A Long Hot Christmas. Barbara Daly

at the corner.

      She really wished he’d stop doing that. It had a strange effect on her, made her twitch in turn somewhere deep down inside in a way that was distracting and unnerving. “Of course not. What do you mean, a… Oh. The masque.” The pressure of his hand sent an arrow of heat up her arm. From her shoulder it would spread to her throat, across her breasts. “No,” she said abruptly. “The masque is Thursdays and Sundays.”

      “But…”

      “Don’t start with me about my schedule.” There had to be a way to get her hand back without making a scene. But his hand felt so warm around hers. “So good night, Sam. See you Wednesday.” She tugged a little, got free, felt relieved, then deserted and a bit chilly.

      “I’ll pick you up here.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “You did a great job tonight. I don’t suppose there’s a manual on arm-candy skills…” He took a look at her face. “No, I guess not.”

      With a wave he slid back into the limo. Before he vanished behind the tinted glass, he flashed her a thoroughly wicked smile.

      Hope turned toward the apartment entrance. Her feet were killing her. Funny, she hadn’t noticed while Sam was still around.

      “Night, Rinaldo,” she said to the doorman as she hobbled into the lobby and summoned the elevator. Almost home, such as it was.

      She hadn’t been acting. It had been fun being Sam’s clinging vine for an evening. He was a hunk with charm and brains and a goal in life. He’d been a sparkling conversationalist during dinner. The boss’s wife wasn’t the only woman to send an envious glance in Hope’s direction.

      She felt she was close to agreeing to the arrangement, throughout the holiday season, at least.

      But only if she could keep her emotions under control. When their knees accidentally touched, when he cradled her elbow or she took his arm, when their shoulders brushed and a warm, fuzzy feeling began to fluff up inside her, when his utterly charming smile came in her direction, seeming to be for no one but her, she’d wondered if she could keep her quick response to him in perspective. What woman wouldn’t respond? He was a very good-looking, a very masculine man.

      But when he’d put his arm around her, caressed her shoulder, whispered words into her ear… Even now, she could feel the warmth of his breath, the ache that had spread through her, had made her snuggle into him, wanting more. The sense of urgency she’d felt had led her to ditch wondering about perspective and leap directly to worrying. Especially about the sex thing. He hadn’t brought it up again. Maybe it had slipped his mind. She wished it would slip hers.

      As soon as she opened the door of her apartment, the night view of the New York skyline greeted her through the windows across the room. It always calmed her, made her feel serene and happy. Actually, what it did was justify the savings she’d plundered for the down payment, her huge monthly mortgage and the maintenance expenses.

      She didn’t turn on the light at once. She wanted to relish the quiet of the moment, give herself time to think about the evening, to think about Sam.

      She tossed her briefcase over the top of the sofa as she always did, then reached down to pull the shoes off her aching feet and heard the heart-stopping, stomach-clenching, career-ending clang of a five-thousand-dollar-extra-long-life-battery laptop hitting a hardwood floor.

      With a shaking hand, she flipped on the light switch and screamed. An intruder was in her apartment, a creature swathed entirely in black!

      A second later she slumped against the door. What a relief! It was herself she was seeing, reflected in the mirror that hung beside the window, a mirror which hadn’t been there this morning.

      The sofa was gone, though. No, the sofa wasn’t gone, it was just in a different place.

      Maybelle had made a preemptory strike. But it didn’t look as though she’d stolen anything. It looked like she’d added stuff.

      Hope came to sudden attention. How could she have forgotten her laptop for even a second? Kicking off her shoes, she grabbed up the briefcase, whipped out the injured team member and ran with it to the sofa. She put it down on the coffee table, sent up a brief prayer and turned it on.

      The computer did all its usual beeps and lights, and there was her marketing presentation, safe and sound. The breath she’d been holding whooshed from her lungs. She thanked her lucky stars she’d sprung for the optional two-hundred-dollar computer case with the shock-absorbing extra padding built in. With her next breath, she almost suffocated from the scent that rose from her briefcase.

      The laptop had survived, the bottle of Shalimar in her makeup kit had not. But what was a quarter-ounce of Shalimar compared to the product of fifty hours of work?

      Strong, that’s what it was.

      With a feeling of having survived an attack from all sides, Hope collapsed against the sofa. Ummm. She wiggled her toes. Then she looked at the room.

      She frowned. The sofa was on the diagonal, facing the little foyer. That was dumb. People came to her apartment to see the view, not the front door. The two squashy taupe armchairs flanked the sofa, also facing the front door.

      At least the other two chairs, the antique ones the dealer had called fauteuil, the ones he’d warned her were not really for sitting in but were a terrific investment, faced the view. Great, Maybelle, just great.

      Feeling rebellious, Hope struggled up from the sofa, which seemed to cling to her just as she’d clung to Sam. She crossed the room to sit in one of those chairs whether it liked it or not. Yes, the two chairs faced the view. It was also true—she moved to the other chair just to be sure—that each one looked directly into one of two mirrors that flanked the huge picture window. The mirrors not only reflected her, but also the front door. And the kitchen door. And the bedroom door.

      What was this door fetish?

      For a minute she sat there, bolt upright, which she’d assumed was the only way you could sit in a fauteuil, then felt herself start to settle in, lean a little against one of the sculpted wooden arms, rest her head against the faded, faintly dusty, original needlepoint upholstery.

      What did the antiques dealer mean, a fauteuil wasn’t for sitting in?

      Enough of this. She was exhausted. She emptied her briefcase and set everything out in her office, a small alcove off the living room, to air. The Shalimar had to fade by Monday. If it didn’t, she would have to announce a new marketing trend—the scented memo.

      The message light was blinking on her phone-fax-copier-scanner-answering machine—next year’s model would probably have a built-in curling iron. She pushed “Playback.”

      “Hey, hon! Maybelle!”

      Maybelle was one person who didn’t need to identify herself on the phone. Hope reeled at the screech, then turned down the volume.

      “I made a good start today,” the shrill voice continued. “Didn’t get no further than the parlor, because I was wanted by the police…”

      Hope stiffened.

      “…department to juggle the Chief’s office around a little.”

      Hope relaxed. The New York Chief of Police was into feng shui? She hoped the Daily News didn’t get wind of it.

      “Anyhoo, I got them mirrors at the Housing Works Thrift Shop, so you’re only out fifty bucks so far. Don’t give it a thought. We’ll settle up later. I sure hope you’re not one of those people who throws stuff onto the sofa soon’s she walks in the door, because I moved it. Throwing stuff on the furniture isn’t good for you speeritch-ully anyways. We’ll talk more about that later.

      “Well, you try to get some rest. Soon’s I get the Chief and a coupla other clients squared away I’ll be back to work on your bedroom, have you sleeping good pretty soon. Oh, would you puh-leeze tell that doorman of yours to let me in next time without putting me through all that hassle?

      “Night,