The early weeks of Lara’s pregnancy passed without incident, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she entered her fifth month. No pregnancy could be guaranteed, of course, but the risks of losing a baby fell considerably after the twentieth week of gestation. Once October second came and went, Lara walked with a firmer step, more confident than ever. This was the child of promise, and God wasn’t going to fail her. Not this time.
Her latest ultrasound confirmed that she was carrying a healthy baby boy. On Monday morning, October fifth, she stood in the shower and watched the water stream over her changing body. Now she could clearly see the top of her uterus at the level of her navel. Her baby, little Michael, was between eight and ten inches long, half the height he should be at birth. He weighed at least half a pound. Hair had begun to grow on his head, and he could make tiny facial expressions as he floated in the sea of amniotic fluid. His heart and brain were functioning. He could hear and recognize her voice, his eyes could open and see light through her skin, and he was sensible enough to be bored by the repetitive rhythm of her exercise bike. Only this morning, as she mindlessly endured her half hour on the bike, a faint fluttering caught her attention. Her legs froze, her hand flew to her abdomen, then her momentary fear vanished. She laughed when she realized Michael Junior had just made his opinions known.
“Swimming around, are you?” She smoothed the mounded flesh beneath her nightgown. “Trying to stay in shape too?”
At work that morning she listened to her patients with an extra ounce of understanding and dashed away tears on more than one occasion. Birth was such a miracle; why hadn’t she realized the enormity of it before this? God had designed such a miraculous way to bring life into the world, and women were so honored to be the chosen vessels!
At lunch she forfeited the conversation of the other nurses and went outside to eat her sandwich and fruit. The clinic sat next to the sprawling campus of the University of Virginia Medical School, and several benches had been planted along the sidewalk for the students’ use. Lara sat on one and unwrapped her lunch bag, then pulled out her sandwich and took a ravenous bite.
The October wind was chilly, but a bright afternoon sun warmed the sidewalk where she sat. A visibly pregnant woman waddled toward the clinic, her hand pressed to the small of her back, and Lara gave her a “me too” smile as she finished her sandwich and tossed the plastic wrapping back into her lunch bag.
A group of students walked by, leaving a trail of laughter along the sidewalk. Lara sat silently, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face. The day and the setting reminded her of Michael, and for a brief moment she felt the pang of missing him and a sharp qualm of guilt.
She had been so wrapped up in the baby that she had scarcely thought of Michael in the past few days. Though he was the only reason she had even considered having the baby, still, for a moment her lower lip trembled, as if his spirit had risen in the wind and accused her of unfaithfulness.
“I wish you could be here.” She whispered the words as the wind blew a quartet of fallen maple leaves into a minicyclone. “And though I have been concentrating on the baby, Michael Junior will never replace you.”
After work she stopped at the grocery instead of McDonalds, filling her buggy with milk, bananas, apples, and eggs. On an impulse, she picked up a box of newborn-sized disposable diapers and tossed them into the buggy too. Might as well get another box—the box of diapers Michael bought so long ago was gathering dust in the closet. This package could keep it company.
A brilliant autumn-orange sun hovered just above the horizon when she pulled into her driveway. She opened the car door and swung her legs out, aware of her increasing weight, then heard a cheery voice.
“Well, hello there!”
She looked up as she got out. Dressed in a warm and fuzzy sweater, Connor sat on his porch. She waved and opened the back door to bring out her groceries, then heard the sound of his sneakers whispering through the grass.
“Let me help you with that.”
She turned; he blocked her path. With no other recourse, she gave him a polite smile and the first grocery bag.
“I was about to worry,” he said, taking the bag with one hand. He held out his other arm, allowing Lara to loop a couple of grocery bags over it. “You’re late today.”
“Just a grocery run.” She spoke in a light tone and avoided his eyes. Connor had become a part of her life in the last few weeks, and she still wasn’t certain how she felt about him. He was a terrific neighbor and a handsome and attentive man, but therein, as Olivia would say, lay the problem. He was a man. Lara had not developed a close friendship with any man since Michael, and she wasn’t sure where she should draw the boundaries with Connor. Fortunately, he had never pressed her, only offering his help when she obviously needed it.
