Divine Design (8 page)

A bewildered Michael stepped cautiously into Meghan’s cheerful apartment and quietly closed the door. Entering the living room, he guessed she had disappeared into the kitchen, because from around the corner came a conspicuous barrage of crashes and clangs and resounding clatter. Through the din he thought he heard a string of low-spoken expletives, but when the clamor finally ceased, Meghan walked calmly and slowly into the room and leaned serenely, and to Michael’s eye very seductively, against the wall.

Aside from the fact that she was a little pale, more than likely from nerves, she looked ravishing, and Michael’s heart began to beat at a rapid-fire pace.

“Hi,” she croaked softly, giving him a nervous smile. “Are you ready to go?”

“Sure … unless you’d rather have a drink here and relax a little bit first. We have lots of time,” he offered obligingly.

“A drink?” she asked blankly, her mind-over-matter delusion needing her full concentration.

“Yes, a drink. Usually it’s some sort of fluid … in a glass or a cup. I’m not picky,” he said graciously. “Water is fine. Or tea or coffee. Even vegetable juice.” He paused, watching her curiously. “Anything but oyster juice,” he said. “I’m not overly fond of oyster juice.”

“Oyster juice?” she pronounced, her beautifully green and expressive eyes staring at him woefully.

“Yeah,” he said, baffled by her strange reactions. “In fact,” he went on, “about the only things I absolutely refuse to put in my mouth are oyster juice, cow tongue, and sushi.”

“Oh Lord, Michael!” she spat out in disgust as she raced into the bedroom.

After several minutes of kicking his heels around in the living room, completely disoriented by the situation, Michael wondered if he ought to check on her—maybe apologize for something.

Hanging over the toilet, a disgruntled Meghan tossed what she hoped was her last cracker and sighed deeply.

“Meghan? Are you all right,” came Michael’s deep baritone voice through the door.

“I’ll be fine,” she called, jumping up dizzily to turn on the shower, which would muffle any noises she made. “Just go, Michael. Go into the kitchen and drink anything you like,” she said, and then as an afterthought added, “If you see anything you’re not … overly fond of, just … put it in the garbage,” she managed to say before she belched reminiscently.

She assumed Michael had gone in search of a drink, because he didn’t say anything else. She stretched out on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor until the nausea and light-headedness subsided. Slowly, she brought herself back to a standing position. Not one to be overly concerned with her looks when death was threatening, she splashed cold water on her face and patted it dry. Taking deep, calming breaths, she turned off the shower and moved to the door, wondering how on earth she’d ever explain this to Michael.

Michael had drawn his own conclusions. Meghan found him sitting on her bed waiting for her.

“A little under the weather, huh?” he said sympathetically, kindness and concern etched on his face. His gray eyes examined her astutely as she held onto the doorjamb for support. “Must be the flu. It’s that season,” he deduced.

“Lucy says there’s a lot of it going around,” she muttered, nodding in agreement. It was better than anything her foggy brain had come up with.

“Poor thing. Come here, and I’ll help you get into bed,” he commiserated. As he stood, she saw he was holding an old flannel nightgown that had been buried so far down in her dresser, she’d forgotten she had it. As she looked from the gown to her dresser, he explained unselfconsciously, “It’ll keep you warmer than the others. Come here.”

Reluctantly, she went to him. If he brought out his horsewhip now, she’d be too weak to stop him, she thought.

He turned her away from him and began to draw down the zipper at the back of her neck. She spun around, clutching her dress to her, panic rising to temporarily replace her nausea.

“Don’t be silly, Meghan,” he said wryly. “I’ve already seen all there is to see.”

That’s what you think, she said to herself.

“And I’ve never before attacked a woman on her deathbed,” he finished, turning her again. As he unzipped her dress, he murmured, “Of course, there’s a first time for everything.”

When she jerked around to face him once again, fear and outrage in her green eyes, he laughed deep and low in his throat and grinned at her charmingly.

“I’m teasing, Meghan,” he said in a soothing voice as he began to peel her clothes away. He held her flannel gown while she wiggled into it, and when she had finished, he turned her around and buttoned up the opening in back.

