Change of Life. Leigh Riker

“Do you think that matters to me?”

      A slight thrill ran through her. “It matters to me.”

      “So why did you call me, then?”

      “I wanted…” She didn’t know.

      “Comfort?”

      “Maybe. A little.” A lot. A whole cartload of the stuff. “I needed…”

      “Reassurance?”

      He had gone from bemused bewilderment to curiosity. Now she heard irritation. She might as well finish this off.

      “And I had a…hot flash.” She didn’t quite choke on the word this time.

      Neither did Heath. “Well, of course you did. You’ll turn fifty next week.”

      I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. Please don’t make me.

      She felt petty, immature, but couldn’t stop herself. “Then I came home the other night and Johnny was here with Savannah. They told me about the baby. Then yesterday Starr Mulligan—”

      “That witch?”

      But even that wasn’t all. Nora told him about her latest quarrel with Starr, but couldn’t bring herself to say she was being accused of a crime. Who on earth could have taken Geneva’s vase? And she couldn’t tell Heath about Wilson’s marriage.

      He raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like you’ve had a weird couple of days.”

      “Well, yes, and if you include Leonard Hackett—” To her absolute horror, she gulped back a sob. Nora whirled away.

      Heath stopped her. His hard, sinewy arms wrapped tighter around her more slender frame. She felt Heath’s chin come to rest on the top of her head. He rocked her lightly back and forth, letting her feel that he still wanted her.

      “I have a few good ideas to make you feel better.” His sexy tone almost undid her. “Want to hear them? It’s a free offer,” he said in a tempting voice. “Better than a sweaty workout at the club.”

      Nora gave him a shaky smile.

      “My life is changing too fast,” she whispered.

      But Heath still had her in his arms. He felt strong and good and he wasn’t laughing at her. He just held her.

      And, despite knowing that no good could come of it, Nora let him.

      In that instant she felt vanquished yet determined, like a modern-day Scarlett O’Hara.

      Tomorrow, as Scarlett had claimed, would be a better day.

      If it wasn’t, Nora knew exactly what to do about Caine.

      She would just have to hire her own Dream Team.

      CHAPTER 4

       T he next day, Nora was still a free woman.

      That pesky Caine wouldn’t get the best of her.

      And neither would Starr.

      On another hot and humid morning with the temperature already climbing, Nora gave the broad front door of Geneva Whitehouse’s home another determined blow with the brass knocker. She’d tried the doorbell, which had summoned no one. Now she waited in the blazing sun, then heard the click of heels on wood in the entry hall.

      For a second, the back of her neck prickled. She felt she was being observed. Then the tap of stilettos clacked again, going quickly in the opposite direction. Her gaze homed in on the discreet brass peephole in the door.

      Not to Nora’s surprise, Geneva obviously wasn’t glad to see her. A temporary setback.

      She leaned on the bell with one finger, lifted the knocker again with her other hand and set off a cacophony inside the house.

      “Ms. Whitehouse,” she called through the closed door for good measure.

      Tap, tap, tap. The returning sound of heels was agitated.

      “Geneva, please. Open up. We need to talk.”

      “There’s nothing to say. Our business is finished.”

      No. It was not. She wouldn’t leave until Geneva Whitehouse reconsidered her decision to choose Starr for the redesign of her home. Ten thousand square feet, Nora reminded herself. The very numbers made her salivate.

      She could imagine Starr’s gloating triumph when Geneva chose her instead of Nora. The insult wouldn’t stand.

      Apparently this had been her week for outrageous insults.

      Nora blocked from her mind the sudden image of Caine’s dark, brooding eyes, his accusations. He hadn’t gone quite that far, but he’d implied as much, and she knew she was a definite suspect in the burglary here at Geneva’s house. Nora desperately needed to repair her reputation.

      Damage control. In spite of her aversion to Geneva’s husband for reasons of her own, she couldn’t afford to lose business. If Geneva would only hire her after all, and she liked Nora’s work, she might recommend her to her friends.

      Through the still-closed door she heard heavy breathing. Geneva was still there, as if hoping Nora would get discouraged and give up.

      “Please,” she said again, softening her tone to convey the courtesy that Maggie had ingrained in her long ago. “This won’t take long. I just want—”

      “Go away.” Geneva’s voice shook.

      Nora took a step back as if she’d been slapped. Geneva really was mad.

      Nora reached for the black leather portfolio she’d left leaning against the brick wall beside the door. She chanced a look through the frosted glass panels that flanked it but could detect no movement or the outline of Geneva’s body. She must be pressed to the door itself, eyeing Nora through that peephole.

      Nora tried another tack. “I have something to show you,” she said in a singsong tone. “I think you’ll be sorry if you don’t take at least a peek.”

      The door crashed open, rattling the glass.

      “Are you threatening me?”

      Shocked, Nora clutched the big briefcase to her front. Her heart had begun to thump ominously, and for a moment she felt breathless.

      “No. Of course not. I have some sketches here…”

      With a weary sigh, Geneva clattered away from the open door.

      “Come in, then. But I won’t change my mind. After Detective Caine and I spoke, I know that wouldn’t be wise.”

      What did the man say to her?

      Nora clenched her teeth. “I am not a criminal.” She followed Geneva inside, the cool air washing over her like a damp cloth against her heated skin. “That man has problems of his own. And if you believe Starr—”

      Geneva clipped toward the nearby living room, right past the antique, glass-fronted curio cabinet that had held the now-missing heart-shaped vase. Nora glanced at the barren space on the shelf. The cause of her current troubles, or one of them.

      Her business might depend on these next few moments—she had no doubt they would be very few—but so did her shaken sense of self-worth.

      She perched on the edge of an obviously costly sofa. “I have never been accused of dishonesty before,” she said, zipping open the black case to draw out her sketches. “If you need references, I’ll provide them. I’m terribly sorry for your loss, but I can assure you I didn’t take your vase. What would I do with it?” Nora gave her a weak smile. “Adorn another customer’s home with a stolen object? Hardly. Keep it for myself—and wait for the day when Caine barges in to catch me in the act? Sell it on eBay?”

      For the first time she noticed that Geneva, who sat on the matching sofa opposite, didn’t look quite herself.