Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Copyright

Brett Reminded Herself That Michael Had Only Married Her For The Baby.

Same reason she’d married him. The fact that she loved him should play no part in their relationship. Not until he felt the same way. If he ever did.

Brett stiffened as Michael put his arm around her as they watched Hope settle down to sleep in her crib. “You can relax,” he assured her. “I’m not going to be sweeping you off your feet again tonight. We’ve got plenty of time to get used to this marriage stuff. There’s no rush, right?”

“Right,” she agreed. To him it was marriage stuff. To her it was the secret longing of a heart that had almost forgotten how to hope…

Dear Reader,

Established stars and exciting new names.that’s what’s in store for you this month from Silhouette Desire. Let’s begin with Cait London’s MAN OF THE MONTH, Tallchiefs Bride—it’s also the latest in her wonderful series, THE TALLCHIEFS.

The fun continues with Babies by the Busload, the next book in Raye Morgan’s THE BABY SHOWER series, and Michael’s Baby, the first installment of Cathie Linz’s delightful series, THREE WEDDINGS AND A GIFT.

So many of you have indicated how much you love the work of Peggy Moreland, so I know you’ll all be excited about her latest sensuous romp, A Willful Marriage. And Anne Eames, who made her debut earlier in the year in Silhouette Desire’s Celebration 1000, gives us more pleasure with You’re What?! And if you enjoy a little melodrama with your romance, take a peek at Metsy Hingle’s enthralling new book, Backfire.

As always, each and every Silhouette Desire is sensuous, emotional and sure to leave you feeling good at the end of the day!

Happy Reading!

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Michael’s Baby
Cathie Linz

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CATHIE LINZ

left her career in a university law library to become a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary romance novels. She is the recipient of the highly coveted Storyteller of the Year award given by Romantic Times, arid was recently nominated for a Love and Laughter Career Achievement Award for the delightful humor in her books.

While Cathie often uses comic mishaps from her own trips as inspiration for her stories, she found the idea for this trilogy in her very own home—from an heirloom that has been in her family for generations. After traveling, Cathie is always glad to get back home to her family, her two cats, her trusty word processor and her hidden cache of Oreo cookies!

For my mom,

who is an artist with a caulking gun and

taught me what she could.

Sorry I still throw a baseball

like a girl, Mom!

One

The scream woke Michael Janos out of a sound sleep. Even though he had dropped out of the police academy and gone into corporate security work instead, some responses were instinctive.

Reacting instantly, he grabbed for the jeans he’d worn last night, jamming his feet into the denim legs as he hopped toward the door to his apartment. The scream sounded as if it had come from the apartment directly above his. In his bare feet—despite the single-digit November temperatures outside—he raced upstairs, swearing in Hungarian as he stubbed his toe on the top step before reaching the upper apartment and pounding on the door.

“Mr. Stephanopolis, are you in there? It’s Michael Janos.”

The elderly man slowly opened the door.

“What happened?” Michael demanded. “I heard someone scream.”

“It was me,” Mr. Stephanopolis replied testily. “I was in the shower and the hot water ran out. I nearly froze my private parts off! You’ve got to fix that hot-water heater before someone gets hurt.”

Michael was already hurt—his big toe was throbbing like nobody’s business. When he’d been six years old he’d broken that big toe by stubbing it on a stair—he only hoped history wasn’t repeating itself.

“Did you hear me?” Mr. Stephanopolis demanded, tightening his bathrobe more tightly around his toothpick body.

“I heard you,” Michael assured him wearily. It was barely six and he hadn’t gotten to sleep until two a.m. “I’m sure the entire building heard you screaming like that.”

“So what are you going to do about the hot-water heater?”

“You know I’ve placed an ad for a building supervisor to take care of repairs. Meanwhile I’ll call for a repairman, but it is Thanksgiving weekend.”

“A repairman already came out last weekend.”

And charged Michael plenty in overtime. “Look, I’ve got a couple people coming by today to interview for the super’s job. Hopefully one of them will know what they’re doing.”

Michael’s hope was fading by the minute as the handful of applicants came and went—each of them as dim as the light bulb he’d asked them to put into his stove as a test of their supposed handyman abilities. The most recent applicant had all but taken the stove apart in his quest to put in the damn bulb. Now Michael would have to call an appliance repairman in for that, too—in addition to everything else that was already on the fritz.

Meanwhile, the hot-water heater guy still hadn’t shown his face, or any other part of his anatomy, since Michael had placed the call at six that morning.

Mr. Stephanopolis had shown his displeasure with the lack of hot water by stomping around in his apartment with his army boots—remnants of the Second World War. He’d had his wife, who was built like a brick outhouse, join him in his protest march. Since Michael was directly below the marching stampede, there was no rest for the weary.

A timid knock on his door was a welcome diversion, until he saw who was outside. Mrs. Wieskopf and Mrs. Martinez stood side by side, clearly believing in the philosophy of power in numbers. The two senior citizens shared the apartment next door to his on the main floor. If their knock was timid, the look on their faces was anything but. “Mr. Janos, do you realize that there is no hot water in this building?” Mrs. Wieskopf demanded.

“I know. I’ve already called a repairman…”

“We do our washing on Saturdays, Mr. Janos. And we can’t get our whites clean with cold water.”