A hint of mischief lined his smile. “Diapers already?”
“A wise scout is always prepared.” Lara pulled the last bag from the backseat. “It’ll be easier on the budget if I plan ahead. If I get a box every time I go to the grocery, I won’t feel the expense when the baby comes.”
Connor took a step toward the house, then turned and looked at her through narrowed eyes. “This is a new look for you too.”
He had noticed the maternity smock. Lara made a face, then laughed and closed the car door. “I am officially growing out of my clothes, so I guess it’s time to invest in a few tents. I was hoping to find some time to go shopping this week, but things have been so busy at the office . . .”
Her voice trailed away as a gold Jaguar slowed and pulled into the driveway. The tinted window powered down; then Eva’s blonde head appeared. “Lara, darling! I’ve brought my pictures from Europe to show you! You’ll never believe it—I met Prince Albert!”
Keeping her back to the Jag, Lara lowered her eyes and exhaled slowly. Eva had left for London at the end of July, before Lara found the courage to tell her about the baby. She had hoped to face Eva armed with ultrasound photos and a perfect genetic scorecard from Dr. Braun, but this assault had caught her completely by surprise.
Still—she had known this confrontation would come. And it would be a confrontation, for Eva had been clear about her feelings. Most people gave Eva’s feelings great weight.
“This isn’t good, is it?” Connor regarded her with a speculative gaze, his eyes dark and gentle. “Perhaps I should go. Why don’t I set your groceries on the porch and come back later to help you put them away?”
Lara flinched as she heard the slam of the Jag’s door, then the grinding of high heels on concrete. “Lara, darling, aren’t you glad to see me?”
Lara hung the last grocery bag on Connor’s arm, then patted his hand, taking support from his strong frame. It was now or never. Tossing her hair across her shoulders, she straightened her posture, smoothed her maternity smock, and turned to face Eva.
Her mother-in-law’s smiling countenance sagged like a plastic doll tossed into a fire. Lara heard a little gasp; then the yard fell silent but for the applause of the trembling oak leaves.
“Hello, Eva. I didn’t know you were home.”
Eva’s look of horrified disapproval evolved into an expression of offended determination. She clasped her hands at her waist and set her mouth in a firm line, her blue eyes glittering like chips of ice. “You’ve been busy, I see. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Lara bit her lip as she realized what Eva had to be thinking. A visibly pregnant woman and a handsome man unloading one car . . .
She forced a smile to her cold lips. “Eva, this is my next-door neighbor, Connor O’Hara.” She tilted her head toward her mother-in-law. “Connor, this is Michael’s mother, Eva Godfrey.”
“Nice to meet you.” Connor nodded pleasantly and stepped forward as if he would shake Eva’s hand, but she only stared at him, her flush deepening to a shade as crimson as the flaming sky. When Eva didn’t respond, Connor turned to Lara. “I’ll leave these bags on your front porch.”
“Thanks.”
As he walked away, Lara fished her keys from her purse, then smiled at Eva. “Would you like to come in and tell me about your trip?”
“It seems I missed out on a lot while I was away.” Eva spoke in a measured, cool voice. “Am I to assume you’re as pregnant as you appear to be?”
“Correct,” Lara answered, walking toward the porch. When she did not hear the sound of footsteps behind her, she turned again. “I’m carrying Michael’s child and due in February.” She lifted a brow, pretending a careless indifference she was far from feeling. “Anything else you’d like to know?”
Eva’s shoulders rose and fell in a dramatic sigh. “Did you at least have the genetic testing done?”
Lara nodded, glad she could answer truthfully. “The geneticist did find and eradicate two genes associated with cancer. So I kept my word.” She softened her voice as she met Eva’s hard gaze. “Eva, I’d love to stand here and chat, but my ice cream is melting. Won’t you come inside so we can talk?”
“I think not.” Eva glanced at her watch, then gave Lara a tight smile. “I was on my way to a Women’s Club social and I’m already late. I just wanted to see how—to say hello.”
“I’m absolutely fine.” Surrendering to the heavy pull of her purse, Lara let it slide to the first porch step. “And so is the baby. It’s a boy, Eva. I think I’m going to call him Michael.”
