Heart of the Raven by Susan Crosby Page A

was quiet and she and Heath weren’t talking. Now it seemed silent again.
    Which was reasonable, of course, but it was a strange silence, not a comfortable nighttime silence. Just the different environment, she decided. And the doors were open, which seemed too intimate for two almost strangers. He could walk across the hall and into her room while she slept and she wouldn’t know.
    Cassie climbed into bed, the bathroom light spilling into her room. She closed her eyes, willing herself to relax.
    She could walk across the hall while he slept, too, and he wouldn’t know, either.
    The idea intrigued her. What was it about him that appealed to her? His looks, of course. His intelligence. Success—that counted a lot with her. It wouldn’t matter what job he had, just that he was successful in it and content with the job he did.
    He’d been understating his reputation earlier. She’d learned he was one of the premier designers of skyscrapers in the country, maybe the world. He was sought after. People waited a long time for him to even consult with them on an initial design.
    How was he going to incorporate a baby into that life? Especially without a wife. A nanny would be a big help, but it wasn’t the same thing.
    Maybe once he started getting out of the house he would open up emotionally again, meet a woman, date. Get married. Have more children.
    She looked around the guest room. She didn’t know much about furniture, but everything looked expensive. Rich woods polished to a gleam. A handmade quilt on the bed in a pattern she didn’t know the name of but was probably something he picked up on a trip somewhere. The art on the walls wasn’t bought at a garage sale, like hers.
    Still, like the rest of the house, the room needed fresh flowers and that certain touch that comes from having someone around who cared about such things. She bought herself fresh flowers every Friday for her studio apartment, and considered them a necessity not a luxury.
    Cassie smoothed the quilt, tracing the pattern with her fingertips. If she’d been at home on a normal Saturday night, she would’ve either been working—surveillance, probably—or going to dinner then maybe out to a club with friends. The sameness of it all was getting to her. She was twenty-nine years old, and restless. However, her job required more than a sixty-hour work week most of the time, and she didn’t know if any man would accept the amount of time she put in. She’d lost a few potential boyfriends because of it. She hadn’t cared. Until recently.
    A light tapping on her door startled her.
    â€œCan’t sleep?” he asked, not entering her room, not even looking in.
    He wouldn’t know that she’d been trying to sleep. She sat up and grabbed her notebook from the night-stand, making it seem as if she’d been writing in it.
    â€œCome in,” she said.
    He wore a T-shirt and pajama bottoms, as covered up as she was in her pajamas, yet it seemed too familiar.
    â€œYou can’t sleep, either?” she asked.
    He shook his head. He didn’t come into the room but stayed at the doorway, leaning a shoulder against it. “What you said earlier about being in foster homes—how old were you?”
    She pulled up her knees and rested her back against the headboard. “Nine.”
    â€œWhat happened to put you there?”
    â€œMy mother OD’d when I was five. My dad wasn’t in the picture. My grandfather took me in, but he died when I was nine.” She saw sympathy in his eyes and didn’t want it. “It’s in the past, Heath. Over and done.”
    â€œHow many homes?”
    She answered but had no plans to elaborate. “Seven.”
    â€œWere you a problem child?”
    â€œYou could say that. I’ve changed.”
    â€œI’m not sure.” He smiled so she knew he was joking.
    â€œDepends on the circumstances. You jerked my chain,