When Somebody Loves You (5 page)

He didn’t wait for her to speak. “I’ve got something to say to you, and unless you want the whole damn neighborhood to hear it, I suggest you let me in.”

Given the fact that he was madder than a dog who’d been stripped of his favorite bone, Michael was pleased with the outward calm with which he delivered his ultimatum. But when January hesitated and he sensed her next move, the rest came out on a growl. “So help me, Counselor, you slam this door in my face again, you’ll regret it.”

If his threat bothered her, she didn’t show it. Her gaze met his in brief eye-to-eye combat before she expelled a patronizing sigh. Taking her sweet time about it, she unlatched and opened the door.

“Please make it quick,” she said as she stood aside and shut the door behind him. “I’ve got a lot to do tonight.”

Lord, but she was a piece of work, Michael thought. He ought to pound his soft head against a hard wall a couple of times for ever thinking she was vulnerable or sweet or sadly in need of a protector. The lady needed a protector like Wall Street needed another crash.

“You know what your problem is?” he asked, taking a superior swagger toward her. “You are an uptight, uptown, uppity little witch who can’t stand the idea of a man—any man—exercising even the tiniest influence over your actions!”

She faced him, arms crossed over her breasts in casual defiance, her expression a perfect study of bored tolerance. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Two beers. I’ve had two lousy beers and as cold and frosty as they were, they didn’t hold a candle to that facsimile of a kiss I had the bad judgment to think I wanted from you.”

That, he knew, was hitting below the belt. But his pride was at stake here, and he wanted at the very least to insult hers.

He was cruising for a good shouting match, yet she wasn’t about to deliver. He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled. He wanted to kiss that benign scowl off her face. Then he wanted to make love to her until she was chanting his name like a prayer.

She should have had the good grace to look wounded, he thought. Or at least to call him a few names. But she just stood there, her chin held high, her hands cradling her elbows, waiting for the next insult to fly.

Irked with himself for even being there, irked with her for her lack of reaction—any reaction—he stepped toward her.

“Dammit, January,” he muttered, raising a hand in frustration.

In a lightning move, she shrank away from him, covering her head protectively. “Don’t . . . please don’t.”

Michael’s hand froze in midair. He was so stunned by her reaction, he didn’t understand its significance for a moment. She was waiting for a blow. She thought he was going to hit her.

His stomach lurched with revulsion as suddenly everything became clear. Too clear. Too sickeningly, disgustingly clear.

All along he’d sensed she was afraid of something. Now he knew what that something was . . . the back of his hand. Evidently some low-rent, slimy bastard had knocked her around, and she figured every man would give her the same treatment.

Fighting a rage unlike any he’d ever known, at the thought of someone, anyone, touching her violently, he lifted his hand to its original destination and dragged it through his hair.

“January . . .” He swallowed hard and wondered where to go from here. “January, I don’t hit women.”

She drew a steadying breath, then, looking embarrassed, pulled herself together. “I think you’d better leave.”

Michael’s gaze never left her face. It all made sense now, he mused, the iceberg shoulder, the crusty indifference. They were shields to hide the vulnerability, the shame, the fear that kept her from confiding in him. “Look at me, January.”

He wasn’t sure what emotion propelled her—defiance, pride, or sheer will—but she returned his gaze levelly.

“I am not like him. Whoever he was, I am not like him. Give me the chance to show you that. Give me the chance to show you how good it could be between us. That’s all I want, the chance to show you something good.”

She wasn’t having any of it. Not tonight. Her eyes were suspiciously bright, and he could tell by the slight trembling she was working so hard to conceal that she was holding herself together by a very thin thread.

One of the hardest things he’d ever done was leaving her like that and walking out the door.

“Did you know he has a dog?”

“Leonard has a dog?” January asked, glancing up from her salad and meeting Helen’s eyes. They were sharing a late lunch at January’s desk. Helen had been recounting her previous night’s date with Leonard.

