Winter Affair by Doreen Owens Malek Page A

walked into the small apartment, and he shut the door behind her. She glanced around at the spare furnishings, the Spartan décor. Her eye settled on the roaring fire on the hearth, the only element of warmth and cheer in the room.
    “The fire is lovely, just the thing on such a cold night,” she said.
    He nodded, putting his hands in his pockets and watching her. He was obviously uncomfortable and she was beginning to wish she had stayed at home with Barbara Stanwyck.
    “No tree?” she asked brightly, examining the empty corners of the room.
    “I got a tree,” he said flatly, jerking his thumb at the top of the battered stereo. It was a plastic, lopsided silver imitation, about a foot high, with lackluster, tarnished decorations. God only knew where he had gotten it, but the sight of it made Leda want to cry. She quickly turned away and looked at him, which was a mistake.
    The hard beauty of his body made her mouth go dry with longing. His smooth, muscular arms and shoulders, covered by a matte expanse of satiny skin, begged for her touch. His broad chest, roughened by fine dark hair like that on his head, tapered to a narrow waist, and she could see the sturdy muscles of his abdomen, flat and firm under the closure of his jeans. Her eyes moved slowly to his face, and she could tell that he knew what she was thinking. She gradually became aware that the stereo was playing a song she had heard before, but which took on new meaning in this context. Reardon’s gaze moved from her lips, down to her body, enshrouded in her duffel coat, and back to her mouth again as the singer intoned the low, intimate lyrics:
     
    “I wake up at night  
    with the sheets soaking wet,  
    and a freight train running  
    through the middle of my head.  
    Only you can quench my desire,
    Oh oh oh, I’m on fire.”
     
    Reardon swallowed hard, walked directly to the stereo, and switched it off. A heavy silence filled the room.
    “Please excuse the mess,” Reardon finally said, clearing his throat. “I wasn’t expecting company. How come you aren’t at a party or something tonight?”
    “Oh, well, I was invited to one, but I thought I’d visit you instead.”
    His eyes narrowed. “Why? Is this your good deed in honor of the holiday? Dispense a little charity to the local pariah?”
    Leda turned on her heel. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy. I’ll go.”
    She hadn’t taken two steps before he was at her side, his long fingers closing over her arm. “Leda, please stay. I’m sorry. I seem to suspect everyone’s motives these days.” He shrugged helplessly, shaking his head. “Being alone so much has turned me into quite a boor. I wasn’t always this way, I assure you.”
    “I believe that,” she said softly, meeting his eyes. “But I wish you would see that not everyone is out to get you.”
    “I’m beginning to see that you’re not,” he replied with the trace of a smile. He released her arm and gestured to a chair. “Let me have your coat, and take a seat. I’ll make some coffee, okay?”
    “Okay,” Leda agreed as he helped her out of her coat, charmed by his awkward attempt to play host. He tossed her coat on an overstuffed sofa. That, along with two chairs, a desk, and the battered kitchen set next to the stove comprised all the furniture in the room. She could see a bedroom beyond it, equally spare.
    With quarters like these, no wonder he spent so much time at work.
    “What’s that I smell?” she asked, sniffing the air.
    “Stew,” he replied. “I was just making dinner.” He walked over to the stove and stirred something in a pot.
    She watched what he was doing, and realized that “making dinner” consisted of heating up a can of prepared stew. “Maybe I can help,” she suggested. “Have you got any eggs?”
    He turned back to her. “Sure.”
    “Cheese, butter, tomatoes, onions?” she went on, and he smiled.
    “I think so,” he said.
    “Fine. How about some omelets?”
    He gestured