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“They all work,” Michael stated as she opened the fridge and peered inside. “They’re just about the only ones in the entire building that do,” he added in a muttered aside. “I’m told that awful color of green was popular at one time.”
“Avocado,” she replied.
“Never eat them.”
“I was referring to the color of the appliances. Avocado appliances were very popular in the sixties.”
“Which probably makes that refrigerator about as old as I am,” he said.
She turned to study him with the same thoroughness she’d given the fridge. The brief animosity she’d felt toward him when she’d been in the vestibule earlier had evaporated. Now she was intrigued by him. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing. After all, he was her boss for the time being.
Not that she felt intimidated by him. She was confident of her abilities. She knew she’d do a good job here, in a building just crying out for tender loving care.
TLC was something Brett specialized in. She fixed things for a living—stoves, hot-water heaters, men who needed understanding, stray animals who needed food. She worked with them all until they were well enough to function on their own. Michael Janos didn’t look like the kind of man who needed any fixing, however. He was the epitome of a loner. A lone wolf. But even wolves mated for life, she reminded herself. The lone ones were the ones who had lost their mates. Had that happened to him?
Tilting her head, she gazed directly into his eyes, searching for a few answers. Instead she found a matching curiosity. He had incredible eyes, striking flames in her soul with their mysterious combination of light and shadow. She felt as if she could look into them forever, as if at some point in her past she had spent a lifetime looking into them—which was ridiculous since she’d never met him before today. She’d never have forgotten a face like his. There was a noble elegance mixed with a raw power in everything from the curve of his high cheekbones to the thrust of his jaw. There was nothing traditional about him, except for the chauvinistic fact that he didn’t think a woman could do a handyman’s job. Reminding herself of that, she tore her gaze away. It was like ripping an adhesive bandage off a wound.
Tempted though she was to return her attention to him, she forced herself to concentrate on other things, imagining where she’d place what little furniture she had. The apartment—with its single narrow main room, tiny kitchen area and bath—might be considered a decorator’s nightmare. Brett considered it to be home.
Michael recognized that expression—the nesting look. Whenever he saw it in a woman’s eyes he got nervous.
“You should meet the tenants,” he stated abruptly. Okay, so the basement flat hadn’t discouraged her from taking the job. But surely the strange assortment of people living in the building would make her think twice. if she had a lick of sense. So would the long list of repairs each of those tenants had.
As Michael led her upstairs to the door of the apartment next to his, he felt as if he were leading a lamb to slaughter. The two elderly ladies that lived there might look like solicitous souls, but they were as tough as nails.
He pounded on their door. Nothing short of pounding could be heard by either of them. Mrs. Weiskopf came to answer the summons. “You here to fix my leaky kitchen faucet?” she demanded of Michael.
“No, but she is,” he heard himself answering.
Mrs. Weiskopf switched her eagle gaze from him to Brett. “Where are your tools?” she demanded suspiciously. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No joke. Mrs. Weiskopf, meet Brett Munro—our new building supervisor.”
“About time you got a woman to do a man’s job,” Mrs. Weiskopf retorted with the sting of her infamous sauerkraut.
“Who’s at the door?” her flat-mate, Mrs. Martinez, demanded. “You’re letting all the heat out.”
“There’s enough heat in that spicy food you’re cooking in the kitchen to warm the entire building,” Mrs. Weiskopf retorted.
“Is this your girlfriend?” Mrs. Martinez asked Michael with the interest of a born matchmaker.
“No, she’s the new building supervisor. I just hired her.”
“Hired her?” Mrs. Martinez repeated with raised eyebrows. Taller than Mrs. Weiskopf by a good half foot, she was also twenty pounds heavier. Her dark hair was streaked with white, but wasn’t yet the silvery gray of her flat-mate’s. Brett couldn’t tell which of the women was the oldest. She could tell which one wanted her hooked up with Michael. The other one, Mrs. Weiskopf, just wanted her leaky faucet fixed. That was a job Brett could do.
“If you’d like me to look at the faucet now, I should be able to get an idea what’s wrong with it. Then I’ll know what tools to bring later today to fix it.”
“Later today?” Mrs. Weiskopf and Michael both repeated in unison.
“Didn’t you want me to start as soon as possible?” Brett addressed her comment to Michael.
“Yes, well.”
“This afternoon is fine,” Mrs. Weiskopf interjected. “Come right this way. The toilet doesn’t work right, either. Keeps running water even when no one uses it.”
Twenty minutes later, Brett left the elderly women’s apartment with their praises ringing in her ears, and their cooking in her hands—homemade sauerkraut in a plastic bowl and fresh salsa in a glass mason jar “because It’s so hot it would melt plastic,” Mrs. Martinez had said.