“Oh, goodness no.” Helen laughed around the folds of a paper napkin and carefully patted her mouth so that her lip gloss—the color, she’d informed January with a wicked grin, was Passionate Pumpkin—wouldn’t smear. “Leonard can hardly take care of himself, let alone a dog. Michael. Michael has a dog. A big bushy hound named George. George the Bush. Get it? Don’t ya just love it?”

January sighed and speared a crouton with her fork. It had been this way for over a week now. Since the night Michael had left her cowering like a whipped dog in the rain, he’d been dropping by the office to “chat” with Helen. Helen, in turn, never missed an opportunity to work some of her newfound information about her “suitor elect” into conversations with January.

“His cat’s name is Fluffy,” Helen added.

January set aside her fork, fighting the picture that came to mind. Slowly removing her glasses, she studied Helen suspiciously. “Michael has a cat named Fluffy?”

“No, dear. Leonard. Leonard has a cat named Fluffy, though I can’t for the life of me figure out why he gave it that name. Mangy critter has less hair than Leonard. I truly don’t know why he keeps it around. Cats are so independent, they don’t really need anyone to take care of them. Well, there, I guess I answered my own question, didn’t I?” She giggled. Ignoring January’s narrowed eyes, she busied herself stirring artificial sweetener into her tea and saturating her salad in French dressing. “Now a horse, there’s an animal that requires a lot of care.”

January sighed, regretting her question even as she asked it. “Who has a horse?”

Helen stared thoughtfully into space, her Sizzling Strawberry eye shadow giving her an otherworldly look. Finally she shrugged and said, “Oh, nobody I can think of, sweetie, but Michael could certainly have one if he wanted to. What with his family owning a cabin up in the mountains and all.”

She’d had to reach quite a way for that one, but January gave Helen credit. She was a craftsman. January felt like she was watching Helen piece together a patchwork quilt called “The Life and Times of Michael Hayward.” So now she knew that Michael had a dog and a cabin in the mountains. A couple more squares to add to the quilt Helen had been working on all week. January already knew far more about Michael Hayward than she wanted to. She knew enough to make him seem too human, too real . . . too nice.

She knew, for instance, that Michael owned a co-op apartment in New York City. Now that he was back in Boulder, though, he intended to sell the apartment and make Boulder his permanent residence. She also knew why he had gravitated to Boulder in the first place. Boulder was his birthplace. When she had met up with him eighteen years ago, he’d been living in Chicago. Evidently his work had taken him there, and since then it had taken him a little bit of everywhere. His family had remained settled in the Boulder area, and Michael, according to Helen, was a family-oriented man. His younger brother, Rob, was an engineer for the city development committee in nearby Longmont, and his sister, Gretchen, was married and lived in Boulder with her husband and two children. Finally, both of Michael’s parents were retired and living in Denver. He wanted to be closer to all of them.

“Doesn’t it sound romantic?” Helen’s dreamy voice broke into January’s thoughts. “A mountain retreat. Just imagine, moonlight on a fresh snowfall, a crackling fire in a huge stone hearth—”

“Helen . . .” January warned, but Helen went on like she hadn’t heard.

“My Jack took me to a place like that for our honeymoon. It was one of the happiest times of my life.”

The protest January was about to issue died on her lips when she saw the faraway and poignant expression in Helen’s eyes. Blinking hard, Helen met January’s gaze. “You are blowing a very good thing here, sweetie.”

January shook her head. “Helen, please—”

“January,” Helen interrupted sternly, “I’m telling you, you are making the mistake of your life. This man is a special man. And despite the fact that you’ve done everything but kick him in the teeth, he keeps coming back. Do you have any idea what an unusual trait that is in a man as strong as he is? When are you going to get wise to the fact that he is no threat to you? That excuse he trumped up about wanting to do an article was only that, an excuse to find a way to meet you. All he wants from you is a chance to be with you.”

