Sweet Talk

  She turned off her computer and looked at the clock. The evening was still young, so she decided to try to make dinner. She chose a recipe from her one and only, new, never-before-opened cookbook and went to work. The result was a disaster. Emma’s cook, Mary, saved her from starvation. Olivia pulled one of Mary’s chicken-and-noodle casseroles from the freezer and popped it in the microwave. As she sat at her kitchen island eating out of the casserole dish, her thoughts went to Grayson.

  She thought about him all the time. Whenever she had a spare minute, there he was. As far as her relationship with him went, she was certain that, when the threat was over and he was convinced that the proper arrests had been made, she wouldn’t see him again. And that was for the best, she believed; yet, whenever she thought about never seeing him again, she’d feel an ache deep within her chest.

  Was this just a fling? Maybe . . . except, she didn’t do flings. She knew exactly what had happened and finally found enough gumption to admit it. She’d fallen in love with Grayson. What she didn’t understand was how she had allowed herself to be vulnerable. This was all her fault. She couldn’t blame Grayson for any of it. He’d never done anything to lead her on or make her think he had these feelings for her. She had likened him to James Bond when she’d first met him, and she’d seen all the movies. In every one of them Bond made love to the woman and moved on. And so would Grayson. Wasn’t that for the best?

  Olivia decided not to think about the future.

  * * *

  On Friday she left work early—Fridays were always slow for some reason. She arrived home, changed into jeans and a periwinkle-blue sweater, and went to the kitchen to see what she could microwave.

  Grayson changed the plan when he showed up at her door and told her he was taking her out.

  He looked wonderful. His face was ruddy from the bitter cold outside. His coat collar was up, and his hair was damp from the falling snow.

  Olivia hadn’t seen him since last Sunday when he’d dropped by unexpectedly. He had been able to stay for only a few minutes then, but he’d called her every day, sometimes twice, to check on her. Now, with him standing in front of her, she wanted to throw herself into his arms. Resisting the nearly overwhelming urge, she forced herself to step back so he could come inside, and still not trusting herself, she put her hands behind her back.

  “Come on. I’m taking you to dinner,” he repeated.

  “You don’t tell me we’re going out to dinner. You ask me. That’s how it’s done. And then I decide if I want to go or not.”

  His hand moved to the back of her neck, and he jerked her toward him. His open mouth came down on hers, his tongue penetrating, tasting, teasing, tempting. When he lifted his head, she sagged against him.

  She came to her senses and moved away from him. “We can’t go out to dinner,” she said as she walked into the kitchen. “It wouldn’t be safe. Those were your words, Grayson.” She opened the refrigerator, then closed it. “You told me I couldn’t go to a restaurant or a shopping center or—”

  “I remember what I told you. Office and home. I don’t recall adding paint store to the list.”

  The bodyguard had told on her. She said, “We went in at closing and were the only customers.”

  Grayson noticed the open cookbook on the island. “Did you already make dinner?”

  Her chin came up. “Risotto.”

  He looked around. “Where is it?”

  “In the sink . . . soaking.”

  When he saw the wooden spoon sticking straight up out of the glue-like substance, he began to laugh. He took the spoon handle and attempted to move the congealed goo in the pan, but it wouldn’t budge. “When did you make this?”

  “Last night,” she answered. “Grayson, it’s not that funny.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  She opened the refrigerator again. “Thank goodness for Mary.”

  “You don’t want to go out?”

  “You were serious? Of course I want to go out. I’m going crazy staying in all the time. I’m getting a vitamin D deficiency, for Pete’s sake. I need sun and fresh air. I’m even trying to learn how to cook, and if that doesn’t tell you how far gone I am, I don’t know what will.”

  “A vitamin D deficiency?”

  She folded her arms. “It’s real.”

  “Where we’re going you’ll be safe.”

  Suspicious, she asked, “Where? Your office? No, I’ve got it. Vending machines at the police station.”

  “My place.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t be around Henry. It wouldn’t be safe for him.”

  “He isn’t home tonight. He went to a movie with his grandfather and then is spending the night. It’s the only other place he’ll sleep.”

  Curious to see what his home was like and desperate to get out of her apartment, she agreed. “Okay, but no funny stuff.”

  He grinned. “Funny stuff?”

  Ignoring him, she rushed into her bedroom to get her shoes.

  Grayson was holding her coat when she returned. She slipped it on, grabbed her purse and cell phone, and unlocked the deadbolt. Grayson saw her inhaler on the table and picked it up.

  “What are we having for dinner? Are we doing carryout?”

  “I’m cooking for you.”

  “You cook?” She sounded shocked.

  It was a short ride to Grayson’s building, a grand five-story structure at the intersection of two quiet streets in a very exclusive neighborhood.

  “I’m guessing you’re a minimalist,” she remarked.

  Grayson used an app on his iPhone to open the iron gates that led to a parking garage below the building.

  “How do you figure that?” he asked.

  “Your home,” she explained. “I’m guessing it’s sleek, modern. Everything has a function. Am I right?”

