brought the brown-papered butt to his nose and inhaled. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
But Annabel heard his voice, saw his eyes. And she knew that wasn’t even half the truth.
W HAT HE HADN’T TOLD HER was that the cigarette butt wasn’t cold. It wasn’t hot, but it hadn’t been out long. And if the aroma of that tobacco blend hadn’t been a part of his life for three years, he’d never have noticed it at all.
He carried the bags of groceries from the elevator across the loft’s main room to the kitchen and dining alcove, setting the whole lot on the dividing bar. Annabel helped him unload the menu ingredients straight to the red-and-aqua-tiled countertop. No need to shelve what he was about to use.
She picked up the first paper bag and began to fold it along its original lines. “Patrick?”
“Annabel?” He tried to match her tone of inquisitive accusation as he reached for the breadboard and bread knife.
“Tell me what just happened.”
“Well, we bought smoked salmon, fresh dill and brown bread, for one thing.” He counted out the items, using the knife as a pointer. “I’m not sure I want to use a branded crème fraîche or make my own—”
She grabbed the loaf from beneath his extended hand. “I’m not talking about our shopping trip.”
He thought about hedging, but gave up after a quick self-reminder of who he was dealing with here. “The garage.”
“Yes. The garage.” She set the bread off to the side and picked up a second bag to fold.
“The garage.” He reached over and turned on the oven to heat up the precooked beef tenderloin he’d chosen from the market’s kitchen. He’d cook his own for the party, of course, but for this test-drive—
“The garage, Patrick. The garage,” Annabel repeated, threatening him with the wedge of Gorgonzola he needed for the mayonnaise.
First divesting her of the cheese and moving the green-olive flatbread out of her reach, he pulled the food processor from the bar’s storage well. When he straightenedand faced her, he knew he owed her at least a partial truth.
“I’m not sure what happened. I only know that for at least a week now I’ve felt as if I were being watched.” Honest enough. Vague enough. It worked. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her.
“Watched,” she repeated. “Watched by whom?”
He shrugged, measuring out the gourmet mayo he’d purchased and enough Gorgonzola to keep the flavor combination on the mild end of the spectrum. He hit the puree button; the motor whirred…then stopped as Annabel pulled the plug from the socket.
“Who would be watching you, Patrick?”
“No one you would know.”
“I see.”
She didn’t see, of course. She no doubt thought he was out of his mind, headed for the loony bin, a fruitcake of the first order. Interesting, however, how he saw nothing in her expression that smacked of fear, or even a tentative reticence to challenge his claim.
It wasn’t exactly that she didn’t believe him, more a case of been there, done that, yet…“You don’t believe me.”
“What’s to believe? If you say you feel as if you’re being watched, then you feel as if you’re being watched.” And at that, she shoved the food processor’s plug back into the socket.
Patrick jerked on the cord and nearly pulled the entire faceplate from the wall. Whatever the hell was going on with her, he wasn’t up for her games. “The cigarette butt is a Jamaican brand. I found another one across the street from the balcony.”
Annabel lifted one shoulder, hardly impressed. “It’s aculturally diverse neighborhood. I’m sure you would find several others if you walked the block.”
She was right, of course. Then again, so was he. What they had was a classic standoff, a no-win situation, a silent and tacit agreement not to voice the frustration each felt at the other’s refusal to remove head from ass and wake up.
He returned the plug to the socket and let the Gorgonzola and mayo mix while he
But Annabel heard his voice, saw his eyes. And she knew that wasn’t even half the truth.
W HAT HE HADN’T TOLD HER was that the cigarette butt wasn’t cold. It wasn’t hot, but it hadn’t been out long. And if the aroma of that tobacco blend hadn’t been a part of his life for three years, he’d never have noticed it at all.
He carried the bags of groceries from the elevator across the loft’s main room to the kitchen and dining alcove, setting the whole lot on the dividing bar. Annabel helped him unload the menu ingredients straight to the red-and-aqua-tiled countertop. No need to shelve what he was about to use.
She picked up the first paper bag and began to fold it along its original lines. “Patrick?”
“Annabel?” He tried to match her tone of inquisitive accusation as he reached for the breadboard and bread knife.
“Tell me what just happened.”
“Well, we bought smoked salmon, fresh dill and brown bread, for one thing.” He counted out the items, using the knife as a pointer. “I’m not sure I want to use a branded crème fraîche or make my own—”
She grabbed the loaf from beneath his extended hand. “I’m not talking about our shopping trip.”
He thought about hedging, but gave up after a quick self-reminder of who he was dealing with here. “The garage.”
“Yes. The garage.” She set the bread off to the side and picked up a second bag to fold.
“The garage.” He reached over and turned on the oven to heat up the precooked beef tenderloin he’d chosen from the market’s kitchen. He’d cook his own for the party, of course, but for this test-drive—
“The garage, Patrick. The garage,” Annabel repeated, threatening him with the wedge of Gorgonzola he needed for the mayonnaise.
First divesting her of the cheese and moving the green-olive flatbread out of her reach, he pulled the food processor from the bar’s storage well. When he straightenedand faced her, he knew he owed her at least a partial truth.
“I’m not sure what happened. I only know that for at least a week now I’ve felt as if I were being watched.” Honest enough. Vague enough. It worked. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her.
“Watched,” she repeated. “Watched by whom?”
He shrugged, measuring out the gourmet mayo he’d purchased and enough Gorgonzola to keep the flavor combination on the mild end of the spectrum. He hit the puree button; the motor whirred…then stopped as Annabel pulled the plug from the socket.
“Who would be watching you, Patrick?”
“No one you would know.”
“I see.”
She didn’t see, of course. She no doubt thought he was out of his mind, headed for the loony bin, a fruitcake of the first order. Interesting, however, how he saw nothing in her expression that smacked of fear, or even a tentative reticence to challenge his claim.
It wasn’t exactly that she didn’t believe him, more a case of been there, done that, yet…“You don’t believe me.”
“What’s to believe? If you say you feel as if you’re being watched, then you feel as if you’re being watched.” And at that, she shoved the food processor’s plug back into the socket.
Patrick jerked on the cord and nearly pulled the entire faceplate from the wall. Whatever the hell was going on with her, he wasn’t up for her games. “The cigarette butt is a Jamaican brand. I found another one across the street from the balcony.”
Annabel lifted one shoulder, hardly impressed. “It’s aculturally diverse neighborhood. I’m sure you would find several others if you walked the block.”
She was right, of course. Then again, so was he. What they had was a classic standoff, a no-win situation, a silent and tacit agreement not to voice the frustration each felt at the other’s refusal to remove head from ass and wake up.
He returned the plug to the socket and let the Gorgonzola and mayo mix while he
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