January lost her appetite for her salad. “Helen, you know my reasons.”

“Honey, I know. And I understand. But Jan, you can’t judge all men by your father. And you can’t live your entire life through your work. It’s not healthy. It’s not even wise. You have so much courage. Show some of it now and take a chance on finding a little happiness, on having—heaven forbid—a little fun. Honey, you’re entitled.”

Entitled. That was a term January had never even vaguely associated with herself. Entitled. She rolled the thought around in her mind, but it drifted away in the wake of a still-vivid, still-terrifying childhood memory.

“Jan?”

She snapped her gaze to Helen’s with a start.

“Honey, where were you? You looked like you were a million miles away.”

January fought back unexpected threatening tears. She hadn’t cried since she was a little girl. “I was,” she said quietly. “I was a million miles away.”

The sympathetic expression on Helen’s face compelled January to confide something she’d never told another living soul. “My name was Elaine January Griffin,” she said slowly. “Elaine, for my mother’s sister. January, because my father took one look at me when I was born and said I was the spitting image of my mom. And since my mom was the coldest bitch he’d ever known, he wanted me named for the month that was as cold as she was.” She thought of Michael comparing her kisses to cold beer and smiled tightly. “Some legacy, huh?”

“Oh, baby.”

“What if I’m just like her, Helen?” She let the older woman see a weakness she’d never dared reveal, and it scared the hell out of her. “What if I can’t respond to a man the way he needs a woman to respond to him? Maybe my father had a reason to drink. Maybe my mother’s coldness drove him to it.”

“And maybe your father’s drinking was the reason your mother couldn’t respond. In any event, you are
not
your mother. Despite everything you’ve been through, you’re a warm, loving individual. Give yourself a chance to find out that you are also a warm, loving woman. Don’t hide behind your fears any longer. Give Michael a chance.”

She shook her head. “He scares me, Helen.”

“Of course he does. He’s the first man who’s had a hide thick enough to take all the dirt you dish out and not tuck his tail between his legs and run away. Honey, you shouldn’t let his persistence intimidate you. Let it lift you. He’s one gorgeous hunk of man. Enjoy him.”

“Enjoy him?”

“Yes, enjoy him. You do understand the term ‘enjoy,’ don’t you? It’s a bold new concept, I know, but rumor has it that it’s catching on. Why, I understand some people actually work just five days a week now and take the other two days—I believe they call it a weekend—to relax and do fun things like date. Whoops, there’s another new term for you. I’ll explain—”

“Enough.” January laughed. “I get the picture.”

“We can only hope.”

January smiled warmly. “You are a wild and wonderful woman.” It was the closest she could come to an admission of love.

Helen flashed her a Cheshire cat grin. “So Leonard was saying last night.”

As if on cue, the phone rang. Helen pounced on it.

“Good afternoon, January Stewart’s office, how may I help you?” A wide, saucy grin split her face. “You make that request one more time, sweet thing, and I just might take you up on it.”

January knew immediately that Michael was on the other end of the line. She felt her heart stutter, then slide into a deep, heavy cadence.

“How’s my favorite flirt today?” Helen asked, then laughed wickedly. “I’ll just bet you are.” She giggled again, then listened. “January?” Helen raised a hopeful brow her way.

She came close, she really did, but in the end she couldn’t make herself do it. Almost painfully, January shook her head.

Helen smiled sadly and turned back to the phone. “No, I’m sorry, Michael. She’s not . . .” Helen paused, then finally finished, “. . . available. No, I couldn’t say when. What? Oh, sure. I’ll give her the message. You, too, you big rascal.”

She hung up and said flatly, “Michael says hello.”

January fixed her concentration on the cherry tomato she’d been chasing around her salad bowl for the past five minutes and waited for the lecture she knew would follow. It didn’t come. Instead, Helen gathered the remains of her lunch and, clucking like a chicken, flapped her way out of the room.