The Henson Brothers: Two Complete Novels (11 page)

She ran down the stairs too excited to wait for the elevator and stopped when a familiar figure moved from the entrance wall to greet her. He was tall, classically handsome with skin the color of rum and a smile just as intoxicating, dressed in khaki trousers and a red shirt.

She gripped the railing and stared at him. Her excitement crashed at her feet.

Chapter 5

A mixture of fear, awe, and resentment consumed her. Fear that he wouldn't leave her alone, awe that he had ever felt the need to marry her, and resentment that she cared.

"Timothy, what are you doing here?" She had meant to sound disapproving, but her question came out in a breathless rush.

He flashed a two-thousand-dollar smile. "You look pretty. Where are you going?"

Cassie let go of the railing and folded her arms. "You haven't answered my question."

He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her close. The motion was tender, but she remained stiff in his arms. "You smell good." He toyed with an earring. "Going on a date?"

She drew away from him, her resentment overcoming her fear. "That's none of your business."

He rested a foot on the step and straightened his cap. "Of course it's my business, you're my woman."

"Been sniffing glue again, I see."

"You always did have a wicked tongue." He touched her cheek; she stepped away. Nonplussed, he shrugged. "I know you're trying to make me jealous. That's all right. I know that women need to do that sometimes to feel special. I completely understand."

"I don't need to make you jealous to feel special. As a matter of fact, I don't even think about you."

He sniffed, unconvinced. "Yeah, right." He tugged on her shirt. "You know, this top is a little tight. Have you been gaining weight again? I bet you have." He pinched her cheek. "Just can't stay away from the sweets, can you?"

She glared at him, not wanting to say anything that would show how his words really bothered her. She steeled herself for the put-downs she knew would come.

He didn't disappoint her. He stepped back and measured her outfit and face with cold eyes. Eyes that used to turn her legs into hot butter, eyes she had thought reflected desire, but only showed possession. "Hmm, you really must like this guy. You're wearing glitter and eyeshadow." He folded his arms and leaned against the railing, a malicious grin crossing his face. "So how long do you think you can fool him before he figures out how you really are? That you can't pass a cheesecake without taking a taste or that you try and fail a new diet at least every three months? Does he know that you and your mother never speak because you're a constant embarrassment to her?"

Cassie wanted to leave, but her legs wouldn't move. "That's not true."

"Oh, but it is, darling."

The word
darling
cut through her paralysis. She pushed past him, refusing to subject herself to his vicious tongue anymore. "I'm not listening to any of this." It was a lie of course. His words repeated in her mind like an echo.

"Fine, Cass," he said softy, mockingly. "But I know all about you and still want you. You can't say the same about him."

* * *

Cassie hurried to the metro, making her way through the crowded platform and squeezing onto the train, trying unsuccessfully to push Timothy's words from her thoughts. But they clung like sticky tape and continued to reverberate in her mind, covering her thoughts until they were all she could think of.

She pushed through the heavy glass doors of the restaurant and saw a woman devouring a twenty-four-dollar salad under the cool glow of the dining hall, the sound of bubbling water from the large shimmering waterfall on the distance filtered through the low hum of voices. The plush purple seats and turquoise carpeting spoke of quiet elegance and an enjoyable dining experience. Cassie saw Drake at a table look impatiently at his watch. A server came up to him and he waved her away in a quick, brusque manner.

She remembered the night he was dressed all in black as though a walking silhouette. Now, in its place, she saw an ardent, wealthy businessman who was entertaining himself with a funny woman he had accidentally crashed into. Their kiss two nights ago had been part of a fantasy she did not wish reality to tread on. She did not want to spend the afternoon trying to convince him why he thought he was attracted to her or giving him tips for his reunion. She didn't know what he imagined her to be, but she knew that she would only end up disappointing him.

"May I help you?" the maitre d' asked with eager attention.

"Oh, no. I was just leaving." She glanced in Drake's direction once more and silently thanked him for his attention that for a while had made her feel more alive than she had in months, then turned and left.

She returned home, tossed her bag on the couch, and slipped out of her shoes, half relieved and half disgusted with herself. She would not cry or feel sorry for herself, she thought, building an inner resolve. She had to accept life as it was. She would not worry about Drake. He was fine. He would realize that she wasn't coming, shrug, and eat a delicious meal. Perhaps he would even catch the eye of some sleek beauty sitting at the bar, use some skills he had learned from her class, and forget about her. She was used to being forgotten. Her mother had made a habit of it.

Angela Graham despaired of her middle daughter's struggle with weight. On family trips her mother would take her other children on outings, but leave Cassie in the hotel with the caretaker and her studious father. Her father was more absentminded than forgetful of her presence. He would pat her on the head occasionally, as he would a beloved pet, and would then add to her problem by secretly offering her sweets, which she ate with fervor.

Her attempts to be close to her mother by losing weight always ended when the weight snuck back like a bad rash. The only time she thought they had a chance of forming a relationship was when she had married Timothy. At last she seemed to do something right, something her mother approved of. They had never talked on the phone so often or spoken of getting together so frequently. However, that camaraderie began to fray when she told her mother about Timothy's hurtful remarks. Her mother told her that she was too sensitive, that Timothy meant well. When she divorced, her mother stopped speaking to her altogether. Cassie admitted that she didn't miss her. She'd already felt inadequate and didn't need someone else to give voice to her thoughts. Timothy was right. Drake knew nothing about her and now he never would.