Lara saw a suggestion of movement beneath that smooth face, as though a hidden spring wanted to break through a layer of ice, but couldn’t. Eva nodded gravely, then turned and moved back to the car.
Standing on the porch, Lara watched her mother-in-law drive away. Eva had certainly been shocked, disapproving, and probably even hurt that Lara hadn’t called to share the news. But she would come around eventually. What grandmother could resist being a part of her grandchild’s life?
Eva’s rapid departure was due to shock . . . and perhaps the stunning revelation that someone could actually proceed without her blessing and permission.
Gulping back the uncharitable thought, Lara turned and stepped into the house.
She had just finished assembling a giant tuna-salad sandwich when someone rapped on the door. Hoping that Eva had returned so they could exchange apologies, Lara hurried through the living room, then peered through the peephole. Connor stood on the porch, a bouquet of bright yellow mums in his hand.
She leaned her forehead against the door and paused. What was he thinking? She didn’t want to accept flowers from a man she hardly knew, especially a man who lived next door. If he got the wrong idea, the situation could become difficult, and how could she avoid a man she couldn’t help but see nearly every day? If she encouraged him, he might wait for her to come home at night; he might begin to intrude. She might find herself a prisoner in her own house, avoiding him at all costs . . .
She pressed her palm to the door and took a wincing little breath. What was she thinking? Connor O’Hara had been nothing but helpful and kind. His little expressions of thoughtfulness had brightened many a gloomy day, and even Eva would approve his manners. He was attentive, considerate, and more intuitive than any man she had ever known. Not even Michael would have realized all Lara was feeling in the moment Eva pulled into the drive, and yet Connor had immediately sensed her anxiety.
She closed her eyes, realizing that she wouldn’t hesitate to open the door if he were unattractive and merely protective. If he were seventy years old, eighteen and pimple-faced, or even thirty and obnoxiously boring, she would accept his friendship without a second thought. If he were the woman who lived next door, she would probably have run to his house every afternoon after work to sit and talk over coffee. She had kept Connor at arm’s length precisely because he was attractive, interesting, and kind. Because deep inside she recognized his masculinity and his strength . . . and was a little frightened by it.
He rapped again, gently. Lara lifted her head and pasted on a smile, then opened the door.
“I thought you could use some cheering up.” With a sheepish grin, Connor offered the flowers. “I hope you won’t think I’m prying into places where I have no business being, but I saw the look on her face . . . and on yours. I know I made things awkward.”
Lara waved his apology—and the bouquet—away. “That’s really not necessary, Connor. You didn’t do anything wrong. The last thing I want to do is get you involved in a family squabble.”
His eyes clouded, and Lara immediately regretted her words. Was she making something out of nothing? He had no designs on her; he’d be a fool to fall for a pregnant woman. His concern probably stemmed from his friendship with Michael; he felt obligated to help her for Michael’s sake. That’s why he brought chrysanthemums, not roses. This was a friendly gift, offered from a simple and forthright heart.
“Thanks, Connor.” She accepted the flowers and gave the petals a perfunctory sniff.
“Um—I don’t think those flowers smell. At least they don’t smell good.”
She laughed. “You’re right.”
She hesitated a moment, wondering if he expected to be invited in, but Connor thrust his hands in his pockets and took a half step back. “I’ll be going now.” He glanced toward his own door. “I just wanted to be sure you were okay. You looked a little less than happy to see your mother-in-law.”
Lara bit back the words of explanation. He wouldn’t appreciate being burdened by her history.
“Thanks again for the flowers.” She closed the door a few inches. “That was really thoughtful.”
He nodded, then turned and moved away in the gathering gloom.
Connor rubbed his hand hard through his hair as he followed the sidewalk to his own porch, then slipped into the house and let the screen door close behind him with a sharp bang. What a fool he was! He had recognized the look in her eyes when she saw the flowers, and it wasn’t happiness. The gesture had frightened her; he had frightened her, when he had only meant to reassure her that everything would be okay.
He strode to the sofa in the living room and stretched out on it, then propped his feet on the padded armrest. Things would be different if Michael were still alive. Lara wouldn’t see Connor as a threat, and he’d be able to help her without worrying about what people like Eva Godfrey might think. Then again, if Michael were alive, Lara wouldn’t see Connor at all. Her eyes, her life, would be filled with Michael.
