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He could deal with all that, Mitch told himself firmly. He’d even managed to tolerate Hope’s insistence on chaperoning every second of time they spent in the apartment.
But this daily trauma of pretending he wasn’t aware when she showered, wasn’t waiting for the faint hint of her lemony shampoo to carry to him, wasn’t visualizing her rosy cheeks and that fresh-scrubbed look she wore so well—that’s what was really getting to him.
“Blast it,” he bellowed, without thinking, and then wished he had zipped his lip.
“Mitch?” she called quietly. “Are you okay?”
“I will be if I can ever get into the bathroom,” he hollered, stubbing his toe on the nightstand as he reached for his shirt.
“I’m getting darned tired of taking cold showers,” Mitch grumbled sourly twenty minutes later. Hope’s short, economical showers after her early—emphasis on the early—walks would probably have left enough hot water for him.
But Melanie’s extended steam baths left little but the most frigid of showers which were, of necessity, very short. He’d taken to shaving in his room because the mirrors in the bathroom were too steamed up to let him shave properly even if there had been room for his razor among the multicolored little bottles, vials and tubes. He couldn’t figure it out. As far as he could tell, neither woman wore much makeup.
When at last Mitch sauntered into the kitchen, he was in no mood for pleasant conversation. He was desperately searching for a cup of coffee. Melanie did make good coffee, he’d give her that. That is, if he got any. More often than not, Hope would pour the “vile black drug” down the drain as soon as her niece was finished.
Today Melanie sat alone at the breakfast bar, staring vacantly out the window. In front of her was an empty cereal bowl testifying that she had already eaten. Bran flakes, no doubt. A shudder tickled Mitch’s back.
“How can you eat that stuff?” he demanded.
Melanie stared at him for a moment before answering.
“It’s very healthy,” she murmured as she strolled with that long-legged grace to the counter to rinse her bowl before bending to place it in the dishwasher.
Her slim, efficient body was immaculately clothed in blush-pink nylon, and she exuded freshness. By contrast, Mitch felt drained, lifeless. And he was beginning to hate the color pink.
“Maybe, but it tastes like dog food,” he said grumpily, stuffing one of the doughnuts he’d bought the night before into his mouth. He glanced around to make sure Hope hadn’t seen his secret stash.
“I wouldn’t know.” Her clear gaze surveyed his tired face. “I have never tasted dog food.” She smirked at him. “It’s a treat I’ll leave you to savor.”
Mitch wanted to stick his tongue out, but he managed to control the urge. Barely.
“Boy, are you cranky. Something bothering you, Mitch?”
Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. He scowled. Miss Perfect Stewart was no doubt well refreshed after her night on the town with pretty-boy Jeff, the blond doctor. No doubt they had gone out for a healthy meal of sushi, Mitch told himself jealously.
He was getting fed up with the parade of men who frequented his apartment. “Friends,” she said, but Mitch wondered. Most of them phoned to ask her out for coffee, to take her for pizza or to a movie. A few even ended up in his living room getting advice about a birthday gift for their newest love. Young and old, they came to ask her advice about a new girlfriend. The kids took her to dinner, baseball games and all the church socials in town while they plied her with questions about the best way to handle their totally uncool parents. He never got a moment alone with her.
Mostly Mitch was really sick of the tall, ever-charming fellow from the television studio. Neal Landt was becoming a frequent visitor on the weekends. Charming and personable, he had openly admitted his interest in Melanie. The man had even asked Mitch for advice about her favorite meal!
“I want to make a good impression. You know how it is, old son. She’s one very foxy lady.”
Old son, indeed! Could the woman not see that Neal must have bleached his hair and his teeth to get them that white? Mitch forced his mind back to reality. That same woman was now sitting in his kitchen. Alone. Waiting.
“I was going to tell you—”
He turned toward the counter just as Melanie’s elbow connected with his cup. The hot, sweet coffee splashed down the pristine white of his shirt. It was just enough to ignite his already red-hot temper.
“Blast it, woman, can’t you be careful? It’s not enough that you take over my apartment, use up all the hot water, constantly invite your seniors over and expect me to entertain them and run your Dear Melanie Advice Service from my telephone, now you’ve ruined my best white shirt.”