  The garage was empty. He pulled into a parking slot next to the elevator. “Have you forgotten I have a nine-year-old living with me?”

  “Okay, cluttered minimalist.”

  “Until Henry moved in, the only furniture I had was my bed and a chest of drawers. The living room was empty. Once I’d finished remodeling, I planned to put it on the market. Everything changed, of course. I ordered furniture, and the last of it just arrived.”

  “Are you still thinking you’ll sell?”

  He shook his head. “Henry needs stability, so no more moving.”

  “Are you the only tenant living in the building?”

  “Yes. I bought the building, remodeled the top floor, and the architect I hired is working on plans for the others.”

  “You should have become an architect.”

  “No, it’s just a hobby.”

  The elevator doors opened to his foyer, gleaming marble floors and a wide-open space. The living room was straight ahead. Facing them was a wall of windows, and the view was spectacular. Area rugs in muted tones adorned dark hardwood floors. The furniture was sparse and did have the sleek lines she’d imagined. Two mahogany leather club chairs sat adjacent to a taupe overstuffed sofa. The contemporary fireplace was encased in black granite that went all the way to the ceiling. There were lots of neutrals, and on the wall next to the fireplace was an abstract painting she thought might be a Richter original. Beautiful splashes of color and thick drapes gave the room dimension and texture.

  The dining room was surrounded by windows as well. On the round, dark cherry table, she noticed a pad, no doubt to protect it from the Lego kit strewn about.

  There was evidence of a nine-year-old everywhere. A handheld video game was on the arm of a chair; a pair of gym socks were under the dining room table, and there were three other Lego kits half completed behind the sofa.

  To the left of the foyer was a long hallway. From what she could see, there were at least th
ree bedrooms. To the right was another hallway that led to the kitchen and the pantry beyond. Grayson took her coat and hung it in the hall closet. She followed him, but stopped at the entrance to a gourmet chef’s dream come true.

  “This kitchen is practically the size of my entire apartment,” she said.

  Stainless steel, granite, and sleek lacquered cabinets everywhere she looked. All of the appliances appeared to be brand-new: two double-size ovens, a microwave, an espresso machine, a coffeemaker that had so many buttons it looked like it could run NORAD, a huge stove with eight gas burners, and a few other electrical gadgets she had never seen before.

  The granite island was twice the size of hers. She pulled out one of the four bar stools and sat.

  “Do you know how to work all of these appliances?”

  “Sure I do.” He was at the sink across from her washing his hands. “But Patrick, our housekeeper, runs the kitchen,” he explained.

  “Housekeeper?” she asked.

  “That’s what Patrick calls himself, but he’s more like a manager. He runs the house and he also helps with the renovation projects I take on. He needed a place to live at the same time Henry was moving in with me, so it’s worked out for everyone. He keeps Henry and me on schedule and somewhat organized. Would you like something to drink? A glass of wine or . . .”

  “Just water for now.”

  He got her a bottle, opened it, and handed it to her. “I’ll get dinner started and then go change out of this suit.”

  “May I help?”

  “No, you relax. I’ve got this.”

  “So what’s your plan?”

  He moved to the other side of the island to face her. Then he looked at his watch. “It’s six thirty-five. I’ll change my clothes and fix dinner. By eight twenty we should be finished. That’s when I’ll hit on you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Then, at eight forty I’ll hit on you again. My plan is to wear you down,” he added.

  She nodded and very seriously said, “I see.”

  “At eight fifty-five you’ll give in just to get me to stop nagging you. Besides . . .”

  “Besides what?”

  “Let’s face it, sweetheart. I’m good. You’ve told me so.”

  “When did I . . .”

  “Every time I touch you and you moan and beg me to—”

  She put her hand over his mouth. She could feel her cheeks warming, knew she was blushing. “I can’t argue with the truth.” She took a calming breath. “And then?” she asked, trying to maintain a somber expression.

  “At approximately one in the morning, we’ll get dressed, and I’ll take you home.” He smiled as he added, “And that’s my plan.”

  She leaned forward. “That’s all good and well, but I was asking you what your plan was for dinner.”

  He laughed as he came around the island and leaned down to kiss her. “You taste good,” he whispered.

  “Grayson, you know we can’t . . . not here . . .”

  He rubbed his lips over hers. “Yeah, I know. Want to hear my secondary plan?”

  “You like messing with me, don’t you?”

  “I kinda do. I like the way you blush.”

  She nudged him. “Go change your clothes.”

  “Come with me.”

  She pushed him again. “Oh no. I’ll wait here.”

  As soon as he left the kitchen, she went to the window to look out. She could see over the rooftops for blocks. Down below, traffic was moving slowly, and there were no pedestrians on the sidewalks. Snow flurries were expected, and the temperature had plummeted.

  She turned and surveyed the apartment. There was a rectangular table with four chairs near the window. Henry’s backpack was in the center of the table with two action figures. A deck of cards was stacked next to a notepad and pen. On the chair was an iPad.