Michael couldn’t believe the women’s hospitality. In the short time he’d known them, they’d always treated him as if he were personally responsible for everything that had ever gone wrong in their long and eventful lives. Now, just because Brett had jiggled a few things inside their toilet tank and promised to replace a faulty gasket in their faucet, the two women thought she could do no wrong.
He felt as if the lamb had just turned into a lion.
“So who’s next?” she perkily inquired.
He led her directly to the second floor and the apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Stephanopolis. Okay, so the old women living next door to him were tough, but they were marshmallows compared to the couple upstairs.
He should have known better. Before he could even knock on the door, Mr. Stephanopolis had it open and was kissing Brett’s cheeks while exclaiming in Greek.
Having heard stories about Mrs. Stephanopolis’s legendary jealous streak, Michael thought it in Brett’s best interest that he disengage her from the overexuberant Greek’s embrace.
“Mrs. Martinez called from downstairs and told us all about this angel who has come to save us,” Mr. Stephanopolis replied as Michael tugged Brett out of the other man’s embrace only to end up with her in his arms instead.
Brett was seized by a dizzying sense of pleasure and an even stronger sense of enchantment. Michael’s chest was warm against her back, and his hands cupped her elbows. His breath stirred the hair at her nape and sent shivers down her spine. She’d never felt this way before, filled with wondrous excitement and breathless desire—all from an accidental embrace.
“I thought you said the girl was not Michael’s girlfriend,” Mrs. Stephanopolis said as she joined her husband at the door.
“I’m not,” Brett hurriedly said, stepping away from Michael and the spell he seemed to cast on her. “I’m the new building supervisor.”
“In my time a girl did not do such work,” Mrs. Stephanopolis replied with dark disapproval.
“I’m just glad the hot water is working again,” Mr. Stephanopolis exclaimed. “I almost froze my privates off this morning.”
“This girl does not want to hear about your privates,” his wife declared with frosty fire.
As the bickering between husband and wife continued in Greek for a few moments, Michael was taken aback at the amused look that Brett shared with him. Her face had this glow that raised his blood pressure, among other things.
Brett surprised him further by breaking into Greek herself—a feat that provided momentary silence from the couple before both broke into speech once more.
Mrs. Stephanopolis’s earlier disapproval melted as she put her arm around Brett and ushered her into the apartment, leaving Michael standing on the threshold as if he were an unwelcome in-law.
Half an hour later, when he and Brett left their apartment, she’d added a bottle of ouzo to her collection of goodies.
“You’re lucky to have such great tenants,” Brett told him.
“Yeah, right.”
“So who else do you want me to meet?”
“There’s only one more apartment left. The Lincolns live next door. Since you’re getting on so well with everyone, I’ll just leave you to it. Clearly you don’t need me to hold your hand.”
The concept of him holding her hand had a sudden appeal—for its own sake, not because she was afraid to be alone. Being alone was one of many things Brett was very good at. Meeting strangers was another. “Okay. And then after I introduce myself to the Lincolns I’ll go get my things, so I can start working on that faucet like I promised Frieda and Consuela,” Brett said.
“Who?”
“Frieda Weiskopf and Consuela Martinez.”
“Oh.” Somehow Michael had never thought of the two women as having first names. To him they were simply the dragon-women next door. “Right.”
“So I’ll see you later then. Thanks again for being so sweet and introducing me to the other tenants.”
“Sweet is my middle name,” he mockingly drawled.
No, Brett thought to herself. Sexy was his middle name. Watching him take the steps two at a time, she noticed he appeared to be in a hurry to get away. She also noticed the way his jeans fit like a glove. “Nice buns,” she murmured wickedly, hoping that saying the thought aloud would minimize its importance.
She almost fell through the floor when he paused on the landing and looked at her over his shoulder. Surely he was too far away to have heard her soft words. God, she hoped so!
Turning around, she hurriedly knocked on the door to the Lincolns’ apartment.
A second later a young black woman, her long wavy hair gathered in a rubber band, yanked the door open and then yanked Brett inside. “I need some help in here!” the woman exclaimed. “I can’t get the water faucet in the bathtub to turn off. We’re talking Noah and his ark here if we don’t get this damn thing turned off!”
Moving quickly, Brett dumped her goodies by the front door and followed the woman into the bathroom.
“My husband knows how to work that damn thing but he’s working a double shift at the hospital today—he’s a nurse—and with the hot water finally on again, I couldn’t wait ‘til he got home to take a bath.”
As Brett managed to coax the stubborn fixture into the Off position, the woman made a high-five sign. “You saved the day, girl! Thanks! Now who the hell are you again?”
“I’m Brett,” she replied with a grin. “The new building supervisor. I’ve just been hired to fix things around here, like this faucet. Next time it gets stuck, just open the drain to let the water out.”