Mitch’s dark eyes flew to her face in time to catch the cascade of red suffusing it. Her jade eyes glittered sparks at him. He watched, mesmerized, as her temper flared and then he waited for the explosion.
Melanie jabbed her pink-tipped fingernail into the air, her voice betraying a tiny wobble, which she quickly corrected.
“What, exactly, is your problem?” she demanded. Her foot moved as if to whack him in the shin. He jumped back. “You are the biggest dolt I’ve ever known. And the grumpiest. I’m terribly sorry I woke you, bear face. And I didn’t intentionally ruin your shirt.”
Mitch was pretty sure she wanted to stick her tongue out at him, but she didn’t.
“Crawl back into your den till spring and sleep it off,” she advised him angrily. “By then I’ll be gone, thank goodness!” She rushed out the door.
Berating himself for his rotten attitude, Mitch moved after her. He hadn’t really meant to say it. It was just…
“No, wait, Melanie.” His voice was loud and strident, but she was gone. Only Mrs. Green from 106 stood in the hallway, frowning at him darkly.
“A den of iniquity, that’s what it is,” the elderly woman groused. “People coming and going at all hours. It’s a good thing Hope Langford is watching out for that girl. Otherwise…” She shook her head doubtfully at Mitch’s coffee-stained shirt and red face before returning to her apartment.
Slowly Mitch walked inside, pushing Melanie’s strappy black heels out of his way. He remembered how great she had looked last night. Black stockings, black leather jacket and skirt, and these bits of leather on her feet. It had been a fifties car thing downtown, he remembered. She’d ridden with some punks in a convertible.
Mitchel kicked the heels away viciously. Didn’t the woman pick anything up?
“Forget it, will you?” he ordered himself. “You’re an idiot. A stupid, blithering idiot!”
His fist connected with the door frame in frustration as he realized he was thinking about her again and wishing he hadn’t been so rude. When the throbbing pain finally translated itself to his brain, Mitchel Stewart decided it was time to do some serious regrouping. He stuffed another doughnut into his mouth and poured a fresh cup of coffee as he pondered his situation.
Okay, he admitted to his niggling conscience. He liked her brash attitude and quick comebacks. A lot. And he wanted to get to know her. But after this morning’s little fiasco, he doubted she wanted much to do with him, prize money or not. And he was going to have to figure a way to get past the hordes of people that always seemed to be around her.
“It’s gonna take a lot of sucking up, Stewart,” he told himself, then grinned. He knew he was feeling the sugar doughnuts hit his bloodstream, but suddenly he felt happier than he had in days. He had a plan, by George, and he was going to put it into practice today.
Whistling merrily, Mitch removed his sodden, coffee-stained shirt and replaced it with another.
“Fine.” He grinned cheekily at himself in the mirror. “If she wants polite and restrained, that’s what I will be. Decent. Upstanding. I can do that.” At least he thought he could.
Melanie wasn’t going to goad him into doing anything that would put her beloved money in danger. And if she didn’t get that blasted cash for her old friends, nobody would lay it at his door.
There was a tiny voice in the back of his mind demanding to be heard. Was it really for the money that he’d talked her into staying here?
Mitch ignored the question. He straightened his shoulders. He had to get this cleared up. If she was staying, and he wasn’t too sure about that, then he had some serious apologizing to do.
A gift, that was it. He’d give her something. He remembered something she had said about pets and old people being a natural. They weren’t allowed here, but maybe at Sunset…Maybe that was the answer.
“Prepare for battle,” he muttered to that little voice before grabbing his overstuffed briefcase and stomping out the door. His fingers snicked up the last doughnut on the way.
“Bran flakes, indeed!”
Chapter Five
“Junk-food junkie,” Melanie muttered through tightly clenched teeth. Her heart sank as she spied Hope standing on the corner, waving madly. “Just what I need to make a lousy morning really complete,” she muttered, staring at the woman’s smiling face.
“Hi, Hope. Boy, you’re up early.”