“A repairman came last weekend,” Mrs. Martinez added.

A fifteen-minute lecture on the responsibilities that accompanied being a building’s owner followed.

When he could finally get a word in edgewise, Michael said, “Look, ladies, I’m doing the best I can here.”

With a disapproving sniff, the two women returned to their own place.

Michael was ready to call it quits for the day when he remembered there was one more applicant to go. Glancing at his watch, he frowned. The guy was late. Not a good start.

As if on cue, Michael heard the strangled sound of the security buzzer, indicating that there was someone pushing the button in the building’s postage-stamp-size foyer. He couldn’t ask who it was because the damn speaker was broken, so he undid the locks on his door and strode outside. From his doorway he could see the postman through the glass beside the front door. The man looked as aggravated as Michael felt.

“Got a package for you here,” the postman said as Michael joined him in the foyer, his tone of voice making it clear that he disapproved of Michael getting packages and complicating his route. “And your metal mailbox thingamajig sticks. You better get it fixed.”

“It’s an old building,” Michael said.

“It’s a white elephant,” the postman snorted. “Axton was wise to dump it.”

He’d dumped it all right, right into Michael’s unwilling lap. Michael had carried David Axton as long as he could, but when Axton hadn’t paid for the security work Michael had done for his company almost a year before, Mi chael had finally taken him to court—and ended up with this monstrosity of a Victorian mansion-cum-apartment house while Axton had declared bankruptcy and taken off.

“It’ll be worth something someday,” Axton had told him before leaving the courthouse. “Just needs a little fixing up. That area in the near north side of Chicago is being rehabbed by yuppies. Hang onto the property, Janos, and you’ll find I’ve paid you back in spades.”

Right. And he probably had some swamp property Michael could buy for a song, too.

Michael had only been living in the building a few weeks and already he knew he was in for some big headaches.

The slam of the front door told him that the postman had moved on, leaving Michael standing there with the mysterious package in his hands. Frowning down at it, he hoped it wasn’t any more of the sex toys that David Axton had ordered before vacating the property.

No, the address label had his name written out in a spidery handwriting. In fact, it had his given name of Miklos on it. No one ever called him that.

Looking at the return address he couldn’t make anything out. But the stamps said Magyar Posta. He knew enough of his native language to know the stamps were from Hungary. But he didn’t know anyone in Hungary. Granted, his parents had come from there, but they’d emigrated to the States in the early sixties, when he’d been just a child.

The package looked like it had come via China by a slow camel train. Kind of the way he felt after a hellish day like today.

Lifting the package to his ear, he shook it and felt a pain splinter his head, making him wince—and making the door slip from his booted foot and slam, effectively locking him out of his own building.

Swearing in Hungarian for the second time that day, Michael yanked on the doorknob, only to end up pulling it out in his hand.

Brett Munro stared at the slip of paper in her hand before checking the address one more time: 707 Love Street. Yep, this was the place, all right. It looked more like a house than an apartment building, but then she knew that once, decades ago, this area off Fullerton had been an affluent neighborhood. Now it was struggling with urban renewal.

Brett knew all about struggling. And when she opened the outer door, she saw a tall, dark-haired man struggling, too—yanking on the doorknob of the inner door before ending up with the knob in his hand. The man had no outer coat on and had obviously just locked himself out.

“Maybe it would help if you buzzed someone else to let you in,” she suggested.

The man whirled to face her and she caught her breath at the dark attraction of his face. He wasn’t what you would call traditionally handsome, his face was too lean for that. It was carved in rakish angles with noble shadows beneath high cheekbones.

She was close enough to see the striking color of his eyes—a light hazel with unexpected depth. Brett blinked. She’d never seen eyes quite like that before. It wasn’t just the color, but also their darkly brooding expression that made her feel as if she’d just been lifted into the vortex of a tornado.

“Where did you come from?” he demanded.

“Outside,” she replied. “Would you like me to fix that for you?”

Michael clutched the doorknob to his chest, which was hard to do, since he was carrying a paper-wrapped box, and glared at her. “I’ve had enough people trying to fix things around here.”

“It’s a beautiful old building,” she said admiringly, noting the etched glass panel on one side of the inner doorway.

“It’s a security risk,” he replied, following the direction of her gaze. “The place is falling down around our ears.”

“Then why do you live here?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

She made no reply, knowing what it was like to have few options. But that life was behind her now. “So what are your impressions of the building’s owner?”

“The guy was a no-good con artist,” Michael growled, wishing David Axton were there so he could punch his lights out.

His passionate reply clearly startled her. He saw the way her blue eyes opened wide, her long lashes dark against her creamy white skin. He wondered who she was visiting in the building.

“So are you going to buzz someone to let us in?” she asked.

“Most of the intercom system is busted. Those that do work are in apartments where the occupants are halfdeaf.” He was referring to the Stephanopolises, Mrs. Wieskopf and Mrs. Martinez, quelling the flash of guilt he felt at referring to them in such a way. His parents had taught him to respect his elders. But surely not when they took pleasure in torturing him the way his tenants did.

“If the intercom is broken, then I guess there’s just one thing to do,” Brett said. “Put that doorknob back on.” Seeing his distrustful look, she added, “Look, I know what I’m doing. Actually, I’m here to interview for the building supervisor’s job. It looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

The man’s expression darkened as he frowned at her. “What kind of story is that?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a woman.”