He brought his hand to his forehead and absently brushed away the hair that had fallen into his eyes. How would it feel to be the center of Lara Godfrey’s universe? To bring a smile to her lips and light a flame in those blue eyes? He reached for a sofa pillow and cradled it against his chest, unable to stop himself from fantasizing. He’d give anything— his baseball card collection, even his car—for one moment of knowing that she admired him . . . and needed him.
She’ll never need you, bucko. She’s a postfeminist, capable woman, creatively competent and completely confident.
Yeah, maybe. But she had asked his opinion about whether or not she would make a good mother, and that meant she needed someone to talk to. Even a woman as bright as Lara Godfrey needed friends.
He picked up the remote and powered up the small television in the corner, then nestled his head against the pillows and clicked through the stations. The newscaster on channel 4 wore her hair a bit like Lara, and he paused to mentally superimpose his neighbor’s oval face over the newscaster’s square countenance.
He had never allowed himself to think much of Lara while Michael was alive. Of course he had noticed her—a man would have to be blind, deaf, and ignorant not to notice Lara Godfrey. But in the mornings and Saturday afternoons he and Michael spent together, Michael struck Connor as a free spirit, an extrovert who would talk to trees if no one else would listen. Lara was more reserved, more in control of her thoughts and actions. If Michael’s personality was rumpled cotton, Lara’s was crisp linen.
And yet he couldn’t help feeling drawn to her now. Michael had asked him to keep an eye on Lara should anything ever happen to him, and Lara had never seemed to need much help. But she had opened her heart enough to ask what he thought of her plan to become a mother—and Connor had been impressed by the independent and determined spirit her question revealed. He knew she had thought long and hard about whether or not to have this baby. In proceeding with her plan, she had resisted prevailing public opinion, opposition from an opinionated mother-in-law, and a kind employer who would rather not lose a valued employee. Her decision seemed all the more heroic when he considered that those three areas encompassed most of Lara’s daily life.
Yet in recent months he had discovered another aspect of Lara Godfrey—an aspect she kept hidden from the rest of the world.
Connor felt his cheeks warm as he recalled the nights he lay awake listening to the muffled sound of Lara’s prayers. Only one wall separated the master bedrooms of the two townhomes, and sometimes he could hear her voice through the walls. On weekends when televisions and radios blared, he heard nothing, but several times he woke in the darkness of the night and felt his heart twist at the broken sound of weeping. The first time it had happened, only about two months after Michael’s death, Connor rose to his knees and pressed his hands to the wall above his headboard. In his mind’s eye he saw Lara curled beneath her covers, weeping into her pillow on the opposite side of the plaster and drywall. Then he heard her prayers—heartfelt cries to God for peace, for strength, for understanding. Though at the funeral and in public Lara cloaked her countenance with a sad smile, in the silence of the night Connor realized that Lara’s peace was as thin as tracing paper.
She had not suffered through a midnight prayer vigil since becoming pregnant, and Connor hoped the baby would heal her heartsickness. As a mother, she would look forward instead of backward; she would turn her thoughts from death to life.
A loud knock startled him. He automatically turned off the television, then stood and moved toward the door. He found himself gaping at the sight of Lara on his porch, a plastic grocery bag dangling from her arm and a manila envelope in her hand.
She gave him a hesitant smile. “I thought you could use some cheering up.”
He shifted his weight. “Excuse me?”
“I was terribly rude to you.”
“No, you weren’t. Is something wrong?”
She sighed heavily. “Connor, you’re always asking me that. I’m fine, it’s just—well, I’ve never had any male friends or brothers, so you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t quite know how to approach you. But I was thinking, and”—an almost hopeful glint filled her eyes—“I was hoping we could have dinner together. It’s nothing fancy—I brought spaghetti noodles and sauce. If you’ve got a pot and water, I think we could be in business.”
Connor stared for another moment, then stepped back and held the door open. “I might be able to find the makings of a salad.”
“That’s the spirit. Oh, and I found this propped against your door.”
He took the envelope and felt a tide of warmth creep from his throat when he recognized the return address.