She tried to infuse some enthusiasm into her voice while swallowing the little prick of conscience that reminded her that Hope had risen at precisely four fifty-eight, a full half hour before her own alarm went off.
“Yes, I had some thinking to do,” Hope murmured, buckling herself in carefully after arching one eyebrow, then daintily removing a chocolate-bar wrapper from the seat with two perfectly shaped oval nails. “Could you give me a lift to the home, Melanie? It’s my day to volunteer and I thought I’d get an early start.”
“Yes, of course.” Melanie steered into what passed for rush hour traffic in Mossbank and drove furiously through town.
“What did you say, dear?”
“Oh, nothing, Hope,” Melanie lied, knowing perfectly well what she had said and hoping against all the odds that her former Sunday school teacher wouldn’t call her on it.
“You said, ‘The man is a neat freak,’” Hope repeated, her voice serious. “I take it you’re talking about Mitchel?”
“Oh, yeah.” Melanie breathed, trying to stall all the unlovely things that begged release. “He was nattering at me again this morning. I accidentally bumped his arm and spilled his coffee. He’s so rude!”
There was no point in holding back and getting ulcers, Melanie decided finally. Might as well lay it on the line.
“If I so much as put my feet up on the edge of the coffee table, he’s there with a cloth, cleaning up.” Melanie flicked the signal with more power than necessary and winced at Bessie’s protest.
“If I have a glass of water, he waits, suspended at my side, ready to pounce the moment I set it down. Then he marches into the kitchen to put the glass in the dishwasher. As if I have some contagious disease!”
“Yes, he’s become quite particular about things lately.” Hope nodded, smiling happily. “And you could take a lesson from that, dear.”
“I’m not messy,” Melanie protested, her face flushed and angry. “I just like to relax for a while after work. It’s not my fault he stepped on my keys last night. I didn’t deliberately put them on the floor.”
“He didn’t say you had! He just asked you to be more careful. With the three of us, it is rather crowded, and you do tend toward accidents, my dear.”
“I do not!” Melanie refused to back down when Hope’s raised eyebrows begged her to reconsider. “Like what?”
“You left the lid off the blender two days ago, dear. When you started it, that tomato sauce flew everywhere. It took a long time to clean up.” Hope’s face was pensive. “I’m not sure it will ever come off the ceiling. Stipple is so dreadfully hard to clean, isn’t it?”
“All right! One little accident. You’re making it sound like a whole string of problems.”
“Well, there was that business with the can of whipped cream, dear.”
“I was trying to fix it! I didn’t know he’d try to use it before I’d got the top back on properly.” Melanie giggled in remembrance. “At least now we know what he’ll look like when he gets old.”
“And the barbecue? I don’t think he’ll be able to use the balcony without having some repairs done, Melanie. He also fell on your wet floor after the soap bottle broke. I’m glad he didn’t break anything.” Hope ticked an item off on her fingers. “You washed that white silk shirt of his with your red vest and put his watch down the garbage disposal.” Hope looked sad. “There have been several problems, Melanie.”
“And not all of them are my fault,” Melanie complained, pulling into a parking spot. “That pizza last night, for instance. I’m allergic to shrimp, and yet he got it loaded.”
“He didn’t know, dear.” Hope gathered her purse and sweater before brushing one hand over her hair. “You two always seem to be at loggerheads, and yet, really, I think if you’d admit it, you like each other.”
“He hangs around in clothes a bag lady would reject and eats those horrible doughnuts nonstop,” Melanie seethed. “And if I had a dollar for every file he’s left strewn on the coffee table, or a quarter for the number of times he left his half-full coffee cup on the dishwasher instead of inside it, I could retire quite happily.”
“Well, yes, it does seem to be the perfect case of a bachelor in a rut,” Hope murmured. “Are you sure this money really means that much to you, dear? I mean, sometimes we ask the Lord for a sign and then we misinterpret things to our own benefit.”
“But Hope,” Melanie protested. “I’ve prayed and prayed about Sunset’s needs, and every time I turn around, the answer is right there. Get that prize money and you can fill some of those needs.” She stared at her friend. “Do you think I’m wrong?”