  Grayson returned wearing a pair of jeans and a light-blue cotton shirt, open at the neck with sleeves rolled up. Olivia insisted on helping prepare dinner. He grilled salmon he’d been marinating, made a spicy lemon-pepper sauce, and added steamed vegetables and brown rice. He let Olivia do the microwaving of the vegetable steam bag, but after seeing the result of her attempt to cook risotto, he wouldn’t let her near the fish.

  She didn’t think he’d noticed during dinner, but when they were rinsing the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher later, he said, “You should have told me.”

  “Told you what?” she asked, handing him a glass to rinse.

  “That you don’t like salmon.”

  “It looked delicious.”

  “You didn’t taste it.”

  “Okay, I don’t like salmon. I’m sorry.”

  “I would have fixed you something else.”

  “You went to so much trouble, I didn’t want to be impolite,” she explained. “Does Henry like your cooking.”

  “My nephew has a very limited palate. Chicken fingers and mac and cheese are his favorites. Patrick can get him to eat vegetables, but I can’t.”

  Grayson’s cell phone beeped with a text. He read the message and sighed. “Henry’s coming home from the movie. He was supposed to spend the night with his grandfather, but . . .”

  “He’d rather sleep here?”

  “No, his grandfather . . . my dad . . . has a friend coming over to spend some time with him. She just called him to let him know she’s back in town.”

  “Do you have time to take me home?”

  He shook his head. “They’re on their way now, but as soon as Patrick gets back, we can leave. It shouldn’t take too long.”

  “I don’t mind waiting, and I’d like to meet Henry.”

  He took a plate from her hand and said, “I’ll finish here. You look tired. Why don’t you relax, and I’ll brew a cup of coffee.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer tea if you have it,” she said.

  “Tea coming up,” he said.

  Olivia sat in one of the club chairs and picked up a comic book from a stack on the side table. As she thumbed through the pages, reading about a superhero in a slick purple suit who could teleport himself anywhere in the world, she began to feel a tightness in her chest. She recognized the signs of her asthma immediately and walked to the hall closet to get her purse. She pulled her cell phone out, then her lipstick, comb, billfold, tissues . . . no inhaler.

  Grayson saw what she was doing. “Your inhaler is in my coat pocket.”

  Startled, she asked, “How did it get in your coat?”

  “You left it on the table, so I grabbed it.”

  It was such a thoughtful thing to do. “Thank you.”

  She was thinking how terribly sweet he was until he started lecturing her.

  “You need to pay attention and make certain you’ve always got an inhaler with you, Olivia. I’ve done some reading on asthma, and an attack can get out of hand. I don’t understand how you can be so cavalier about it.”

  She used her inhaler and put it in her purse. Then she walked into the living room. She stopped in front of the windows.

  “This view is spectacular.”

  He stood behind her and put his arms around her. “Don’t want to talk about inhalers?”

  “Not really,” she said. “I’ll admit I’ve become a little too careless about my asthma. I’ll try to do better.”

  He turned her around, tilted her face up with his hand under her chin and kissed her. He meant only to give her a quick kiss, but in no time at all it got out of hand, and before he realized what he was doing, he’d lifted her up, her pelvis pressed against his, his mouth ravishing hers.

  She didn’t hear the bell on the elevator. Grayson did and reluctantly let go of her.

  The doors hadn’t completely opened when Henry bounded out, shou
ting, “Uncle Grayson!”

  “I’m right here, Henry. You don’t need to shout.”

  Henry remembered the intercom and pressed it. “I’m home, Grandfather.” Turning back to Grayson, he said, “He let me ride up by myself. Who’s she?”

  “A friend,” he answered. “Put your coat away and take your shoes into your bedroom.” Henry had already kicked them off. “Then come meet her.”

  He was back in two seconds, which told Grayson he’d opened his bedroom door and tossed his coat and shoes in. He slid across the marble and walked over to Olivia. Grayson made the introductions.

  Olivia thought Henry was a charmer. There were a few similarities to Grayson in bone structure, high cheekbones and square jaw, and he definitely had the same smile. Henry was tall for his age and lanky. He stared up at her with big brown eyes for a good twenty seconds without saying a word. She stared back.

  Grayson watched the two with amusement.

  Henry broke the staring contest. “Do you work in the FBI?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “She’s an attorney, Henry,” Grayson explained.

  “You are, too.”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at Olivia again. “Do you go into the court to help good people or bad people?”

  “She has two jobs,” Grayson said. “She works on taxes for the IRS,” he said, trying to simplify it for him.

  “I don’t know taxes.”

  “She’s also a children’s attorney.”

  Henry was fascinated by the idea. “Kids can have their own lawyers? You could work for me.”

  “Yes, I guess I could,” she said. She walked over to the sofa and sat. He followed and sat beside her.

  “How was the movie?” she asked.

  “Grandfather didn’t buy the premise. That’s what he said.”

  Grayson sat in an easy chair facing them. “Did he explain what premise meant?”