“Are you leading a double life?” A smile lit her eyes, but she spoke slowly, as if feeling her way. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help noticing the address. It’s not everyone who gets letters from the FBI.”
“It’s no big deal.” Connor tossed the envelope on the table by the door. “Just a little job I have on the side.”
“Secret agent?”
“Nothing so glamorous. I’m a reader—like the character in that Robert Redford movie, Three Days of the Condor. Only I don’t work for the CIA. And nobody’s out to kill me.”
She looked down, the fringe of her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. “That’s good.”
Connor stood in the doorway, his mind as blank as an empty page, then abruptly realized he was blocking her way. “Excuse me. Come on in—if you still want to make that spaghetti dinner. I promise I’m not one of the nation’s ten most wanted.”
“I didn’t think you were.” Smiling, she stepped into the living room and looked around with wide eyes. “Mirror opposites, aren’t we?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
Featherlike laugh lines crinkled around her eyes. “I meant the apartments. My living room is on the right; yours is on the left.”
Rattled by his earlier thoughts, he felt himself flushing. “It’s easier to build adjoining homes that way. When the kitchens and bathrooms meet in the middle, you can run all the pipes through the same wall.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She hesitated, then pointed around the corner. “Shall we go into the kitchen? I’d like to see yours. Something tells me you’re a better housekeeper than I am.”
“I don’t know about that,” Connor answered, leading the way. “I’m neat by nature, but I’m sure my kitchen counters never met a bacteria they didn’t like. If I’m healthy, it’s because I’ve been around enough germs to establish a strong resistance.”
He flipped on the light switch and stared at his clean counters as if he had never seen them before. The kitchen seemed bare—despite the coffeemaker and the row of blue ceramic canisters his mother had forced him to take from home, anyone could tell this was a bachelor’s apartment. His kitchen definitely lacked atmosphere. No matter. His kitchen would be lit by her smile tonight.
“You need a pot.” He moved around the husky oak table and squatted at a cabinet, then pulled out a ceramic pot. “How about this one?”
“That’ll be great.” She took it and moved toward the sink, then laughed as she filled the pot with water. “This feels weird.”
Being with me? he wanted to ask. Instead he said, “Being here?”
“In opposite world. Having the stove on my left instead of my right.”
“I can imagine.” Feeling out of place and useless, he slipped his hands into his pockets. “I could run to the grocery for a head of lettuce if you really want a salad. I’m afraid I only have a couple of cucumbers and some limp celery in the fridge—”
“Don’t go to any trouble. This will be fine. I’m limited to canned sauce and prepackaged noodles.” She glanced over her shoulder as she moved the pot to the stove. “Goodness, I forgot to ask. Have you already eaten?”
He had snacked on a sandwich and a bag of potato chips, but he wouldn’t spoil this night by saying so. “Dinner? No. And spaghetti is great; I love it.”
She gave him a pleased smile, then turned on the stove.
Halfway through dinner, Lara realized that good conversation could make even mediocre spaghetti seem delicious. Connor had the rare gift of making a guest feel right at home, and he listened attentively as she rambled about her work, her patients, the office staff, even about the baby. Before the wall clock struck nine, she had also told him the entire story of her relationship with Eva, including a detailed accounting of Eva’s opposition to Lara’s pregnancy.
“Maybe,” he said, his face displaying an uncanny awareness, “Eva thinks Michael is somehow being cheated. Not only was he deprived of his life, so to speak, but if there’s a child, he is also deprived of his right to be a father.”
Lara rested her chin on her hand, considering the thought. She had never seen the situation from that perspective.
“I thought I was giving him that right.” Lara frowned. “We had talked about it—not specifically that I should have the baby if he died, of course, because until the end Michael refused to admit that he might not make it. But he desperately wanted to have a child. He wanted to pass on his artistic gifts.”
“Is his mother an artist?”
Lara snorted softly. “Eva? Not hardly. But his dad could have been. Mr. Godfrey had a great eye, but he went into architecture instead of art. His family was more concerned about his profitability than his artistic soul.”
When Connor rubbed his hand across his face, Lara could hear the faint rasp of his evening stubble. “I take it Mr. Godfrey made money.”
