be found. Hell, he’d waited long enough for her to put in an appearance.
Maybe he had it coming. After all, this wasn’t an actual date. He’d pushed his way in. Bullied her into agreeing, to use her word.
Still, he wasn’t going to let her get away with this.
Forty-five minutes later, he was standing at her door, a lavish bouquet of orchids in his hands.
Her hair was loose about her shoulders, no longer sleek, but tousled as if she’d been running her fingers through it. Her face had been scrubbed clean of makeup, leaving her cheeks rosy. Her mouth was still impossibly pink, though.
She’d changed out of her dress and had a long silk robe cinched tight around her waist. The result was that she looked like one of those forties movie starlets. Somehow, even devoid of makeup and expensive clothing, she still exuded class. As if she’d been simmered in wealth since childhood and now it fairly seeped from her pores.
She eyed him suspiciously, her gaze dropping to the orchids and then back to his face. “What are those for?”
Since she didn’t seem inclined to invite him in, heelbowed past her into the apartment. “They were my excuse to get in the building. One of your neighbors was leaving. I told him I was here to apologize for a date gone bad so he’d let me in.”
“And he believed you?”
“What can I say? I was persuasive.”
After a moment of indecision, she closed and bolted the door. “Don’t worry. It won’t happen again. I’ll hunt him down and kill the jerk.”
“Don’t do that. If you’re mad at me, take it out on me.” While she considered his words, he surveyed her apartment. A dingy kitchen led off from the living room and he headed there with the flowers. “Do you have a vase?”
“I thought the flowers were just a ruse.”
“That’s no reason not to enjoy them. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find flowers at midnight on a Friday night?”
He grabbed a vase out of one of the cabinets. It was an ornate job with elaborate curlicues. As he filled it with water, he waited for her response. She always seemed to have some snappy comeback.
It was her silence that alerted him something was wrong. He dropped the flowers into the vase and turned, thinking maybe she’d retreated to her bedroom or even left the apartment. Instead he found her sitting on the living room’s sole sofa with her elbows propped on her knees and her face buried in her hands.
His nerve endings prickled with alarm.
He sent up a silent prayer. Please don’t let her be crying . Between his three sisters, Patrice and Suz, he’d faced down his share of weepy women.
The one thing his vast experience with crying women had taught him was that running like hell would only make things worse.
“Hey,” he began awkwardly. “What’s—”
Then Kitty stood, her eyes red, but dry.
No tears. Thank God.
She crossed to stand before him, her posture stiff with anger. “What’s the matter?”
She got right in his face, stopping mere inches from him. “I’ll tell you what’s the matter.”
She shoved a hand against his shoulder. Surprise bumped him back a step. “You are the matter.”
She bopped him on the shoulder again. This time he was ready, but she was stomping forward, so he backed up a step anyway. “You come here and push your way into my company. Into my life. Into my apartment. You push and you push and you push.”
With each push she shoved against his chest and with each shove he stepped back, trying to give her the room she needed. But she followed him step for step.
“Maybe it’s time someone pushed back.”
By now he was—literally—up against a wall. With his back pressed to the living room wall, he had nowhere else to go. She stopped mere centimeters away from him, her hands pressed to his chest, her eyes blazing with anger.
“I’m—” he began.
But she didn’t let him finish. “Don’t you dare sayyou’re sorry. Sorry won’t cut it. Sorry doesn’t even begin to
Maybe he had it coming. After all, this wasn’t an actual date. He’d pushed his way in. Bullied her into agreeing, to use her word.
Still, he wasn’t going to let her get away with this.
Forty-five minutes later, he was standing at her door, a lavish bouquet of orchids in his hands.
Her hair was loose about her shoulders, no longer sleek, but tousled as if she’d been running her fingers through it. Her face had been scrubbed clean of makeup, leaving her cheeks rosy. Her mouth was still impossibly pink, though.
She’d changed out of her dress and had a long silk robe cinched tight around her waist. The result was that she looked like one of those forties movie starlets. Somehow, even devoid of makeup and expensive clothing, she still exuded class. As if she’d been simmered in wealth since childhood and now it fairly seeped from her pores.
She eyed him suspiciously, her gaze dropping to the orchids and then back to his face. “What are those for?”
Since she didn’t seem inclined to invite him in, heelbowed past her into the apartment. “They were my excuse to get in the building. One of your neighbors was leaving. I told him I was here to apologize for a date gone bad so he’d let me in.”
“And he believed you?”
“What can I say? I was persuasive.”
After a moment of indecision, she closed and bolted the door. “Don’t worry. It won’t happen again. I’ll hunt him down and kill the jerk.”
“Don’t do that. If you’re mad at me, take it out on me.” While she considered his words, he surveyed her apartment. A dingy kitchen led off from the living room and he headed there with the flowers. “Do you have a vase?”
“I thought the flowers were just a ruse.”
“That’s no reason not to enjoy them. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find flowers at midnight on a Friday night?”
He grabbed a vase out of one of the cabinets. It was an ornate job with elaborate curlicues. As he filled it with water, he waited for her response. She always seemed to have some snappy comeback.
It was her silence that alerted him something was wrong. He dropped the flowers into the vase and turned, thinking maybe she’d retreated to her bedroom or even left the apartment. Instead he found her sitting on the living room’s sole sofa with her elbows propped on her knees and her face buried in her hands.
His nerve endings prickled with alarm.
He sent up a silent prayer. Please don’t let her be crying . Between his three sisters, Patrice and Suz, he’d faced down his share of weepy women.
The one thing his vast experience with crying women had taught him was that running like hell would only make things worse.
“Hey,” he began awkwardly. “What’s—”
Then Kitty stood, her eyes red, but dry.
No tears. Thank God.
She crossed to stand before him, her posture stiff with anger. “What’s the matter?”
She got right in his face, stopping mere inches from him. “I’ll tell you what’s the matter.”
She shoved a hand against his shoulder. Surprise bumped him back a step. “You are the matter.”
She bopped him on the shoulder again. This time he was ready, but she was stomping forward, so he backed up a step anyway. “You come here and push your way into my company. Into my life. Into my apartment. You push and you push and you push.”
With each push she shoved against his chest and with each shove he stepped back, trying to give her the room she needed. But she followed him step for step.
“Maybe it’s time someone pushed back.”
By now he was—literally—up against a wall. With his back pressed to the living room wall, he had nowhere else to go. She stopped mere centimeters away from him, her hands pressed to his chest, her eyes blazing with anger.
“I’m—” he began.
But she didn’t let him finish. “Don’t you dare sayyou’re sorry. Sorry won’t cut it. Sorry doesn’t even begin to
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