“I think you have to be very sure that this is God directing Melanie and not you misconstruing what might just be chance.”
Melanie shook her head vehemently.
“I don’t think that’s what I’m doing, Hope. I’ve prayed so hard, and everything just seems to have fallen into place.”
“Not quite,” Hope murmured dryly. “I mean you two are only sharing the apartment to get the prize money, right?” She opened the door and got out, straightening her skirt carefully. “But I daresay all of that could all be corrected. In time.”
Melanie wasn’t sure whether to agree or not but was forestalled from answering by the simple expedient of Hope’s departure. She strode toward the nursing home in long, determined steps. Sighing, Melanie gathered her briefcase and purse from the back seat, her mind replaying the scene in the apartment.
So he wanted to be alone, did he? Well, tough. He had asked her to stay and, nasty as he was, she wasn’t moving until that check came. As she stared at her white fingers clenching the handle of her briefcase, Melanie just wished the money would come today. She released each finger, one by one.
Breathing deeply, she tried to view their situation from a distance. What was it about Mitch that made her so nervous? she asked herself.
Well, for one thing, his hands were constantly touching her, under her elbow, on her hand, brushing her waist. He made the blood flow hot and sweet through her body and then left her wanting more.
“But I detest him,” she muttered, and knew that she lied. No man had ever made her feel so vulnerable. It scared her. In her world of old people, she was in control. Even her dates allowed her to set the tone of the evening. But when Mitch touched her, control moved out the window.
Control, she decided. That’s what she really needed. An abundance of control. Unfortunately, it had never been her forte. She grimaced as the morning scene flashed through her mind.
No, she considered ruefully, there hadn’t been much control there. She resolved to think happy thoughts. Mitch Stewart was not going to get under her skin again.
She hoped.
“I could use a little help with this decision, Lord,” she murmured.
Once she entered the nursing home, Melanie tried to focus entirely on her clients. The shock came when she opened her office door after morning rounds with the doctors. Immediately her eyes began to water. She blew her nose several times before her senses cleared enough to spy the frail little woman seated on her sofa, cuddling a pure white angora kitten.
“Look, Melanie, a wonderful present arrived for you.” Mrs. Rivers’s soft voice was perfectly clear, and Melanie marveled at the sudden change in the woman.
The dim gray eyes were bright with excitement as Nettie stroked the cat’s fur, cooing gently. Melanie wiped her eyes again, trying to stifle a sneeze.
“Just waid dere, Bissus Ribers. A’ll be ride…achoo—bagk.” Melanie hurried out the door to find Bridget. “Youb god to ged id oud ob here, Bwidget. I can’d bweade.”
Melanie left her secretary to deal with the problem and strode quickly down the hall to the patio. Once in the fresh air, she sank into a chair, breathing deeply. Eventually, her nose began to drain and her eyes stopped watering.
It was there that Mitch found her ten minutes later.
“Taking a break?” he asked, eyeing her red eyes with curiosity. “What’s the matter, Melanie? I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
His voice was concerned, and Melanie was touched. After his angry diatribe earlier, she didn’t expect him to be so solicitous. It made her feel even more guilty. He bent on his haunches, peering into her face, his long fingers brushing over her hand.
“You didn’t,” she muttered, trying to find that elusive control she had ordered herself to exert. “I’m fine, actually. It’s just that somebody foolishly brought a cat into my office. I’m allergic to cats,” she enlightened him, curious about the red stain that was flooding his face.
“It’s too bad, too, because Mrs. Rivers is talking a mile a minute. That’s something she’s never done the whole time I’ve been here. Now I’ll have to have the dratted thing taken away.” She grimaced. “That’ll set her back but good!”
Melanie was less than thrilled with having to handle such a touchy situation. The extra time and patience it would take to convince Mrs. Rivers of the unsuitability of the cat in a nursing home would probably not erase the loss she would feel when the animal went.
“Honestly! If people would only ask before they do something silly like this.”
Mitch turned away to stare at the nearby flower bed. He seemed utterly absorbed in it, and Melanie wondered if he had heard a thing she had said. She was surprised when his low voice rumbled quietly.