“A ton of it. Eva is set for life. And you know, the thing that hurt me most was the fact that she thinks I’m having this child to stake my claim in the Godfrey family fortune. I could care less about their money. I don’t need it. I may never be rich, but physician assistants make a good wage.”
“Michael always said you were good at your job.” Connor shifted in his chair and stretched his long legs beside the table. “He used to joke that he was a kept man because your salary paid most of the bills—”
“He didn’t!”
“Yeah, he did. But I know he really appreciated the freedom you gave him to pursue his dreams. He loved and supported you. And I know he’d support your decision to have this baby. Michael once told me he believed you could succeed at anything.”
A sudden lump rose in Lara’s throat. She had no idea Michael had shared so much of their lives with Connor.
“Well”—Connor stood and reached for her plate—“since you did the cooking—”
“The warming up.” Pushing the words over the thickness in her throat, she stood too.
“Whatever. I’ll handle cleanup duty.”
“I want to help.”
She reached for the bowl of leftover spaghetti, but Connor caught her hand. “You’ve had a long day and you’re tired. Why don’t you prop up your feet in the living room and let me do this?”
She froze as her senses leapt to life at his touch. No man but Michael had touched her in ages.
Keeping her eyes downcast, she exhaled slowly, grateful that her long sleeves hid the goose bumps on her arms. “There’s not much to do, Connor,” she said, her voice sounding strange and stifled in her ears. “Let me help.”
Without another word, Connor released her hand and carried their plates toward the sink. While he scraped the dishes under running water, Lara stared at the spaghetti bowl and tried to force her brain to function. What did she need? Plastic wrap. Good grief, she was behaving like a bedazzled fifth grader who had just discovered that boys didn’t have cooties after all.
She moved to the pantry and opened the door. Rows of cereal boxes lined the top shelf. Bags of potato chips, soft drink cans, peanut butter, soups, and baked beans filled the rest of the space. A bathroom scale sat on the floor; a pair of snow boots and a shovel leaned against the wall.
This was definitely a man’s kitchen. She was just about to ask for direction when she saw the rectangular shape of a box under a stack of brown paper lunch bags. She pulled it out, not caring whether it was foil, plastic wrap, or waxed paper—anything would do.
“Did you find the foil?” Michael called over his shoulder.
“Yes.” She waved the box at his back, then moved to the table and ripped off a long sheet. She pressed the foil around the spaghetti bowl, more than a little unnerved by the sight of Connor’s broad shoulders at the sink. The sight, the sound of running water, and the mingled scents of food and dish soap awakened the memory of nights she’d spent with Michael. Her own kitchen had filled with the sound of laughter as they compared the events of their day. Michael had always insisted on washing the dishes, leaving her free to put things away and wipe the table . . . just like this.
She slid the leftover spaghetti into the refrigerator, then stepped away and clung to the back of a chair as the baby fluttered within her. “I’m sorry, Connor, but I’m feeling a little woozy. I should probably go home.”
Connor turned to her, his face lined with concern. “Why don’t you lie down on the sofa? Please, rest in the living room until you feel better. I don’t want you tripping up the porch steps.”
“I’m fine, really.”
“I insist. You need to get off your feet.”
She couldn’t argue that point. Pressing her hand to the small of her back, she moved toward the living room and dully wondered if she even had the energy to drag herself back to an empty apartment. Connor didn’t follow her, but kept working in the kitchen, so Lara sank onto the sofa, then obeyed his urging and propped her feet on a frayed footstool.
She closed her eyes and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. It felt so good to rest. So good to let someone take care of her for a change. She spent eight hours a day looking after other people; how nice to sit down and know that someone else would take care of little things like cleaning up and wiping the stove.
A profound but peaceful weariness settled on her like a blanket. Her bones and body fell into torpor even as her brain hummed and her eyes flickered from right to left, studying Connor O’Hara’s living room.
The couch was leather and of good quality, but worn to saddlebag softness. The television sat on an antique trunk in a corner, and a computer workstation occupied the wall across from the sofa. A collection of small photo frames cluttered the end table at Lara’s right, and she propped herself up on one elbow to peer at the pictures: a gray-haired couple, an attractive young woman in a cap and gown, a little crew-cut boy with a mongrel pup in his arms.
