Judy Baer - Million Dollar Dilemma

That quirky little smile touched his lips again as I plowed on, making an even bigger fool of myself. “With Grandpa being a country preacher and all, I suppose I’m fortunate I didn’t end up as Arabelle.”

He looked at me questioningly, as if now that this thing on his couch had started to talk, he had no idea how to turn it off. Neither did I. At last, something we had in common.

“Arabelle?” Nonplussed, he folded into the faded tapestry wing chair across from me, definitely the finest example of the male species I’d ever studied, exuding comfort, rugged elegance and simplicity. A no-frills man who looked like a million bucks.

A million bucks. I’ve never really liked that term. A million bucks is a pile of ugly, lumpy money. There’s nothing ugly about this guy.

His eyes fixed on me and I inexplicably felt as though I were the most important person in the world to him, that he wanted—no, yearned—to hear every single thought in my head.

“Arabelle. ‘Calling to prayer,’” I yammered. “My grandfather did that a lot—call people to prayer, that is. My sister and I lived with him and my grandmother while my parents were overseas in the mission field.”

“And your sister’s name is…?”

“Jane.”

Much to my surprise, he burst out laughing. “Grandpa didn’t have many ideas the day she was born, I take it.”

“Apparently not.” I felt a rush of blood explode in my cheeks.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” I apologized. “I normally don’t follow people around trying to find out what’s in their luggage.” I eyed the crate. “When I saw that and heard the sounds coming out of it, the first thing I thought about was Winslow, my dog. He’s big but gentle, like a stuffed toy almost. Except, of course, for his appetite. His favorite thing in the world is eating. And me, of course. And—” I couldn’t help glancing at the base of the leather couch “—cats.”

Adam lifted one eyebrow dubiously.

“Do you think that’s going to be a problem?”

“Winslow,” he echoed, as if unprepared for this onslaught of information.

“He’s named after Winslow Homer, the painter, but I considered naming him Mozart,” I yammered. “As a puppy, he loved Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 20 in D Minor. As long as I played it, he was quiet. In fact—and I really hate admitting this to anyone because my sister already thinks I’m besotted about my dog—I leave classical CDs playing for him while I’m at work. Mostly Mozart…” My voice trailed away. “I don’t know much about music, but I do know my dog is crazy about it.”

“Or just plain crazy,” Adam muttered as his new neighbor babbled her way to his front door.

Turning away from the sight, he opened the cupboard to see what he and Pepto would be having for supper. There were two cans of sardines, a can of tomato soup and some mixed fruit he’d purchased with the delusion that he might actually make something out of it. There was probably some of that frozen fake egg goop and bacon in the freezer if he had the energy to find it. Best of all, in the back of the cupboard, shoved behind a double stack of cheap napkins, was a can of the kitten food he’d fed Pepto when he’d first found him. The robust, barrel-bottomed cat now twining himself around Adam’s legs had then looked like a starving rat with bad fur and attitude.

“Well, guy, we’re going to eat well tonight. Quit kissing up to me, you mangy fur ball.”

Adam grinned slightly as he worked the can opener. Pepto had really done a number on his new neighbor. Maybe he and Pepto were more alike than he’d realized—both good at intimidating women and scaring them off.

He’d felt her caramel-colored eyes on his back as she’d shadowed him into the building. Her gaze had practically seared holes through the leather jacket that had withstood strafing, blistering heat, frigid snow, pellet shot, short knives with sharp blades and, once, even a branding iron. She was definitely a woman who could make a mark on a guy—if he’d let her. But Adam wasn’t in the mood to even think about a woman, let alone get entangled with one.

He was bone tired, gravel eyed, hungry and dirty. He’d missed three planes, four meals and two nights’ sleep to get home. He didn’t want to deal with either a psychotic cat or the big-eyed woman with a mass of astounding red hair who’d apparently rented the empty apartment upstairs while he was away on assignment. His nerves were open wounds, raw, exposed and agonizingly tender. He was exhausted mentally, physically and emotionally, and right now neither the banshee at his feet nor the dewy-eyed feminine apparition who lived upstairs was much to his liking. All he wanted was a bed to collapse into. But instead of indulging himself, he opened the curtains and unlocked the windows to flood light and air into the dusty gloom.

He rolled his shoulders to release the muscles in his neck, but they were so stiff and tight that he felt the movement halfway to his calves. Being a punching bag for the travel industry was not for wimps. Endless hours on the plane, more on the ground in airports without air-conditioning, dehydration and whatever faux food could be hermetically sealed and sold for exorbitant prices from carts in airports had taken its toll. Then Pepto, who’d taken a liking to his babysitters, Adam’s cousin Chase Andrews and his wife, Whitney, had thrown a fit at the idea of going back into his crate and had given Adam a full set of toenail scratches on the back of one hand.

And the new little neighborhood cheerleader had given him flowers. He didn’t bother to tell her that if he were to get flowers every time he did a touch-and-go in this apartment, the place would be a dead-bouquet graveyard. He eyed the strange conglomeration of flowers that was mostly daisies with a single carnation and a bird-of-paradise thrown in. It was odd, but he rather liked it.

He turned around and was astounded to see her still standing in his doorway. Adam observed her anxious expression, wringing hands and the way she stood like a penitent child. Not a child, exactly. The aquamarine knit top she wore skated smoothly across her curves and the body beneath the crisp white slacks was long legged and fit. All she wore for jewelry was a gold necklace from which hung a simple cross. Her fingers were bare of rings, but she wore a slender gold toe ring on her second toe that peeked tantalizingly from her sandal.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

She would excuse him, wouldn’t she? It alarmed Adam a little that she looked as though she’d settle in for the duration. She was eyeing his tattered leather luggage plastered with old decals, port-of-entry and customs stamps and held together with a sturdy leather belt, and comparing it to the pristine cowhide carrying case for his laptop computer.

“I don’t know what you do for a living,” she murmured, “but it must be very interesting.”

“Don’t mind the bullet hole. A minor accident. No one was hurt.”

“Hmm.” She bent to drag a dainty pink-tipped finger over a burn mark on the corner of the suitcase. It was a memento of a spirited argument around a campfire during which one of his companions had tried to throw both Adam and his luggage onto the pyre.

Mentally Adam renewed his vow to find another job. This one was just too hard on him.

Though he was tempted to encourage Cassia to mind her own business and get back to her apartment, it occurred to him that there was no casual inquisitiveness or recreational prying in her expression. She was genuinely interested. He could hardly fault her for asking questions, since he made a living doing the same thing. Her face was completely open and without guile, a quality so scarce he’d barely recognized it. Her loneliness and embarrassment were apparent. Adam prided himself on his ability to read people and their emotions. It was disconcerting to realize that, for this woman at least, he actually cared what she felt.