you pull it closed.”
“Maggie!”
She shook her head and murmured a soft, “Goodbye, Tom,” before closing the door in his face.
His jaw hit the floor. She pushed him out the door. That never happened to him before. Women usually clung to his ankles as he tried to beat a path to the nearest exit. Okay. The ankle thing only happened once, and his niece was only four at the time, but still….
He raised his clenched fist and rapped on the door. “Maggie?”
No answer. No shuffling footsteps. No movement within at all. He knocked harder.
“Maggie!”
Fred answered his call with a curious meow. The healthy ego dozens of women had fed and nurtured over the course of his adult life quaked. His forehead puckered into a frown. He pulled his hand back and scrubbed his face. A grim smirk twisted his lips when he lowered his hand. His fingers curled. The blunt tips of his fingernails bit into the meat of his palm as he stared at the door.
“I’ll call you!”
Whether it was a promise or a threat, he wasn’t sure. How Maggie would take it, if she even heard him, was anyone’s guess. His phone vibrated. He fumbled in his jacket pocket trying to pull it free. His mother’s number scrolled across the display. Tom exhaled through his nose, punched the button to ignore the call, and then dropped it back into his pocket as he turned toward the stairs.
The front door slammed behind him and Tom dragged in a breath of crisp morning air. He pushed on the door to be certain the locks caught, then shivered when he realized he didn’t even have Maggie’s phone number.
The bright red awning above the door snapped in the autumn breeze. Glancing up, a slow smile crept across his face. He spotted a cab meandering down the street, cruising in his direction. Tom flung his arm up to hail the driver then hurried for the curb. As he slipped into the back seat, he spared the plate-glass windows another glance. Relief coursed through him and he left his head fall back against the stiff vinyl seat.
He knew how to find her. The Glass Slipper. Her business would be listed in the book, and the Yellow Pages beat the hell out of trying to beat her information out of Sean—or worse, beg it from Sheila.
Chapter Seven
Maggie spent the rest of Sunday doing all the things she should have done in the first place. Her apartment was now sparkling clean and clutter-free and both sets of sheets were tumbling in her dryer. As a matter of fact, her evening of indulgence unleashed a fresh burst of determination. Maggie McCann’s road to self-containment was paved with the very best of intentions. She was feeling pretty smug as the evening wound down. Her fridge and cabinets were bursting with food, there wasn’t a bottle of wine within a three-block radius, and the sweet scent of lilac wafted from the steaming bathtub.
Ignoring the book she’d carried into the bathroom with her, she opted to close her eyes and drift away on a cloud of bubbles. Her fingers fluttered through the water. They stirred tiny waves that lapped at her belly and breasts. She sighed, pretending the caress of bathwater was a suitable stand-in for the heat of Tom Sullivan’s talented tongue.
She pushed him out the door. Hours later, she was still stunned. That was a first. Hell, usually she was trying to lure men into her web. She could tell by the startled disbelief on Tom’s face that it was a first for him too. But it was pure self-defense. She had to do it. He stood there in his wrinkled suit, his hair mussed, a dark shadow of beard stubbling his jaw… Rude or not, she had to do something, anything, to keep from prolonging the moment.
Maggie forced herself to resist the temptation of his offer of dinner. She couldn’t take the sincerity shimmering in those vibrant blue eyes. Each minute they spent together stripped away another illusion, making him more human and more likeable. And when that stubborn cowlick on the crown of his head popped up, he was
“Maggie!”
She shook her head and murmured a soft, “Goodbye, Tom,” before closing the door in his face.
His jaw hit the floor. She pushed him out the door. That never happened to him before. Women usually clung to his ankles as he tried to beat a path to the nearest exit. Okay. The ankle thing only happened once, and his niece was only four at the time, but still….
He raised his clenched fist and rapped on the door. “Maggie?”
No answer. No shuffling footsteps. No movement within at all. He knocked harder.
“Maggie!”
Fred answered his call with a curious meow. The healthy ego dozens of women had fed and nurtured over the course of his adult life quaked. His forehead puckered into a frown. He pulled his hand back and scrubbed his face. A grim smirk twisted his lips when he lowered his hand. His fingers curled. The blunt tips of his fingernails bit into the meat of his palm as he stared at the door.
“I’ll call you!”
Whether it was a promise or a threat, he wasn’t sure. How Maggie would take it, if she even heard him, was anyone’s guess. His phone vibrated. He fumbled in his jacket pocket trying to pull it free. His mother’s number scrolled across the display. Tom exhaled through his nose, punched the button to ignore the call, and then dropped it back into his pocket as he turned toward the stairs.
The front door slammed behind him and Tom dragged in a breath of crisp morning air. He pushed on the door to be certain the locks caught, then shivered when he realized he didn’t even have Maggie’s phone number.
The bright red awning above the door snapped in the autumn breeze. Glancing up, a slow smile crept across his face. He spotted a cab meandering down the street, cruising in his direction. Tom flung his arm up to hail the driver then hurried for the curb. As he slipped into the back seat, he spared the plate-glass windows another glance. Relief coursed through him and he left his head fall back against the stiff vinyl seat.
He knew how to find her. The Glass Slipper. Her business would be listed in the book, and the Yellow Pages beat the hell out of trying to beat her information out of Sean—or worse, beg it from Sheila.
Chapter Seven
Maggie spent the rest of Sunday doing all the things she should have done in the first place. Her apartment was now sparkling clean and clutter-free and both sets of sheets were tumbling in her dryer. As a matter of fact, her evening of indulgence unleashed a fresh burst of determination. Maggie McCann’s road to self-containment was paved with the very best of intentions. She was feeling pretty smug as the evening wound down. Her fridge and cabinets were bursting with food, there wasn’t a bottle of wine within a three-block radius, and the sweet scent of lilac wafted from the steaming bathtub.
Ignoring the book she’d carried into the bathroom with her, she opted to close her eyes and drift away on a cloud of bubbles. Her fingers fluttered through the water. They stirred tiny waves that lapped at her belly and breasts. She sighed, pretending the caress of bathwater was a suitable stand-in for the heat of Tom Sullivan’s talented tongue.
She pushed him out the door. Hours later, she was still stunned. That was a first. Hell, usually she was trying to lure men into her web. She could tell by the startled disbelief on Tom’s face that it was a first for him too. But it was pure self-defense. She had to do it. He stood there in his wrinkled suit, his hair mussed, a dark shadow of beard stubbling his jaw… Rude or not, she had to do something, anything, to keep from prolonging the moment.
Maggie forced herself to resist the temptation of his offer of dinner. She couldn’t take the sincerity shimmering in those vibrant blue eyes. Each minute they spent together stripped away another illusion, making him more human and more likeable. And when that stubborn cowlick on the crown of his head popped up, he was
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