Lara sank back to the couch, absorbing these bits and pieces of Connor’s life. The gray-haired couple had to be his parents; the resemblance was unmistakable. The little boy could have been Connor himself, and the young woman—who was she? A sister or a sweetheart?
She closed her eyes. He wore no wedding ring; so she doubted he had ever married. She could ask . . . but such a personal question would bring her to the threshold of a different level of friendship.
She wasn’t ready.
She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift into a fuzzy haze populated by images of the little boy and the smiling young woman. When the world sharpened again, a hall clock was chiming the hour.
Awareness hit her like a punch in the stomach. She had to go home.
As she lifted her head, the world shifted dizzily, then righted itself. Connor sat at the desk across from the sofa, his gaze intent upon a computer screen. At the creaking of the leather sofa, he turned and gave her a look of concern. “Feeling better?”
Her mouth dipped in a wry grin. “I knew pregnant women tired easily, but I never thought I’d fall asleep in the middle of someone else’s living room.” She swung her feet to the floor. “I’m sorry, Connor. I know it’s rude to eat and run, so it must be even ruder to eat and crash on someone’s sofa.”
The warmth of his laughter sent a shiver down her spine. “It’s okay. I needed to get some work done, anyway. That’s the best part of my job— I’m actually paid to stay abreast of what’s happening on the Internet.”
She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “What job is that? Your work for the library or the FBI?”
He froze at the keyboard, a betraying flush brightening his face.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “Didn’t mean to pry. If it’s one of those deals where you’ll have to kill me after you explain, forget I asked.”
“It’s nothing like that.” The glow of his smile warmed her across the room. “The FBI would probably prefer that I not give interviews, but there’s no harm in telling you what I do.”
“So—you read books and surf the Internet? Michael said you knew everything.”
“Nobody knows everything.” He clicked on an Internet link, then leaned back as the screen flickered. “But yeah”—he grinned—“I read books and surf the Web. Since agents can’t be expected to keep tabs on professional bad guys and current issues, I help them out by providing background information. I summarize every book I read and submit a report to my contact at the Bureau. Every once in a while they give me a special topic and ask me to keep tabs on it for a few months. I’m not supposed to talk about those assignments.”
She gazed at the screen. “What are you looking up now?”
“Everything. Anything.” His fingers curled over the keyboard. “Ask me something and let me astound you.”
Leaning back, she crossed her legs at the ankle and smiled. “Okay, I’ll bite. What can you tell me about this building? Michael had a crazy idea that our landlady isn’t a real person, but a fictitious name created by a Japanese conglomerate or something.”
Connor laughed and turned back to the computer. “Easy enough.”
He typed a Web address, and a moment later the words Charlottesville Property Appraiser filled the monitor’s screen. “Now I type in our address,” he said, his fingers moving lightly over the keys. He clicked the enter key, and an aerial map appeared on the monitor. Lara shifted her weight onto the footstool to better look over Connor’s shoulder. Every vital fact about their town house had been recorded—the legal description of the property, followed by dimensions of the rooms, the condition of the building, and the total square footage.
Connor pointed at a box in the corner of the screen. “Owner of said town house is Mrs. Amelia Duncan, 2284 Lincoln Lane, Charlottesville.”
“Imagine that.” Lara parked her chin in her hand. “Amelia Duncan is a real person after all. So why does she have us send our rent checks to a post office box instead of a street address?”
“She probably uses the post office box for business.” Connor kept typing. “She might even have an accountant who handles her rental properties.” He tossed a resigned smile over his shoulder. “Amelia Duncan might not even know our names.”
“What else can we find out about her?” Lara lifted a brow. “I’m curious. Every time I have a problem, I call the maintenance supervisor. For years I thought he was Mr. Duncan, but the last time he was here, I called him by that name and he laughed.”
Connor went to another Web page, typed in the names “Amelia Duncan” and “Charlottesville,” then flicked the enter key. A moment later a long list appeared on the screen.
Lara let out a long, low whistle. “Our landlady gets around, doesn’t she? Do you think there’s a picture? I’d love to know what she looks like.”
