Part-Time Fiance. Leigh Michaels

would be a useful thing to have on hand.”

      Delainey bit her lip. There was no sense in answering something that so obviously hadn’t been intended as a question.

      Drawers rattled, paper rustled, and she heard a muttered curse. Then he came back with her silver sugar tongs in his hand and dropped to his knees by the fireplace.

      Delainey put out a hand to stop him. “You can’t use those! That’s silver—”

      “Watch me.” The tongs gleamed red in the firelight as he reached over the flames, up into the chimney, and pulled. There was a metallic thud, and he sat back on his heels.

      The air was still thick and gray, but instead of rolling into the room now, the smoke was going up the chimney.

      “A fireplace works better when you open the damper before you strike the match,” he said.

      “I guess I should have known that.” Delaney watched as he patted out a spark which had settled on the front of the sweatshirt. “I hope you didn’t get burned.”

      “Singed the hair on my arms a little.” He stood up. “Those bundles of so-called firewood are pretty useless—and that’s a good thing. If the wood hadn’t been dry as cardboard, you’d have had smoke so thick you’d have had to knock a hole in the roof to vent it.”

      He was right about the firewood, Delainey realized. The blaze was already dying down; the half-dozen sticks were little more than embers. It hadn’t even been a hot enough blaze to melt the few snowflakes that still clung to his hair.

      “Thanks,” she said. “ I’m sorry for yelling at you about the tongs. And I’ll replace the sweatshirt.”

      “No need. It’s been exposed to worse things than sparks.” He handed the tongs to her. “Don’t close the damper till the fire’s completely out.”

      She nodded, but she was thinking, As if I’m actually going to touch that fireplace ever again!

      “Is there anything else you’d like me to do for you?” he said pleasantly.

      Delainey bit her lip as she recognized her own words quoted back at her. “No, I think that takes care of it.” What had he said his name was? Wagner, that was it. “Thanks again, Mr. Wagner.”

      “Sam,” he said.

      “What?”

      “It’s just a quirk of mine, but I think a lady who entertains in her pajamas should be on a first name basis with her guests.”

      Delainey gritted her teeth and brushed feebly at a sooty streak on her satin sleeve.

      He smiled and turned toward the French door. “Want me to close this, or are you planning to just stand in here and freeze?”

      Damn the man; he had the memory of a tape recorder. “I think I’ll let the place air out a little more first.” She looked down at the silver tongs in her hand, now smudged with smoke, and added tentatively, “Honestly, I’m not incompetent in general. Just inexperienced with fireplaces.”

      “Well, that’s good,” Sam said. “Because I was really starting to worry about what might happen when you tried to take a shower.”

      He was whistling as he crossed the patio toward his own back door.

      I’m buying a poker tomorrow, Delainey thought. But not for the fireplace. Just so I’ll have it handy to use as a murder weapon.

      The doorbell rang as Delainey was coming down the stairs the next morning, still tightening an earring. She peeked out to see a woman on the doorstep, every gray hair in place and a basket in her hand.

      “Welcome to the neighborhood,” the woman said when Delainey opened the door. “My name’s Emma Ashford and I live right around the corner.” She held out the basket. “Muffins for your first breakfast in your new home. Actually, I tried to leave some for you last night, but your moving men seemed to think I was taking pity on them and by the time I’d explained, they’d cleaned up every crumb.”

      Delainey inhaled the rich fragrance of vanilla and cinnamon which rose from the folds of the napkin which lined the basket. “So you baked these this morning? I’ll have to thank the moving men for being greedy, because I get muffins straight from the oven…. Won’t you come in?”

      Emma hesitated. “I don’t mean to be a pest. I know you working girls keep a ferocious schedule.”

      “Actually, I have all the time in the world this morning, because I’m stuck here while I wait for a delivery.” Delainey led the way to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

      “Only if you’re making some for yourself.”

      “It’s no trouble at all.” Delainey took two plates from the cabinet. One was white plastic with fake gold trim; the other was blue pottery. “Not very elegant, I’m afraid. China that actually matched was never a priority when I shared an apartment.”

      “Of course not. Roommates can be so careless.” Emma settled herself at the breakfast bar and began to unpack the basket. “This most be your first real home.”

      Delainey nodded and ran a finger across the rough surface of the counter where the previous owner’s hot skillet had damaged it. “It’ll be a while before I get it all into shape.”

      “It always takes twice as long as you expect, and three times as much money.”

      “Oh, that’s a comfort,” Delainey said dryly. She plugged the coffeepot in and reached into the cabinet for a pair of mismatched mugs. “Did you know the previous owners?”

      “Not well. I’ve only been here a short while myself.” Emma split a muffin and set it on the blue pottery plate, pushing it across the breakfast bar to Delainey.

      Delainey wanted to ask why she was living there at all. White Oaks was hardly a retirement community; from what Patty had told her, the average age of the residents was about thirty. But she couldn’t think of a way to phrase the question without sounding rude, so she turned her attention back to the coffeepot, which didn’t seem to be doing anything.

      “That’s odd,” she muttered. “It was all right when I used it a couple of days ago.” She moved it to the other side of the sink and plugged it into a different outlet, and it immediately began to swish and sigh. “Oh, that’s great—a dead outlet, too, right in the middle of the kitchen. Maybe I can get an electrician to come while I’m waiting around anyway.”

      “The same day you call? Unlikely.”

      “I suppose you’re right. Will you excuse me for just a minute? I need to call the bank so my boss knows I won’t be in till late.”

      “If it’s just a package you’re waiting for, the clubhouse manager will be happy to sign for it and keep it till you get home.”

      “Actually, it’s a bed.” Delainey glanced across the living area at the futon where—she hoped—she had spent her last night ever. “A whole bedroom set, in fact. It was supposed to be delivered first thing this morning, but the department store called just before you got here to say the truck would be delayed.”

      “What a nuisance. There’s no telling when they’ll actually show up.”

      “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Delainey said glumly. “I really can’t afford to take the time off, because I just started this job six weeks ago.”

      “You said you work for a bank?”

      “National City. I’m in the business-loan division.”

      “Then we certainly can’t have you being late,” Emma said briskly. “You go on to work—after you’ve finished your muffin, of course—and I’ll keep an eye out for the deliverymen.”

      “That would be lovely, but I can’t ask you to—”

      “You didn’t ask.