Star Dust (3 page)

“I’ll have to have your family over for dinner once I, you know, have the carpets cleaned.” He handed the pocketknife and scissors over with a broad, polished smile. He clearly felt as if they’d reached a détente.

All she said was, “Hmm.”

As she followed him out, there was another noise to accompany the crunching of crackers: a door opening. Into the midst of the carnage in Kit’s living room strode a woman wearing a frothy peignoir and nothing else.

The woman was young, blonde, and extremely pretty. Her hair was tangled and her makeup blurred—not particularly surprising, given what had evidently gone on here—but she bounced in all the right places.

If the
Life
article was to be believed, Kit was unmarried. And indeed he wasn’t wearing a ring. The woman, presumably not his wife, was unmoved by it. All of it. The mess. Anne-Marie’s presence. The blood all over her shirt. Kit’s evident absence from his bed.

The young woman just scratched her head and smiled at them. “Morning.”

Anne-Marie glanced at Kit, who had flushed scarlet. When he didn’t say anything, Anne-Marie offered, “Right. Good morning. I was just going. Thanks for the, uh, bandage. And the knife. And the scissors. I’ll bring them back when I’m done.”

She wrenched the door open before he could respond and strode back across the yard. She’d been hoping for a new start in Lake Glade, but she should have known that men were the same everywhere.

Without feeling even a hint of disappointment, she started opening boxes and putting together her home.

Kit Campbell found himself wishing for a large broom. One big enough to sweep all of this mess away with a flick of the wrist.

A rustling rose from his sofa, chiffon against leather. Miss Delancy, taking a seat as she too surveyed the damage.

The broom would have to be big enough to entangle the problem of Miss Delancy in its bristles along with the rest of it. But there was only Kit and his two hands.

He spotted a heavy tan trench coat lying across the chair, much too much coat for a Texas winter. She ought to try some of the blizzards from his youth in Nebraska—now
they
had been cold.

“You didn’t bring anything else to wear?” he asked.

“No.” The word floated up from the couch. “They told me to come in my nightie and the trench.”

They
being Carruthers and Storch, two of his co-astronauts. Miss Delancy was their idea of a present.

Well, last night he couldn’t refuse. This morning, with her flitting among the wreckage of the house, the bloom was off. Which was why, even though he was unmarried, he preferred his trysts to happen in hotels—he could up and leave when it was done. No awkward morning-afters.

He lifted the trench coat from the chair, causing a landslide of beer bottles. The crash of them stabbed into the ache between his brows. A green one came to rest against his bare foot, stale beer dripping onto his big toe. Henkins had brought those, some kind of European beer. But the fancy label didn’t make it taste any different from Budweiser to him.

He nudged the bottle away and carried the coat over to Miss Delancy. Her bouffant had transformed into a nest that could have housed several families of rats, and her eyeliner was now mostly underneath her eyes. The smearing of her mask from last night revealed she was younger than he might have guessed.

“Why don’t you put this on? I’ll find you something to wear and we’ll call a cab.”

She stood and slipped the trench around her thin shoulders, keeping her gaze on the floor. She settled back into the black leather couch and gave the living room a sad glance before offering him a wistful smile. “Kind of a mess, huh?”

“Yeah.” He wasn’t certain if she meant the state of the house or if she was including herself. He stepped back, something hard snapping under his bare foot and digging sharply into his heel. He bit back some foul words. It was in fact a damned mess. “I’ll just go rustle up some clothes and call a cab.”

“You know,” she said, a hopeful spark entering her gaze, “I’m free tonight. Or this weekend. If you wanted to get together again.”

Aw, hell
. Another point in favor of hotels—he could get clear before this kind of talk started up. See a woman a second time and she might start thinking she was going to be on the cover of
Life
too, right next to her astronaut husband.

“We’ll be real busy with training this week,” he said. They would be, not that his training schedule ever slowed his nighttime activities. “I’ll call you if I get a moment.” He gave her a charming smile to ease the sting. “I’ll just go get those clothes.”

He picked his way across the living room toward the hall, dodging stale crumbs, empty bottles, and crumpled party hats. He straightened a picture, a modern thing with different-colored blocks. The one in the lower corner flamed orange. Mrs. Smith’s hair was that same color. And her freckles—she had a veritable Milky Way of freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks.

Yet another lady he’d disappointed today. He’d seen her expression when he’d made that joke about calling him Kit. But she’d called him Christopher—which he hated—and she’d mentioned
Life
. His facade was thinning these days.

Perhaps he ought to go help them unpack when he was finished with this mess and introduce himself to Mr. Smith. Funny that Mr. Smith didn’t have a pocketknife handy. And hadn’t helped her bandage that wound. Kit frowned.

Given the looks Mrs. Smith had been giving him, or rather his chest, Kit didn’t think Mr. Smith was keeping her too happy. Kit had never slept with a married woman before—there were so many single ones to choose from—but the way Mrs. Smith had looked at him made him reconsider.

He scrubbed a hand through his regulation crew cut as he walked into his bedroom. No, better not sleep with Mrs. Smith. The awkward mornings after would never end if he bedded the woman next door.

Not to mention her kids. A sour taste filled his mouth. He never really knew what to do with kids. If all of America expected him to be a hero, the kids expected him to be a god. He wasn’t, which made interactions with them awkward. And now he had a couple of them living next door.

He rummaged in his drawers for something suitable for Miss Delancy, coming across two more copies of that stupid magazine lying on the dresser. He tossed them onto the growing pile at the back of his closet, cover after cover of himself along with the other five members of the Perseid Six—the second group of astronauts, the ones who were going to help America win the space race.
 

