LITMIR.BIZ

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call between five and six. When he’d finished, though, and come out of his office, she was already gone.

      Her car was in the garage. So she should be home. Though, he supposed, she could have walked up to the shops on Manhattan Avenue.

      Or she might be on a date.

      He knocked again. Louder. “Natalie!”

      No answer. He hadn’t seen anyone come and pick her up. But then, he hadn’t spent the last hour watching her door, had he? He had better things to do. Besides, she’d told him he could come tonight.

      But she hadn’t said she’d be here, he reminded himself.

      Well, fine. She knew he had a key. He’d let himself in. He went back home and got it, then when one last knock got no reply, he opened the door and went in.

      The apartment might be Laura’s, but it had Natalie’s mark on it now. That was her laundry folded in neat piles on the kitchen table. Her colorful T-shirts and scoop-necked tops, her shorts and capris, her skimpy equally colorful underwear.

      He didn’t need to be thinking about Natalie’s underwear. He still remembered the pink camisole top she’d worn the night he’d found her in his bed. Still—

      He shoved the memory away and began hauling in the shelves. Herbie, ever curious, followed him, wove between his feet, tripping him and meowing at the same time.

      “Didn’t she feed you?” Christo asked him.

      But he could see that Herbie still had a bit of food in his bowl. She’d obviously been home. And then he saw her open day planner by the coffeemaker. In Natalie’s handwriting, it said, Scott 6:30.

      So—his jaw tightened—a date, after all.

      No matter. He could work faster without her interference. He had plenty of interference with Herbie before the cat got bored and decided Christo wasn’t going to provide any food. Then Herbie curled up beside Natalie’s CDs on the cabinet under the window, and Christo began putting the bookcases together.

      He liked working with his hands, liked the feel of the wood beneath his fingers, liked fitting things together and making something useful. Doing that was a good counterpoint to the thinking he had to do for his legal work. Often as he worked, his mind did the same, exploring possibilities, considering options, framing and reframing arguments, asking himself questions.

      Like, who the hell was Scott?

      He put on the wood glue and fitted the back to the side.

      And why hadn’t she ever mentioned him?

      He was meticulous with his work, drilling and gluing and countersinking the screws. It was the sort of work that usually settled his mind. All he could think right now was he could have used another pair of hands.

      It was past nine when Natalie finally appeared. “Oh,” she said when she pushed open the door and found him kneeling in the living room as he put the blind screws into the back of the first bookcase. “You’re still here.”

      “Imagine that.”

      “What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing’s wrong,” he said sharply. “Give me a hand here. Unless you’re worried about getting your clothes dirty.”

      She wasn’t wearing the gray skirt and blazer with the black blouse she’d worn to the office. Not dressing for success tonight, then. She had on a casual flowered skirt in a sort of batik print with a rust-colored top that brought out the red in her hair. Probably the way Scott preferred it.

      She hesitated. “I will. But let me change,” she said. “I only have so many work clothes.”

      Christo’s eyes widened. “Work?”

      “I went to dinner with a new client tonight.”

      Scott at six-thirty was a client? “Dressed like that?”

      She blinked in surprise, then realized what he expected to see in the way of work clothes. “I’m not a lawyer,” she reminded him.

      His teeth set. He studied her clothing. “And that’s what wives wear?”

      She shrugged. “More or less. Less tailored than lawyers. More casual and approachable, but still businesslike.”

      “Just,” he muttered.

      “What?”

      “Nothing. Get changed and come give me a hand here.”

      It should have been easier with the two of them working. It wasn’t.

      The second pair of hands was helpful. But the way they bumped into each other was not.

      Nor was the faceful of her hair he seemed to get every time he moved close. Damn it, Natalie! But he didn’t say it. Just breathed it in. Breathed the scent of her—and felt that plaguing desire grow.

      It made him want to do more than brush an arm against her. It made him want to reach out and pull her into his arms.

      She shifted to get a better grip on the bookcase as they were moving it and her breasts brushed against his arm.

      His breath hissed between his teeth. “Damn it. I said move.” He grunted.

      “I am.”

      “Not that way!” She turned and he got her hair in his face again. “Are you trying to drive me nuts?”

      Her shoulders stiffened. She looked at him, confused. “Drive you nuts?”

      His jaw worked. “All that shifting, twisting, turning—”

      “I was trying to help! You said to move.”

      “To move. Not rub against me!”

      Her mouth formed an astonished O. Then it twitched shut and he saw a sudden twinkle in her eye. “Am I threatening your virtue, Mr. Savas?” she asked mockingly. Then she added more seriously, “I didn’t think I could.”

      He gritted his teeth. “Think again.”

      Natalie blinked. “You’re kidding.” She sounded genuinely surprised.

      He supposed he should be glad, happy that she hadn’t noticed. But all he could do was glare at her. “What? You think I’m immune?”

      “You certainly were last time!”

      “The hell I was!”

      She stared at him, shocked. “You sent me away.”

      “You were a kid!”

      “I was twenty-two!”

      “Too young for me. Too innocent,” he added pointedly. “And you worked with me.”

      “Not when I came here. I had finished at Ross and Hoy earlier that week. I know the rules. I know about impropriety.”

      “You don’t know a damn thing about impropriety,” he told her flatly. “And if I had taken you up on your offer, that wouldn’t have been the end of it. Would it?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “You would have wanted to get married.”

      “Married?” There was a hectic flush on her cheeks.

      “You would have.” He flung the accusation at her. It was no secret. She’d been that kind of girl. “If I’d slept with you—had sex with you—” he made it as blunt as he could “—you wouldn’t have been willing just to walk away, would you?”

      She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She didn’t need to say them. He already knew.

      “No, you wouldn’t. You’d have wanted a relationship. You and me. Happily ever after. Married.” He spat the word at her, daring her to dispute it.

      Natalie ran her tongue

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