“Here’s a recent article from the Charlottesville Herald.” Connor moved his cursor over one of the highlighted entries, then clicked the mouse. The screen flickered, then filled with a column of text and a black-and-white photograph of several people at a gala. A petite lady with silver hair stood in line with several tuxedo-clad gentlemen.
Connor read the caption: “Mrs. Amelia Duncan receives the Muriel Award from the Greater Virginia Philanthropy Society. Attending dignitaries included Charlottesville Mayor James Albert, Dr. Martin Allan—”
Lara gasped in recognition. “Wait! I know two of those men.” She rose from the footstool and stepped closer, resting one hand on Connor’s shoulder while she pointed at the screen. “That man is Helmut Braun, my boss’s husband, and that”—she pointed to a dark-haired, handsome gentleman—“isn’t that Devin Sloane?”
Connor kept reading. “—Thomas Morgan, Mrs. Amelia Duncan, Dr. Helmut Braun, and Dr. Devin Sloane.”
“Dr. Devin Sloane?” Frowning, Lara sank back to the footstool and rested her chin on her fingertips. “I thought he was a stock-market investor or something.”
In a flash, Connor moved back to the search screen. His nimble fingers typed in “Devin Sloane + doctorate,” and within ten seconds the screen had filled with references.
He clicked on another entry. “This ought to explain it.”
Lara found herself staring at another news report and photograph. This one showed a younger Devin Sloane in a graduation cap and gown, a brilliant smile on his chiseled face. A woman and boy stood by his side, the woman thin-faced and unsmiling, the boy frozen in an attitude of belligerence.
“Devin Sloane, entrepreneur and financial consultant,” Connor read, “receives an honorary doctorate of philosophy from Harvard University. Sloane has been largely responsible for directing the university’s endowment fund, which realized unprecedented gains last year.”
“Is that Sloan’s wife and son?”
Connor leaned forward, skimming the article. “Yeah. The article says his wife, Muriel, and son Ethan were on hand to congratulate him, but I think this was before the accident.”
“Accident?”
“Fatal collision in 1995, I think. The wife and kid were coming home from Wintergreen, and the car skidded off the highway. The police weren’t sure, but it looked like the boy was driving.”
“How awful.”
“It was. The kid was only fourteen—he shouldn’t have been driving at all. There was a lot of talk afterward about how the mother had spoiled him. Apparently she gave him everything but limits.”
Lara compared the photograph to her memory. “I met Sloane a few months ago. In Dr. Braun’s office.”
“Really?” Connor clicked on another link. “What was he like?”
“Nice. Quite charming. He looked classy, but nothing about him suggested he was a billionaire.” She paused as a surge of adrenaline moved through her bloodstream. Something was on the tip of her tongue—and then it was gone. Something important. Something familiar.
“What were we just talking about?”
Connor looked at her. “Devin Sloane?”
“Before that.”
“His kid? The accident?”
“His wife.” She closed her eyes and tried to summon the thought that had been lost or pushed aside. “What was her name?”
Connor tapped at the computer and pulled up the photo. “Muriel.”
“And what was the award Amelia Duncan received?”
Connor sighed in satisfaction when the first photograph reappeared. “The Muriel Award. Sloane must have named the award after his wife.”
Lara nodded, grateful that the pieces fit. “I knew that name sounded familiar.” She watched Connor scroll through the text a moment more, then smothered a yawn. “Connor, I’m running out of steam. I’ve got to go home.”
He twisted in his seat. “Are you sure you’re okay? If you’re still woozy—”
“I’m tired. I think I can manage to walk from your door to mine.”
He stood as she did, then walked her to the door. She stepped out onto the porch and shivered in the sudden chilliness, then turned to face him. “Thanks for letting me in. And thanks for the company.”
“It was a nice surprise.” His mouth twitched with amusement and Lara smiled, grateful that he probably considered her a hormonal pregnant woman and therefore exempt from all rational rules of behavior.
“Good night, then.” She padded softly across the lawn, ignoring the sidewalk, then used the key in her pocket to let herself in.
Let Connor think her temporarily insane. He might be right—she didn’t quite understand why she had sought out his company.
Hooray for hormonal madness.