“I didn’t think of that. I’m Keisha Lincoln and, even though you don’t look nothing like Denzel Washington, you’re the answer to my prayers. I been telling the new owner this place needed fixing up big-time.”
“Sorry I don’t look like Denzel.”
“It’s okay. Tyrone, that’s my husband, will feel better if Denzel stays in Hollywood. Lord, I could use some caffeine after that scare. How ‘bout you? Want some cafE au lait? I’ve got an aunt down in New Orleans who sends the real stuff to me, so I can make it up right. Ah, I see you’ve already hit the other neighbors,” Keisha noted with a glance at the bottle of ouzo and containers of sauerkraut and salsa Brett had set by the front door.
“Everyone’s been so nice,” Brett said.
“They haven’t been all that welcoming to us, but then Tyrone and I have only lived here for a year and a half. The other tenants have been here decades. Except for the new owner. He only moved in a few weeks ago and now he’s stuck with this old dump.”
“I think it’s a beautiful building.”
“That’s ‘cause you don’t live here.”
“I do now. I’ll be moving into the basement apartment this afternoon.”
“You move fast.” Keisha nodded .approvingly. “I can relate to that. I moved fast when I met my Tyrone. And I know what it’s like being a woman workin’ on a man’s turf. I’m a security guard down at the main branch of the C.P.L.”
“C.P.L.?”
“Chicago Public Library. Anyway, it’ll be nice having someone else my age in the building. How about that caffeine?”
“Sounds good. But what about your hot water for your bath?”
“The way that water was steaming, it’ll take ten minutes before I can get in there. So tell me, what do you think of your new boss? Is he prime or what?”
The phone was ringing as Michael reentered his apartment. He picked it up on the third ring. “Hello?” All he heard was loud static. “Hello?” he repeated, louder this time.
“…it’s…your father…calling.”
“Where are you? Are you okay?”
“We’re fine. I’m at a pay phone. They aren’t too good in Bali…” More static filled the line. “Your mother made me call…wanted to make sure everyone there was fine.”
“We’re fine. I spoke to Gaylynn yesterday.” Michael’s younger sister was a teacher in Chicago.
“Good, good.”
Sensing that his father was about to say goodbye, Michael said, “Wait, Dad. I need to know something. What’s the deal with this family-curse stuff?”
Three (#ulink_ec90d1ed-52d9-5062-bcea-bda0d74f07ab)
Michael’s only answer was static…punctuated by his father’s voice saying, “What?”
“I asked if you knew anything about a family curse,” Michael repeated.
“Purse?” his father said, clearly unable to hear him very well. “No, your mother hasn’t lost her purse yet, thank heavens. I’m keeping a close eye on her.”
“Not purse,” Michael practically shouted into the phone line. “Curse! I got a box from Hungary today.”
“Hungry as a fox, are you? Then you should eat. You know your mother worries about you.”
“Box!” Michael yelled. “I got a box! A Rom box.”
But his father was no longer listening to him. “Oh-oh, I have to go. Your mother is eyeing a statue the size of the Sears Tower. I already told her we’ve bought too many souvenirs. I’ll call again in a few days.”
Frustrated, Michael hung up the phone, muttering a few choice Rom curses of his own under his breath. His eyes were drawn to the mysterious box, which was still perched on top of his rack stereo system just as Brett had left it when she’d reached out to help him. While Michael might have closer ties to his Rom background than his younger sister or brother, he still wasn’t one to give in to superstitions.
It was just a box. Nothing more than that. Retrieving it, Michael studied the intricate engraving on the lid. There were four crescent moons in the left corner, hovering over a scene that included palm trees and a sailing ship. On the right side, a streaking sun was setting over a line of mountains. In the center of the sun was some kind of red stone.
Holding the box up and aiming a nearby high-intensity light at it in order to see better, he saw that the sides were also engraved, with what looked for all the world like. a wizard? Intrigued, he slowly reopened the lid. The strange feeling he’d experienced earlier, upon first opening it when Brett had been there, was now gone—confirming his notion that his reaction was due to lack of food and sleep rather than an old family curse.
The box was not empty as he’d supposed. Inside was the most striking engraved silver key he’d ever seen. It was a skeleton-type key, which looked and felt very old. Turning it over in his fingers, Michael felt a strange affinity with the mysterious key.
He’d always loved a good mystery. That’s why he made such a good corporate investigator. Because he liked solving mysterious situations with logical explanations. His fascination with the box was easy to explain. His sudden fascination with Brett Munro was not.
The next time Michael saw Brett was late that afternoon and she was wrestling with what looked like a street gang of young punks for possession of a twin mattress.
“I said to give it to me,” she was demanding in a no-nonsense tone of voice.
Michael instantly came to her side. “Beat it,” he growled menacingly at the kids hanging onto the mattress, their grunge pants hanging loosely on their frames beneath their winter jackets.
