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have said if she knew.

      “I haven’t hooked it up yet,” he said evasively.

      “Well maybe you should do just that.” Her tone was dismissive. Nicole picked up the telephone receiver. “And I’ll call maintenance about this.”

      Confident that she was sending him on his way, she tapped out the numbers to the rental office.

      Amused, Dennis crossed his arms before his chest and leaned a shoulder against the wall. He knew it wouldn’t be long. Briefed on everything surrounding her complex, he knew that maintenance had a reputation of always being somewhere else when they were needed.

      Three minutes later, Nicole sighed and hung up the phone.

      “Nobody there?” he asked innocently.

      She slanted an annoyed look at him. “Just the machine.” But she had a feeling that Dennis already knew that.

      Dennis hooked his thumbs on the loops of his jeans. “I don’t think it’s been programmed to fix disposals.” This couldn’t have worked out better if he had planned it. “So, do you want my help?”

      She hated asking, but it was either that, or start washing dishes in the bathtub. “Yes.”

      With a satisfied nod, Dennis turned toward the door. “Okay, just let me get my tools.”

      She picked her way carefully to the broom closet for the mop. “And get a shirt while you’re at it.”

      He turned in the doorway, surprised by the request. “Why?”

      “Because you’re too distracting running around without one.” She saw him raise an amused brow. “I might be pregnant, but I’m not dead.”

      “Nice to know.” He disappeared inside his apartment.

      Muttering under her breath, Nicole grabbed the mop and began drying her floor.

       Chapter 4

       N icole had barely put the mop away before she heard the quick, light rap on the door. She looked up sharply, her heart rate accelerating. Damn, this wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to feel like this in her own home, frightened by every sound. Even dead, Craig was still messing up her life.

      She approached the door cautiously. “Who is it?”

      “Mr. Fix-it.”

      The feeling of relief at hearing Dennis’s voice was simultaneously overwhelming and annoying. She shouldn’t have to be afraid like this. And she shouldn’t have to feel as if she had to depend on anyone for anything.

      Swallowing an oath meant for Standish, Nicole opened the door.

      Dennis walked directly into the kitchen. He was carrying a small, rather new looking toolbox and, following her suggestion, he was wearing a shirt. It was a faded blue pullover that was missing a button at the throat.

      The shirt didn’t help. Rather than serve as camouflage, it accented his muscles. The banding at each arm was clearly straining on his biceps. Both were beginning to tear at the seams.

      Nicole sighed without being completely aware of why.

      Dennis glanced at the floor. She’d managed to get the shine back. “Nice job.”

      He placed the toolbox beside the sink and flipped open the lid. A small assortment of tools was arranged inside, black handles all facing in one direction. He rummaged through them.

      “You know,” he quipped as he took out the wrench he was looking for, “my place could stand a once-over.”

      Some women worked through their problems cleaning. Nicole could never understand that. To her cleaning was a problem.

      “Sorry, my mop’s retired.” She thought of his apartment. It was a great deal neater than hers was right now. Saturdays were reserved for cleaning. It was getting so that she dreaded Saturdays. “Besides, don’t you have a cleaning lady?”

      “Not for long.” Dennis opened the cabinet doors again and began taking out cleansers, stacking them over to one side. “Ophelia is a grandmother five times over and rabidly looking forward to spending more time with her grandchildren.” He was making it up as he went along. There was no cleaning lady, but someone like the man he was portraying would have had one. Dennis thought of his mother, who had spent years cleaning up after other people so that he and Moira could have a decent life. Spinning the rest of the story was easy. “She’s retiring this June.”

      Nicole thought she detected a note of sadness in his voice, as if he actually knew the woman he was talking about well enough to carry on a conversation with her. As if he would miss her when she left.

      He cleared his throat. The smell of cleansers melding irritated it. “I’m going to have to find someone to take her place.”

      From early on, Nicole had always liked doing things for herself. If you did them yourself, you weren’t indebted to anyone. Housework, however, had never made that list. She would have been perfectly satisfied having someone take care of the mundane chores of cleaning for her, the way Sally had when she was growing up.

      Nicole looked at the cleansers piled up on the side ruefully. Maybe she’d skip cleaning the tub this time around. It was getting more and more difficult to bend over these days.

      Dusting, however, always needed to be done. She retrieved a dust cloth from the pile. “Let me know if you want to time-share,” she quipped absently.

      Dennis looked at her over his shoulder. “Are you serious?”

      She wished. Nicole sighed. “No, not really.” She folded the cloth in half and began rubbing away at the counter top. “I can’t afford a luxury like that at the moment.” She glanced down at her swollen stomach. “This baby is going to be all the luxury I have in my life for a while.”

      Squatting on the floor, Dennis sank back on his heels and looked up at her. His expression was innocent. “I don’t mean to pry—”

      Now there was an opening line. “But you will.” She advanced to another surface, rubbing hard, waiting.

      He lifted one shoulder and let it drop carelessly. She expected him to say “Aw, shucks” next. “Call it conversation.”

      Only in the broadest sense. He was reaching. “Euphemism.”

      She wasn’t telling him to mind his own business. There was a crack forming in the wall. Dennis worked at making it larger. He grinned at her engagingly. “That too.” Without missing a beat, he began again. “I’m not a racing fan—”

      Neither was she anymore. Not for a long, long time. The thrill had dissipated when she realized what the consequences were.

      And they had all come to pass.

      Nicole looked off into space. “I won’t hold that against you—”

      Her voice was soft, distant, as if he’d disturbed something. He wondered what it was. “But your husband was pretty well-known in his class.”

      Craig and class had little to do with one another. Class meant knowing when to quit. And when to hold back. Craig hadn’t known when to do either.

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