“That’s right. So?”

“The ad said I was looking for someone with experience. A handyman.”

“You? But I thought you said the owner was a no-good con artist?”

“That’s the guy who dumped the place on me. I’m just, the poor idiot who got stuck with this monstrosity.”

Her look clearly told him that she thought he was an idiot for questioning her skills. She was kind of pretty, with her short dark hair and those blue eyes with their smudgy thick lashes. Seeing the sprinkling of freckles across her cute nose, he was willing to bet she had Irish blood. She looked wholesome. His mother would approve of her. But then Michael had never dated women his mother would approve of.

She was wearing a down coat and a strange woolen hat—beret, he corrected himself. Whatever it was called, it wasn’t real practical for keeping body warmth in. Around her neck was a bright-colored scarf that looked like it had been knitted by a bunch of color-blind elves. She had nice legs encased in tight jeans and on her feet were a pair of heavy-duty hiking boots.

“As the poor idiot who owns this place,” she said, “maybe it would be best if you conducted our interview inside. It’s not much warmer in here than it is outside. Are you going to give me the doorknob to fix or not?”

“Not,” he said.

She sighed. “Why not?”

“Because things are bad enough already. I don’t want them getting any worse.”

“Then how about I talk you through fixing the knob yourself?” she suggested with the patience of someone addressing a troublesome two-year-old who was refusing to eat his vegetables. “I’ve got a small screwdriver on my Swiss knife.” She reached into her purse and pulled it out.

“I’ll do that,” Michael said, taking the knife from her. He wasn’t sure he could trust her not to run him through with it. She looked aggravated enough with him to try. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t, but it’s Brett. Brett Munro.”

“You signed your application letter B. Munro,” he noted accusingly before handing her his package while he turned to the door.

“To avoid your throwing it into the ‘round file,’“ she retorted. “Experience has taught me to be cautious when applying for a job of this kind.”

Michael wasn’t really listening to her. Instead he was rather proud of the way he jiggled the doorknob back into place. He had to squat down to see what he was doing while trying to fit the compact screwdriver into the screw’s slot. This handyman stuff wasn’t that hard after all, if you had the proper tools.

“You have to turn the screwdriver to the right to tighten it,” she informed him dryly. Of course, with that he slid the screwdriver right off the screw, nearly gouging the wood on the door.

Muttering under his breath, he tightened the screw and moved on to the next one. Once that was done, he reached into his wallet and extracted a credit card to slide into the door jamb. Holding it just right, he hit the bolt and opened the door.

“You did that a little too easily for my comfort,” Brett told him.

“That’s why I’ve got a locksmith coming next week. I’d have gotten him here sooner, but the guy had a three-week waiting list.”

“I know how to put in a new lock.”

“Yeah, but do you know how to fix a hot-water heater?” he retorted, certain she’d answer no.

Instead she said, “Depends what’s wrong with it.”

“If I knew what was wrong with it, I’d fix it myself,” Michael declared.

He didn’t appreciate the yeah-right look she gave him.

“Have you ever been a building supervisor before?” he demanded, taking his package back from her in exchange for her Swiss knife as he headed for his main-floor apartment. This door he hadn’t locked, thank heaven.

“No,” she replied, trailing after him and looking around his place with interest.

Michael never “sted a look like that. It either meant someone was casing the joint or, if it was a woman, that they were getting nesting instincts—imagining their chintz couch in his living room. He’d be called paranoid, were it not for the fact that his last romantic relationship had started with just such a look of interest at his living room. The relationship had ended several months ago in disaster. She’d accused him of being a loner. She was right.

“Why should I hire you if you have no experience?” Michael countered.

“I didn’t say I had no experience. I’ve taken architecture courses, I know basic construction methods. Other girls played with dolls. I played with tools. I’m good at fixing things.”

“Taken apart any stoves?” he asked, pointing to the mess in his kitchen.

She nodded.

“Can you fix that?” he inquired mockingly.

She walked into the kitchen and frowned at the appliance. “Do you have a toolbox?” she asked. “I didn’t bring many tools with me.”

What kind of question was that? Every self-respecting man had a toolbox—not that he knew what to do with it. He handed it to her and let her have at it, figuring she couldn’t mess up the appliance any more than it already was.

While she attacked his stove, Michael undid the package he’d received—which was harder than it sounded, since the thing was wrapped in clear tape from one end to the other. It took him ten minutes to get the outside paper off. The one time he shook the package in frustration, he felt that sharp pain in his head again—almost as if the pain was connected to his handling of the package. Finally he got it unwrapped. Inside was a cardboard box advertising what he assumed to be Hungarian washing powder. And inside that was a mass of crumpled newspapers.

Reaching down, his fingers finally made contact with something solid. Something warm. He couldn’t get a good grip on it with all those newspapers, though.

Tossing them aside, he noticed a sheet of white writing paper with the same spidery handwriting as the address label. Taking the sheet, he read:

Oldest Janos son,

It is time for you to know the secret of our family and bahtali—this is magic that is good. But powerful. I am sending to you this box telling you for the legend. I am getting old and have no time or language for story’s beginning, you must speak to parents for such. But know only this charmed box has powerful Rom magic to find love where you look for it. Use carefully and you will have much happiness. Use unwell and you will have trouble.