She grabbed a pint of French vanilla ice cream from the freezer. It was two-thirds finished due to her binge when Timothy's flowers had arrived. However, it would suit. She threw in some colored sprinkles and peanuts, wrapped herself in a gold chenille throw, and turned on the TV. There was a rerun of a seventies comedy she'd never really liked, but she watched it anyway, not wanting to do anything that involved thinking.

She had finished the carton and a handful of cookies when someone pounded on the door demanding entrance. She wrapped the throw tighter and raised the volume on the TV. She didn't feel like talking to Adriana and having to tell her how the date went or in her case didn't go. She didn't want to explain why she hadn't gone and then have her friend lecture her on what a jerk Timothy was, as if she didn't know.

The pounding continued. "Cassie, I know you're in there. Open the door."

She paused with a cookie halfway to her mouth. She knew the voice, knew the command, but didn't want to see him. She buried herself deeper into the cushions as if she could disappear.

"Fine," he said casually. "I'll just talk to the manager."

Her manager was a nosey gossip who would give her no peace if a strange man demanded entrance into her place. "Wait!" She rushed to the door, unlatched the locks, and opened it.

She had expected him to be angry. So the fact that he stood on her doorstep, looking very tantalizing in a classy gray suit, wearing an expression that was both annoyed and worried, for an instant made her want to run into his arms and confess all. Nevertheless, she refused to weaken and rested her hip against the door.

His gaze was sharp and determined. "What happened? If you're sick you could have called and told me."

She boldly met his gaze. "I'm not sick."

A slight hesitation crossed his face. "Then what's wrong?"

She shrugged, not willing to explain herself. "Nothing."

"Then why didn't you meet me for lunch?"

"I changed my mind," she said simply.

He knew there was more to the story than that. Behind her, he saw an empty ice cream carton and a bag of cookies. Her dress shoes sat in the corner and she was wearing makeup and dangling earrings. She had meant to come, he concluded, but something had stopped her. He wouldn't leave until he found out what. He held up a large bag. "I brought lunch."

Seeing the determination in his eyes, she decided to combat it with flippancy. "Ah, the man thinks my weakness is food and who am I to prove him wrong?" She held out her hand to take the bag.

"May I come in?" he asked out of courtesy. They both knew he was coming in no matter the reply.

She reluctantly moved aside to let him pass. Drake stepped in and glanced around. Her apartment had a modern look, but instead of it being full of neutral colors, she had gone to the other extreme—purple and lilac with big red pillows on the couch. A silver bowl full of tiny shells sat on her coffee table and various brightly colored paintings hung on the wall. There didn't seem to be a central theme, but it worked.

"You have a nice place," he said.

Cassie fell on the couch. "Please stop with the pleasantries. There's nothing more trying than a rogue playacting the role of a gentleman."

Drake took off his jacket and threw it over the back of the couch, then removed the empty ice cream carton and bag of cookies from the table and went into the kitchen. He spread out the cartons of food on the counter. She had organized her kitchen nicely, but her chopping board was old and she needed a better knife set. He made a mental note to pick them up for her. He poured two bowls of shrimp and corn chowder, buttered the bread, placed it on a tray, then returned to the living room, where he found Cassie wrapped up in the corner of the couch looking bored.

"Here," he said, handing her the tray.

"Thank you." She took a sip of the soup and focused on the television. Drake waited a moment to see whether she would give her opinion of the meal. After a few seconds he realized she wouldn't. Annoyed, he returned to the kitchen.

Cassie watched him go and sighed. She was being petty, but the only way to deal with him was to be glib, nothing more serious. She finished the soup and placed the tray down. He had been kind and couldn't help it if he imagined himself attracted to her. When he didn't return to the living room, she went into the kitchen and found him halfway inside the stove.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, alarmed.

He hit his head and swore. He scrambled out and glared at her. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Committing suicide."

He held up a scrub brush. "I'm cleaning your stove."

She kneeled in front of him. "Why?"

He frowned, believing the answer obvious. "Because it's filthy."

Cassie grabbed the scrub brush from him. "Listen, dear. All you have to do is feed me. This other stuff is overdoing it. Hell, even my ex-husband only cleaned himself. Wait, I think he once cleaned the toaster, but I fainted, so I'm not sure whether that was a dream or not."

Drake glanced at the toaster, pensive. "I can do that too, if you want."

"I was joking." She stood and headed for the sink. "You need to learn to laugh more."

He grasped her hand as she passed him. He gazed up at her with mesmerizing eyes. His voice was low. "I'm willing to learn, if you're willing to teach me."

Her heart began to dance. Oh, boy.

A loud whirring sound erupted in the air, breaking the spell. Suddenly, the refrigerator started vibrating and moving from the wall.

Drake leaped to his feet, pushed Cassie behind him and stared in shock. "What the hell is going on?"

Cassie went up to it and kicked it. It shuddered, then quieted. "It does that sometimes."

"That's dangerous."

"Not at all. I know how to handle it."

He still looked unsure. "You have to get rid of it."

"No way. It has character and keeps me company."

He took her chin. "If you're that lonely, I'll move in with you."

She laughed, but knew he was only half joking. "Come on, let me show you something."

He went to the sink and retrieved the scrub brush. "Let me just finish this first."

She snatched the brush from him. "No, you'll get your clothes dirty. I'll finish it later."

He took the brush back. "I sincerely doubt it."

"We are not going to have an argument about this."

"Good." He disappeared into the stove again.

Cassie sat down on the floor next to him, resting against the cupboards. "Boy, are you stubborn!"

"Why didn't you meet me for lunch?"