the pills,” she offered without looking up.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I’d prefer it.”

“I said it won’t be necessary.” Draining his coffee, he helped himself to more.

But if his insistence was due to early morning testiness, Serena’s was based on principle. Despite the fact that Tom had been the instigating factor behind her migraine, she wanted to owe him nothing. “If you’ll just tell me what it came to I’ll pay you. I don’t like being indebted to anyone.”

“Especially me?”

Her direct gaze held a challenge. “To
anyone.
”

Tom studied her through less hazy eyes. “A legacy?”

“If you will.”

“It’s not necessary in this case, you know.” He spoke more gently in response to her vehemence. “We’re only talking about a couple of dollars. And since I was responsible for upsetting you it makes me feel better knowing that I’ve been able to aid in your recovery.” His hazel eyes flicked quickly over her. “You do look better. Is the headache gone?”

“Pretty much. I’ll take some aspirin before I leave for work. It’ll be fine.”

But he was skeptical. “Considering how sick you were last night, I would have thought you’d stay in bed, at least for the morning.”

“I can’t do that,” she answered softly. “
Sweet Serenity
is
my
responsibility. If I don’t get there to open it up it doesn’t open.”

“What about your help—that young girl I saw yesterday?”

“Monica comes in after school. I do have another woman who works mornings for me, but she has a family and can’t get away in time to open the shop.”

“What if you were
really
sick? Isn’t there anyone who can take over for you?”

Serena answered him calmly. “Fortunately I’ve never
been
really sick, so the matter hasn’t been put to the test.” She looked away more pensively. “And even if I was unable to open for a day, the world would survive.”

Her philosophical quip wafted into a small eternity of silence. Neither said a word. As the seconds ticked away she thought of the man who stood with her in her kitchen. Never would she have imagined him here. Indeed, one part of her wanted to be angry at him, to denounce him scathingly, to oust him from her apartment, from her life. Yet she somehow couldn’t seem to translate the thought into action. Instead she simply stared at his rangy form as he lounged against the counter.

He stared back. His features were deceptively calm, masking the thoughts that swirled within. But the fire was there in his gaze, tempered, but refusing to be overlooked. By instinct Serena knew that she was his focal point. She grew suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the simple wrap robe she was wearing and tugged it more tightly around her.