Michael had to squint to make out the spidery signature and in the end was only able to make out part of it-”Magda.” He hadn’t thought they’d had any relatives left in Hungary, but on second thought he did seem to recall his dad mentioning a Great-Aunt Magda.

He read the strange note once more. “Rom magic”…that meant Gypsy magic, Michael knew that much. His dad had Gypsy blood, but Michael didn’t know anything about any family secrets. It was just his luck that his folks had recently left on a Pacific Rim cruise, so he couldn’t call and ask them what this was all about.

Looking back into the carton, minus the newspaper, he was now able to see something. a box maybe? Picking it up, he saw that it was indeed an intricately engraved metal box, with all kinds of strange markings—half-moons and stars, among other things.

Wondering if there was anything inside, Michael lifted the lid…

Two

“All done!” Brett declared from the kitchen threshold.

Michael’s eyes traveled from the box to Brett. “Wha…at?”

“I said I’m done fixing your stove. It’s as good as new. I put that new bulb in there while I was at it. Hey, are you okay?”

Michael blinked, his head spinning. He felt so strange. Maybe he was coming down with the flu or something. That would explain the heat flashing through his body. It was just his imagination that made him think it was originating from the box he held in his hands. No, it must be the flu. It would be the perfect way to end such a miserable day.

He blinked again, relieved to find that Brett Munro was back in focus once again. She’d taken off her bulky down coat and was wearing a curve-clinging soft sweater the same blue as her eyes. She was backlit by the kitchen ceiling light, which created a strange kind of halo behind the crown of her head. It was just an optical illusion, but it made him catch his breath. So did she. In that moment, she seemed beautiful.

Brett stared back at Michael, captured by the powerful look in his hazel eyes as surely as if he’d clamped a pair of handcuffs around her wrists. She’d seen moments like this in movies, but had never been the recipient of such visual magic herself. This was a first. A momentous first. Something was going on here that would have dramatic consequences; she felt that in the deepest part of her soul. Her heart was pounding in her ears and breathing was all but forgotten.

Then the mysterious box tilted in his shaking hands and the lid flipped shut. The sharp noise punctured the tensely silent air between them the way a pin punctured a balloon.

Seeing Michael swaying, Brett immediately snapped out of her dreamlike state and rushed forward to prop her shoulder under his arm. He was just the right height for her to do that, she noted, feeling a shiver of awareness slip down her spine at his closeness.

“Here, let me take that before you drop it,” she said, taking the box he was holding and setting it on top of his rack stereo system. “You certainly don’t have much furniture here,” she noted as she lowered him into the only piece in the room—a recliner that had seen better days.

“No chintz couches,” he muttered, closing his eyes and leaning back to rest his head against the back of the chair.

Chintz couches? The man sounded delirious, Brett decided. And he looked pale. Sexy as all get-out, but pale. Putting her hand on his forehead, she said, “Have you eaten anything today?”

“You sound like my mother.”

This came as no surprise to Brett. Men usually thought of her as either one of the boys or the protective motherly type. She’d taken enough guys under her maternal wing to man a softball team. In fact, she was honorary manager of a team called Vito’s Market Super-Sluggers. But she wasn’t wife material. “Just answer the question. What have you eaten today?”

“Enough trouble to give a man indigestion.”

“Have any food with your trouble?” she dryly inquired.

“Naw, I had my trouble on the rocks today.”

She tried to hide a smile. So the man had a sense of humor. “You’d probably feel better if you put some food in your stomach,” she noted.

“So my mother always tells me.”

“What will I find if I open your refrigerator?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t get in there much.”

She opted to look in his cupboard instead, where she found a couple of cans of soup. “Which would you prefer,” she called out, “cream of mushroom or hearty vegetable?”

“I’d prefer getting the damn hot-water heater fixed,” he replied, glaring at the ceiling as Mr. and Mrs. Stephanopolis resumed their militant marching routine upstairs.

Looking at the way the kitchen ceiling light swayed beneath the pounding from the floor above, Brett shot him an understanding look. “Sounds like someone up there is unhappy.”

“They’re not the only ones,” Michael muttered.

“Your soup will be done in a minute. I picked mushroom. And I’ll make some toast…” By the time she was done cheerfully telling him what she was going to fix for him, she had it ready, and carried it out to him. “Careful, it’s hot.”

“Thanks,” he muttered.

She smiled as if she knew how hard it was for him to say that.

“If you fix hot-water heaters as fast as you do soup, you’ve got a job,” he heard himself saying.

Taking his toolbox in hand, she said, “I’ll go check it out. Is it in the basement?”

He nodded, his mouth full of soup.

“Don’t worry. I’ll find it,” she said with a confident grin.

Don’t worry? Michael was worried plenty. What on earth had possessed him to offer her a job if she fixed the damn water heater? Desperation, that’s what had possessed him. Combined with a lack of food and lack of sleep.

Michael set his empty plate and soup bowl on the floor next to his chair. He didn’t remember closing his eyes, but when he opened them again, he found Brett standing before him—a triumphant smile on her face as she waved a wrench in the air. “I did it! Your hot-water heater is working just fine now.”