For some reason, people wouldn’t stop bringing him the magazines, thinking they were doing him some kind of favor.

He settled on some sweatpants and one of his undershirts for the girl. Not quite respectable, but better than her current getup.

He took the back way through the hall to the kitchen, not wanting to face Miss Delancy again just yet. He pulled the phone book from the cabinet next to the phone, flipping to the C’s. As he did, his gaze landed on the spec manual he was supposed to be reading today, the edges curled and sticky with… beer? He lifted it to his nose and sniffed. Beer. Parsons was going to love that.
 

He set the spec manual aside. It would have to wait until the house was back in order. And after he’d helped the Smiths.

Which didn’t leave much time. He tapped a forefinger against the cover consideringly. Parsons was already on his case—he didn’t need to give the man any more reasons to bust him down from backup on this mission. Because if anything happened to Joe Reynolds—not that he wanted anything to—Kit was going to space.

He took his bottom lip and rolled it between his teeth at the thought. Floating in zero G, the stars ever present, Earth beneath him—he’d be breaching a frontier few men would ever see.

His breathing went slow and deep, his eyelids coming to half-mast. He’d do it someday—not as backup, but as mission lead. All those years learning to fly, the nightmare of Korea, the rigors of astronaut training, hell, even Parsons and his foul temper—it would all be worth it, once he was floating in the stars.

But first he needed to call a cab and clean up this house. Earth life was so damn mundane.

Once the cab company was called and Miss Delancy had something more suitable to wear, he let the dog out of the bedroom where he’d been contained. Then Kit took the trash bin in one hand and began clearing away the debris. As he was tossing away a plate of chicken wings that had taken on a stomach-curling smell, Buckshot came trotting up with a scrap of something blue and filmy in his jaws.

Kit dropped the trashcan. “Bucky, sit.”

The pointer’s butt hit the shag carpet, but he held on to his prize.

“Drop it.”

Bucky hunched his head in protest, but eventually released it. Kit held up the scrap, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. A shirt? A lady’s shirt?

He tossed it into the garbage. Whoever the owner was, she wouldn’t want it after it’d been in Bucky’s mouth.

“I don’t even want to know where you got that.”

Bucky trotted off, liver-spotted haunches wiggling with supreme unconcern.

“And don’t you dare eat any of those chicken bones!” Kit shouted after him.

“What?” Miss Delancy called from the bathroom.

“The dog,” Kit explained.

“What?” she called again, even louder.

Kit shook his head and wished the cab would hurry up and appear. Sometimes a man just wanted to talk to his dog in peace. “Nothing,” he yelled back.

He tossed more trash into the bin, including what might have been more women’s clothes and three more copies of
Life
, and set aside keys that someone had left. Bucky, for his part, licked industriously at some dip smeared into a rug.

Kit cleared the sideboard in the dining room with one sweep of his arm, delighting in the juvenile joy of it. His mother had insisted he needed the massive thing, along with the dining room table, the china, and the living room set. Sleek and modern, “space-age furniture for a space-age man,” the salesman had said.

He preferred his ancient sofa in the den. After spending his Navy career in assigned housing, it was still odd to have a house all his own. The developers had offered the houses practically free to the Perseid Six, and he would have been crazy to turn one down.

Miss Delancy came out of the bathroom after a time, wearing his clothes—or more accurately, swimming in them—her makeup washed off and her hair somewhat tamed. And looking even younger than before.

“Can’t you just leave this for the housekeeper?” she asked before yawning widely.

“I don’t have a housekeeper.” He replaced a lampshade, poked a finger through the hole torn in it. He twisted it toward the wall. Good as new.

Her eyes went wide. “But you’re not married. How do you take care of this? Or cook?”

Another illusion shattered. Heroes didn’t cook. Or clean. Or use the toilet.

“I manage,” he said lightly.
 

A honk sounded from the front drive. The cab. Thank God.

“Your ride is here,” he said, trying not to sound as pleased as he was.

Bucky went to the door to bark furiously.

“Yeah, I already know,” Kit said as he opened the door for Miss Delancy. Wrapped in the trench, his sweatpants pooling around her ankles, she looked like a modern urchin. They filed past his T-Bird in the driveway, Bucky running off to investigate the bush by the mailbox. Kit winced at the scuffs marring the car’s paint. He hoped they’d buff out—yet another chore to put on the list.

The cab was waiting at the end of the driveway, rumbling like a monstrous bumblebee. The driver, an older gentleman, helped her into the back with old-fashioned courtesy. But when he turned, he pursed his lips and gave Kit a disapproving shake of his head.

Kit held his tongue. Instead, he waved to Miss Delancy as the car pulled away, keeping his smile pasted to his face. Only once the car was out of sight did he let himself sag.

Now just to finish the house. And then be a good neighbor.

He turned to look at the Smiths’ house. Through the windows he could see her watching him, his pocketknife held in her hand, her finger wrapped in gauze. She looked pissed. At him?

As he watched, her fist tightened on the handle of the knife, something more coming into her expression.
Awareness.
 

Huh. She was definitely attracted to him. And she was angry about it. Or maybe she was angry at Miss Delancy. Or Mr. Smith.

Interesting.
He liked redheads, particularly those who looked at him with so much fire.

He put on the “most charming smile in America,” bland though it was, and punctuated it with a wave. She was his married neighbor—best to tread carefully.

He saw her nostrils flare in a sniff even from here, before she turned away to attack another box.

Well. Looked like he wasn’t going over there, at least not if he didn’t want to be disemboweled. It was for the best; he’d wait until Mr. Smith showed himself. There was no need to get caught alone with Mrs. Smith again, or caught up in a messy affair—no matter how intriguing he found her.