“I’ll do that,” he informed her, as she started to hang up her dress. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have bothered, but she’d paid a small fortune for this bit of designer camouflage and thought it might be worth taking care of.

With Meghan in bed, Michael placed a cool, damp cloth over her forehead and tucked the blanket up around her neck. He regarded her with concern for several minutes, then started to leave the room. “Be right back,” he said over his shoulder.

In the kitchen he pondered the tricks one’s mind could play. He had thought he’d remembered her body as well as he knew his own, but his memory hadn’t recalled her being quite so full breasted, and her formerly flat abdomen was in actuality just slightly rounded. Neither error made much difference. She was still as incredibly lovely as she had been in all his dreams.

Meghan was feeling perfectly well by now, but her heart and mind were racing a mile a minute. She marveled at the way his most casual touch affected her. Her whole body was tingling with excitement. Aside from the fact that she hadn’t gone out with anyone since the night she’d met Michael, no one before that had ever made her feel this way. Actually, it was a little frightening.

Michael entered the room again. “Would you like me to stay on the couch tonight? In case you need anything?” he offered, placing a glass of water on her bedside table.

“Oh, no,” she said, alarmed. “I … I just like being left alone when I’m ill. Thank you, anyway. And I’m … sorry about our date.”

“I’m just sorry I didn’t notice how sick and pale you were,” he confessed.

“Don’t feel bad, please. It’s my hair.”

“Your hair?” he repeated stupidly.

“Uh-huh. Redheads are notoriously pale. And when pale gets paler, it’s still just pale,” she explained, as if it made perfect sense.

“I see. Well, that makes me feel a little better, anyway,” he said, his lips twitching into an amused grin. “If you don’t want me to stay, will you at least make me a promise?”

“Sure,” she said amiably.

“Call me if there’s anything you need, or anything I can do to help,” he said, indicating that the paper he laid beside her phone had his number on it.

“I promise,” she vowed.

He leaned over and dropped a warm, sweet kiss on her forehead, replaced the cloth, and stood grinning down on her.

“I’m taking a rain check on our dinner, Meghan. You get well quickly,” he ordered.

She returned his grin brilliantly and promised, “I will and … thank you, Michael.”

“Good night, Meghan.”

“Good night.”

Michael left the light in the hall burning because it shed enough of a glow to illuminate most of her apartment.

He scanned her living room trying to glean more information about her. It was a neat, tidy, and impeccably clean room. He added domestic to his list of details about her.

On a table near one of the chairs he spied three photographs. One of an older couple and a young woman, which didn’t offer much information other than that all three were blond. The second picture was of Meghan and three red-headed men. One man was older, and his hair, like the others, was the identical shade of Meghan’s, but was showing signs of gray. Her family.

The last picture was older than the others. It depicted a blond woman, who looked remarkably like Meghan, and the red-headed man, looking years younger, from the previous picture. Her parents, he realized.

What a treasure chest he’d found. She was sentimental, devoted to family, and came from a line of red-haired, green-eyed kinsmen.

Well, that was enough to go on for now. It was more than he’d known a week ago.

“Michael? Are you still here?” came Meghan’s tired voice.

“Yes,” he whispered guiltily, as he went down the hall again and stuck his head into the room. “It occurred to me you might want an aspirin or something to settle your stomach.” He’d always been quick on his feet, he thought gratefully.

“No. Thank you,” she whispered back. “I don’t take any kind of medication, except some vitamins that Lucy gives me. I usually just ride these illnesses out.”

“Well, okay then, good night,” he said, as he added “health conscious” to his list of Meghan’s traits and left the apartment.

Meghan breathed a sigh of relief when she finally heard the door close softly and latch itself. She’d listened to him prowling around out there and had held her breath. From his tone, he had obviously found nothing questionable and Meghan thanked the heavens for her continued good fortune.

Ambiguity reigned again as she was torn between the joy of her good luck and the disgrace of continuing to deceive Michael. He had been so kind and gentle. It amazed her that such a Goliath of a man could be so tender and comforting. He was a charming man, and Meghan felt really sad about having to get rid of him somehow.