For some reason, Michael’s heart sank at her declaration. He’d only felt that way once before, when the Bears had fumbled a critical play that had ended up costing them their play-off bid. Michael couldn’t help wondering what hiring Brett Munro was going to end up costing him.and he wasn’t thinking of her salary. His ad had clearly stated what he was willing to pay, and it wasn’t much, but he had tossed in a rent-free basement studio apartment into the deal.

“You won’t regret giving me this job,” Brett was excitedly saying, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t actually said she had the job yet. She wasn’t about to let him wiggle out of their deal.

“What was wrong with the hot-water heater?” Michael demanded, lurching to his feet. “On second thought, don’t tell me.” He stalked into the kitchen and flipped back the faucet. Hot water poured out. Damn.

He knew he should be counting his blessings as he heard the muffled cheers of Mr. and Mrs. Stephanopolis coming from upstairs. He’d finally found a handyman—only she was a woman, one who seemed to have the strangest affect on him.

But it could never be said that Michael Janos wasn’t a man of his word. He’d promised her the job of building supervisor and by God he’d keep that promise. But he doubted she’d be able to keep the job. Once she saw how many things were wrong with this eccentric building, she was bound to quit. Any sane person would.

“The studio apartment isn’t very big,” Michael warned her as he unlocked the door in the basement.

“That’s okay, I don’t have much stuff.”

“It needs work,” he added before giving the stubborn door a hefty nudge.

“I’m a whiz with a paintbrush,” she replied.

What did it take to make this woman discouraged? Michael found himself wondering. Then he got distracted by the sight of the sunlight hitting her hair, reminding him of that moment upstairs when she’d been standing in the kitchen doorway and the light had shone behind her head—creating an image that had left him shaken and breathless.

She wasn’t the type of woman who usually got his attention, if there was such a thing. He’d dated all kinds, but never one who had the passion for life that this one seemed to have. She was a whirlwind of activity, flying around the room—moving even when she was standing still. He could practically see her thinking as she sized up the room’s dimensions.

“This is great!” she exclaimed. “You’ve got south exposure on the windows down here. It adds a lot of light, even though the windows are high up.”

“They’re small,” Michael said.

“Size is in the eye of the beholder,” she said defensively, hugging her down coat to her chest and tucking her hands under her arms.

“Yeah, well…” Michael heard himself stumbling over his words and decided to pause and regroup. What was it about this woman that affected him so? As she’d just pointed out, she was not amply built, although the soft sweater that matched her blue eyes curved nicely around what nature had given her. She had a sweet face. Sweet big eyes, sweet lips.full and sensual. She was nibbling on her bottom lip as she looked away from him, focusing her attention on the kitchen appliances in the compact kitchen.

“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

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.

“It’s okay, Michael,” Brett said soothingly.

“No, it’s not. Did you hear what I said?” he demanded of the kid closest to him.

“These are my friends,” Brett inserted. “They’re helping me move. I just wanted them to give me the mattress because it’s too heavy for them to carry alone.”

“Who’s the dude?” the kid with the backward White Sox baseball cap demanded belligerently.

“He’s my new boss,” Brett replied.

“Hey, man, you better treat her right.” The kid had the menacing steely-eyed look of a pro.

“Now, Juan, you know I can take care of myself. Two of you carry that mattress, I don’t want anyone getting hurt. You go on ahead.”

“Where did you find these juvenile delinquents?” Michael demanded of Brett as the kids obeyed her request.

“Have trouble getting along well with children, do you?”

Brett’s observation had him bristling defensively. “I have a younger sister and brother. I got along fine with them.”

“I meant now that you’re an adult.”

Okay, so he was legendary within his family for his lack of “kid skills.” The truth was that he was wary of children. They made him feel incompetent and awkward. However, Michael didn’t appreciate Brett reminding him of that fact. So much for him coming to her rescue.

“Make sure you close the front door when you’re done,” he growled.

“Actually we’ve been using the back door because I didn’t want to bother the rest of the tenants,” Brett told him. “It takes us in the building just a few steps from the studio apartment downstairs.”

“I know that. But how did you know? I didn’t show you the door because it’s been jammed shut.”

“The hinges just needed oiling. Works like a charm now.”

“Great.”

She wondered why Michael didn’t look very pleased with her news. Did he expect her to have asked for permission first? As building supervisor, she couldn’t be asking permission before fixing the hundred-and-one things that needed repairing in this lovely old building. Since there hadn’t been any expense involved, she didn’t think his approval beforehand was required. “Surely you don’t expect me to check with you before I do any work on the building?”

He shook his head, realizing she’d be checking with him every five minutes in that case. “But I do want to be kept apprised of what you’re doing. I need to authorize any repairs that will cost over thirty dollars. I don’t have an unlimited budget here. My plan is to fix up the building and then sell it.”

“Sell it? Whatever for?”

“The money,” he replied dryly.

“How could you!”

“What are you so upset about? If it’s your job, you don’t have to worry. It’ll probably take almost a year to get the place fixed up enough to sell it.”

“Do your tenants know about your plans?” Brett demanded.

“Why should they care?”

“Because some of them have lived here for a very long time.”

“Look, I’ve only owned the building for a short while. My first priority has to be a financial one. I can’t afford to pour limitless amounts of money into this white elephant. Besides, I don’t talk much to the tenants. It’s not like they’ve exactly formed an attachment to me. In fact, sometimes they give me the impression they’d like to hang me by my toes.”

“If I had the money, I’d buy this place from you in a second,” she declared.

“You just saw it for the first time today.”

“I know what I like,” she said quietly.

He noticed that her cheeks were flushed, from excitement as much as from the cold air. Although the late afternoon sun had come out, it was a weak shadow of itself. Winter was definitely here to stay. So was Brett. Moving in and apparently here to stay.

She hadn’t brought much furniture with her. The battered pickup truck he assumed to be hers held a rocking chair that had seen better days, a table, some lawn furniture and a few boxes.

“How is it that you were able to move in so quickly?” Michael asked. “Didn’t you have to give notice at your old place?”

She shook her head. “I was staying with friends and had my things in storage.”

Her reply made him realize that, although he had gotten her Social Security number, he never had checked her references, or even asked her for any. That wasn’t like him. She could have a criminal record for all he knew. Granted, he was usually a good judge of character, but she’d knocked his instincts off kilter. As soon as he got back inside, he planned on turning on his laptop computer and accessing his office computer to do a simple background check on her—not that he anticipated anything about this woman to be simple.

Following them around the back of the building, he watched her clucking over her gaggle of stringy adolescent boys. They clearly adored her. She’d brought pop and junk food for them to munch on as they emptied the back of the pickup.

Mrs. Martinez’s industrial-strength salsa was a big hit. He noticed she didn’t even attempt to introduce the kids to Mrs. Wieskopf’s sauerkraut. Wise move.

“They’re not delinquents, you know,” she quietly noted from his side, startling him with her nearness. When she was this close, he got the strongest urge to tug her into his arms and kiss her. Michael blinked in surprise and wondered what he was fighting here. For that matter, why the hell was he fighting it, period?

So what if Brett was different from other women he’d been attracted to? Nothing wrong with that. She was a sexy woman, just the right height for him; he remembered that from the way she’d slid her shoulder under his arm. The top of her head was just beneath his chin. When he’d briefly held her in his arms earlier, she’d conformed to his body as if designed for that purpose and no other.

It suddenly occurred to him that this handywoman situation could turn out to be a blessing in disguise, after all.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” Brett asked suspiciously.

“What way is that?” he countered.

“The old I’m-a-man, you’re-a-woman look.”

“I am a man. You are a woman.” His shrug was surprisingly continental. “Is it so strange I would look at you as such?”

“You bet. I’m not that kind of a woman.”

“What kind might that be?”

“The kind who makes men go all gooey-eyed.”

Stung, he drew himself up to his full height, his look now a glare.

“Aha,” she said approvingly. “That’s more the look I’m used to getting from you.”

“You know nothing about me,” he reminded her. “We only met for the first time this afternoon.”

“You don’t have to remind me.” She still hadn’t figured out what had happened a few hours ago when she’d stepped out of his kitchen to tell him she’d fixed his stove. She’d felt so strange…as if she’d been bound to him by invisible chains. The look in his hazel eyes had pierced her soul and she was still trying to repair the damage. Because men simply didn’t look at her that way. Unless they wanted something—usually to borrow money. Otherwise she was just one of the boys. Always had been. With one exception…

Feeling the pain ready to creep up on her like the cold fingers of mist that came off the lake, she resolutely changed mental gears. Leaving Michael’s side, she focused her attention on getting the last of her belongings into her new home.

All the while, she was only too well aware of his intense gaze homing in on her. He really did have the most incredible eyes. And he looked like such an outsider, standing apart from the action, watching but not involved in it.

“Would you like to come in and have some coffee or something?” she invited, unable to leave him just standing there. “We’ve got plenty of food.”

Michael fully intended to say no. Hanging out with a bunch of adolescents wasn’t his idea of a good time. But for some reason, he couldn’t seem to voice the refusal. He really wasn’t himself today.

Exasperated by his silence, Brett said, “It’s really not that tough a question to answer. Look, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but it might be easier for people to get to know you if you.”

“If I what?” he demanded irritably. “Don’t stop there.”

“If you lightened up a little, maybe.”

His fiery look would have sent a weaker soul scurrying for cover, but not Brett.

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be Suzy Sunshine,” he retorted.

She flushed. Is that how he thought of her? She knew he wasn’t alone in that opinion. If only they all knew how far from the truth that was. There was a cold darkness in her soul that no amount of cheerfulness could melt.

But the bottom line was that she’d never been able to say no to those in need, because she knew how it felt to need someone, or something, so badly and not be able to have it—not ever.

“That was a stupid crack I made,” Michael said, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Her heart stopped. His touch was so gentle.

“Yo, Brett, where do you want this box?” thirteen-yearold Juan asked her.

Brett stepped away from Michael—silently noting that each time she did so, it got harder and harder. Stepping inside the basement apartment, Michael poured himself a mug of coffee from a coffeepot that looked like it had been around during World War II. Sipping his coffee, he observed the suspicious looks the kids gave him. Each glance held a warning. Their protectiveness was impressive.

When Brett was outside, he took the opportunity to get a little more information about his new employee. “Your name is Juan?” he asked the kid in the baseball cap.

“That’s right. You wanna make something of it?”

“Why this routine? What makes you think Brett needs protecting?”