She snuggled under the covers and put her mind to other, more immediate problems—such as how could she drag her nonexistent flu out for the next three weeks without Michael getting suspicious?

M
EGHAN CALLED IN
sick on Friday as part of her ploy. She did, however, finish some work she’d brought home with her. One of those cases was Michael’s. She made several calls regarding the matter, and phoned Greta to request that some additional information be gathered for her by Monday. Shortly after noon when Michael called to check on her, she told him she was better but still a little woozy when she got out of bed.

Not quite an hour later, there was a soft knock at her door seconds before her doorbell chimed. Frowning, Meghan went to the door and called, “Who is it, please?”

“Michael.”

“One minute, Michael,” she stalled. And that was all it took to scoop up her files, run down the hall, and throw them in the spare room. She shucked her sweatpants and T-shirt and climbed into her robe, messing her hair and adopting a haggard look as she headed back to the door.

She shook her arms to loosen her muscles, slouched her shoulders, and tried to look pathetic as she peered around the door at Michael.

“Oh. Hi, Michael,” she greeted him weakly.

“Hi. You look as awful as you sounded on the phone, poor darlin’,” he graciously commented with concern. “May I come in? I’ve brought you something.”

“I don’t know, Michael.” She hesitated. “I wouldn’t want you to catch my bug.” She pulled her head back to cough disgustingly into the sleeve of her terry robe.

“Impossible,” Michael said confidently. “I never catch stuff like that. I’m as healthy as an ox,” he assured her.

“Well, maybe in Texas. But this is New York. We have very potent germs here,” she warned him.

“Maybe, but ours are probably bigger and stronger, so it all evens out in the end, I imagine,” he said, grinning. “Are you going to let me in, or am I going to have to force the door open?”

Meghan had to admit that in all likelihood, his chances of catching her particular condition were impossible, and her chances of getting him to go away were just about as good. So with a weary sigh, she widened the gap in the door, allowing him to enter.

“If you brought me chocolates, I think I should warn you that my throat is all raw, and I probably won’t be able to eat them,” she whined peevishly as she thought a sick person might.

“Much better than chocolate when you’re sick is my mother’s beef broth,” he informed her cheerfully, ignoring her distemper. “I think you call it bouillon up here, at least that’s what the chef at the Essex called it when I gave him the recipe,” he said, heading for her kitchen.

“You called your mother for her recipe for beef broth?” she asked, so amazed she forgot to sound sick, as she followed him into the kitchen.

“Sure did,” he said over his shoulder, looking for a pot. “And you’ll thank me someday, because it’ll get you back on your feet and feeling as healthy as a horse.”

Meghan thought it appropriate that a Texan would think it took beef broth to make you feel like a horse, but she kept it to herself. Her thoughts and emotions in turmoil, she felt like a piece of gum stuck to the sole of somebody’s shoe. This huge man was so innately good and kind, he could kill her with guilt and shame. Her eyes began to fill with tears, and her heart was heavy with remorse. Why couldn’t things be different?

“This’ll fix up those watery eyes too,” he said sympathetically. “You go sit down and I’ll bring this in to you.”

“You really don’t need to wait on me,” she protested. “You’ve gone to too much trouble as it is.”

“Liberated women,” he said irreverently with a shake of his big, dark head. “You’ll do yourselves in if you don’t let people help you once in a while.”

Too weary to argue the point, Meghan shuffled off to the couch. Plopping down onto the cushions, she drew her feet up and tucked her robe around them. How was she going to get out of this one? she asked herself with a heavy sigh. “Tell him,” her conscience told her emphatically. “Tell him and get it over with.” Meghan knew it was good advice and she wanted to use it, but she knew she wouldn’t, couldn’t today. Why did he have to be so nice? It was very hard being cruel to a nice person, she concluded miserably. And she knew that whichever road she eventually took, Michael was bound to be hurt.

“Here ya go,” he said, carefully carrying the bowl of thin soup and placing it in her lap. “Now eat up while it’s hot.”

Spoonful after tasteless spoonful, Meghan ate, aware only of the man sitting beside her watching her solicitously, and the jangling of her nerves that grew stronger with each mouthful. She slid him a quick glance and saw he was smiling in a very self-satisfied way.