Eyeing him, Juan waited before replying. “Because she’s the Mother Teresa type,” he finally said. “Too good. She’s been hurt already.”

“By whom?” Michael demanded.

Juan shrugged. “She don’t say and I don’t ask. All I know is that since she started volunteering at the center, things have been different. She understands.”

“What center might that be?”

“St. Gerald’s Youth Center. Two blocks from here. Which means we’re close enough to check up on you.”

“Do I look impressed?” Michael countered.

“You look mean, but Brett told us that you’re not really.”

“What did she say I was, really?”

“Lonely.”

The observation stung. Slamming the coffee mug back on the rickety table, he glared at Juan before making his departure. He didn’t need this aggravation. Michael enjoyed his own company. He certainly didn’t need a snottynosed kid telling him what was wrong with his life.

As soon as Michael got back to his apartment, he turned on his computer and did some checking into Brett’s background. He learned that she was thirty and had no middle name. No criminal records. The pickup out front was hers and was apparently paid for. She only had one credit card and that had a modest fifteen-hundred-dollar limit. She was still paying off a large medical bill at a Northside hospital for a stay involving a surgical procedure almost two years ago.

Her job history was sporadic. She’d tried her hand at just about everything, from flipping “sliders” at a popular burger joint, to a stint as a waitress in a Rush Street watering hole, to working in a hardware store. She was only twenty credit-hours short of earning her degree in psychology, from Loyola no less. But she’d been a parttime student there longer than some people were president. She wasn’t attending classes now, but was registered for the next semester starting in mid-January.

There was no indication of her having any living relatives and she’d never been married. He wondered why not. With a loving heart like hers, she’d make some man a wonderful wife. She was great with kids, too. And smart. Caring. Sassy. No pushover. And she had the biggest blue eyes he’d ever seen.

Yes, he’d done right to hire her. It had been a wise and logical decision. That was his story and he was sticking to it.

“Are you crazy?” Michael shouted at Brett not even a week later.

“I was just…”

“I can see what you were doing. Trying to get your neck broken! That’s much too heavy for you to carry.”

“I wasn’t carrying it. I was using leverage…”

“Don’t do it again,” he interrupted her to order, moving the huge potted plant in the hallway for her. The thing weighed a ton. “Why are you moving this, anyway?”

“Because I needed to drain the radiator behind it.” Seeing his frown of confusion, she elaborated. “The tenants have all complained about the rattling radiators waking them up at night. The entire system needed to be bled, to get the air out of it. That’s what’s causing all the noise. This radiator is the last one to be done. I have to.”

He was distracted from the rest of her explanation by the way her eyes lit up as she talked. Had he ever met a woman with such an expressive face? He didn’t think so. And all this enthusiasm was about draining radiators, no less.

Today she was wearing a baggy sweatshirt. The color matched her blue eyes. A pair of black leggings encased her legs, the material lovingly following every curve.

“So how are you settling in?” he asked even though he already knew the answer. The tenants had been singing her praises and he hadn’t had any more tap dancing on his ceiling or middle-of-the-night irate phone calls. Which left him free to concentrate on his work, which should have taken up every second of his time as it had for the past five years of his life. Instead he’d actually caught himself daydreaming about Brett—the way she smiled, the way she’d looked with the sun haloing her short dark hair, the sound of her laughter, the way she lit up a room with her presence.

“Nicely.”

“What?” he asked absently, distracted by the cutest little dimple he’d just noticed at the corner of her lush mouth.

“I said I’m settling in nicely.” She hoped she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt. Michael was staring at her strangely again. His hazel eyes were fascinating enough as it was without adding that seductive look to the mix. Unable to help herself, she lifted her hand to rub her mouth as she asked, “Do I have dirt on my face or what?”

“No.”

“You were looking at me so intently.” He’d been staring directly at that corner of her mouth. She leaned forward to check her reflection in the glass beside the front door.

“You look fine,” he huskily assured her. “Better than fine.”

“Sure I do,” she said dryly. The man was either being kind or he was just plain blind. She knew the baggy sweatshirt had seen better days. So had she. She looked like an elf on a chain-gang crew. She hadn’t brushed her hair since this morning. Forget lipstick. She hadn’t worn any since Wednesday and this was Friday. Yeah, she was a regular Cindy Crawford look-alike.

“Don’t you go trying to lift anything else this heavy,” he scolded her, reaching out to brush her bangs away from her eyes. “Ask for some help next time, okay?”

She nodded dazedly. The merest brush of his hand and her knees went weak. The rattling radiators had nothing on the clatter of her heartbeat. She stood there after he’d walked away, her mind racing as fast as her pulse, filling her thoughts with images of Michael scooping her up in his arms and taking her to bed.

“Girl, you look like you got hit by lightning,” Keisha noted dryly as she walked in the front door to the building.

“Yeah.” Brett dreamily sighed. “I feel that way, too.”

“Oh-oh.”

“Why is it oh-oh?”

“I saw the way you-looked at Michael. He may not have owned this building long, but I told you I work as a security officer at the library’s main branch. Anyway, Michael is well known in security circles. Likes working alone, always solves his cases. Nothin’ slips past him.”

“That’s good, right?”

Keisha shrugged. “Girl, he doesn’t let anyone slow him down. As in females. He changes them often and likes them gorgeous.”

“Gorgeous, huh? Well, that lets me out of the running,” Brett noted ruefully.

“Don’t you be down on yourself. You got plenty going for you. I never seen a girl knows as much about hardware as you do.”

“I may know about hardware, but I don’t have any of my own,” Brett replied, waving her hand toward her small breasts.

“You never heard of those push-up bras they’ve got? My sister works in a lingerie store. Talk about hardware.” Keisha grinned and rolled her eyes. “We’re talking heavy-duty stuff here. We’ll go over there my next day off.”

“I don’t know…”

Keisha waved away Brett’s uncertainty. “I gotta get over there to pick out my Christmas present from Tyrone anyway.”

“You pick out your own present?”

“Only since he bought me a steam iron last year.”

Brett winced in appreciative understanding.

“So this year I pick out my own things. Safer that way. How ‘bout you? Got your shopping done yet? Christmas is only three weeks away.”

“I know. It’ll be here before you know it. I’m just about done with my shopping.” Despite the fact that Brett had no family, she did have a large list of people she remembered at the holidays. Since money was tight, it was always a challenge coming up with gift ideas under five dollars, but she managed. After all, practice makes perfect, and Brett had had plenty of practice at making a dollar stretch.

“You know what you’re gonna ask Santa for?” Keisha inquired.

The mental image of Michael with a bow around his neck flashed into Brett’s mind, followed by a picture of their children gathered around the tree. “Santa can’t give me what I want,” Brett whispered in a slightly melancholy voice, before dismissing the unobtainable image from her thoughts. “Tell me more about that lingerie shop your sister works in…”

While Brett was speaking to Keisha outside, inside his apartment Michael was talking to his dad, or attempting to.

“Fuji has better phones,” his father was saying. “I can hear you now.”

“So what do you know about a Janos family curse?”

“Curse? Have you been betting on the horses again?” his father demanded.

“No. I only bet on the horses once in my life, Dad. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“I got a package from Hungary. From someone who claims they are a relative.”

“Must be your Great-Aunt Magda. What did she send you?” his father demanded suspiciously.

“An engraved metal box with a silver key in it. And she sent along a letter.” Michael read it to his father. “Do you know what this is all about?”

“There is a spell,” his father confirmed before static broke into the line.

“Wait, I didn’t hear what else you said,” Michael shouted. “The line is breaking up again. Did you say that there really is a curse?”

“Not a curse. A spell…was meant to be bahtali.”

“I don’t understand. Are you still there?”

The only answer he got was static.

“Can you hear me?” Michael shouted.

“The entire building can hear you,” Brett wryly noted from the doorway to his apartment.

“How did you get in? Never mind. I’m on the phonelong distance.”

“I’ll try to call you when we reach Hawaii,” he heard his dad say over the briefly clear line.

“Dad, wait!” Michael said into the phone. “What about the bahtali?”

The dial tone was the only reply. Muttering a choice Hungarian curse under his breath, Michael hung up the phone.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Brett said contritely. “But the door to your apartment was ajar. You said you needed to approve any expense over thirty dollars and I forgot to tell you earlier that I think you’re going to have to replace all the bathtub and kitchen faucets in Keisha’s apartment.”

Instead of responding to her comments, Michael said, “What do you know about keys?”

She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Keys. What do you know about them?”

“That they unlock things. Why? Is someone having a problem with their locks?”

“What about a key like this?” Michael opened the Rom box and held out the silver key to her.

Brett suddenly felt as if she were on a merry-go-round going at 78 rpm. She was so dizzy she couldn’t stand straight. Putting out her hand, she reached for something to hold her upright, but found nothing but air—until Michael caught her in his arms.

The power of his embrace was both humbling and exhilarating. The world slipped away as she gazed into his eyes. He looked as dazed as she felt. Then passionate hunger replaced surprise. Seconds later he bent his head, slowly lowering his lips to brush hers.

What began as a soft inquisition was soon transformed into a fervent exploration as Michael claimed her mouth with bewitching kisses, urgently coaxing her lips apart. The beguiling thrust of his tongue made her weak at the knees.

Brett could feel his heart pounding beneath her hand, which she’d rested against his chest. Her fingers clutched his shirt at the wickedly pleasurable things he was doing to her. This was more than a kiss. It was a complete seduction of the senses.

The sound of metal clanging on the wooden floor echoed in her head, sounding as if she were standing inside the ringing Liberty Bell. Startled, she pulled away. “What was that?”

“I have no idea,” he said, his voice raspy.

She had the feeling he was referring to what had just happened between them. He might not have any idea, but she sure did. Brett was panicked that she was falling for him. No wonder Keisha had said oh-oh. It was as plain as the freckles on Brett’s nose that there was no hope for a woman like her with a man like him. So what if he’d kissed her? After all, she’d practically thrown herself at the poor man.

She stood frozen as he calmly picked up the silver key that had fallen on the floor and started talking about it-as if the mind-blowing kiss they’d just shared hadn’t happened.

Taking her cue from him, she bit her bottom lip and forced herself to concentrate on his words, trying to match his look of unconcern.

“This key came in that box I got—the one that arrived the same day you did.”

Great, she thought to herself. Now he made her sound like a package he’d received in the mail.

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