She found one in the cupboard under the sink, right next to some basic cleaning supplies. The suit and blouse went in. A sponge, a bottle of glass cleaner and a spray can of foaming disinfectant came out. Since Dominic was letting her crash at his loft, the least she could do was clean up a little.
The bathroom was small enough that it didn’t take her long to get it gleaming and smelling like an Alpine forest. On a roll, she attacked the kitchen next. The coffee mugs and breakfast plates hit the dishwasher. The paper napkins and white bag with its grease stains from the apple pancakes joined her clothes in the trash. The stovetop and oven door got a scrubbing, as did the dog dish in a corner next to a cupboard containing a giant-size bag of dried food. She opened the refrigerator, intending to wipe down the shelves, and jumped back.
“Omig…!”
Gulping, she identified the gory objects in the gallon-size plastic bag as bones. Big bones. Belonging, she guessed, to a cow or boar. The kind of bones a Hungarian hunting dog would gnaw to sharpen his teeth.
The only other objects in the fridge were a to-go carton from an Asian restaurant and a dozen or so bottles of beer with labels touting unfamiliar brands. Curiosity had her opening the cupboards above the sink and stove. She found a few staples, some spices and a half loaf of bread keeping company with a dusty bottle of something called Tokaji. Dominic St. Sebastian, she decided, was not into cooking at home.
Abandoning the cupboards, she turned her attention to the stainless-steel sink. The scrubbing gave Natalie a sense of fierce satisfaction. She might not be a James Bond type but she knew how to take out sink and shower grunge!
The kitchen done, she attacked the sitting area. Books got straightened, old newspapers stacked. The sleek little laptop nested next to a pair of running shoes on the floor was moved to the drop-down shelf that doubled as a desk. Natalie ran her fingers over the keyboard, gripped by a sudden urge to power up the computer.
She was a research assistant, according to Dom. An archivist. She probably spent most of her waking hours on the computer. What would she find if she went online and researched one Natalie Clark? Or had Dom already done that? She’d have to ask him.
She was dusting the black-and-glass stand of the wide-screen TV when he and the hound returned. The dog burst in first, of course, his claws tattooing on the oak floor. Dominic followed and placed a brown paper sack on the counter. Lifting a brow, he glanced at the now spotless kitchen.
“You’ve been busy.”
“Just straightened up a bit. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Why would I mind?” Amusement glinted in his eyes. “Although I can think of better ways for both of us to work off excess energy than cleaning and dog walking.”
She didn’t doubt it for a moment. She was wearing proof of one of his workouts in the form of black silk hipsters. No doubt Kiss Kiss Arabella would supply an enthusiastic endorsement of his abilities in that area.
Not that Natalie required a second opinion. He’d already given her a hint of just how disturbing he could be to her equanimity if she let him. Which she wouldn’t. She couldn’t! Her life was in enough turmoil without adding the complication of a wild tumble between the sheets with Dominic St. Sebastian. The mere thought made her so nervous that she flapped the dust cloth like a shield.
“What’s in the bag?”
“I stopped by the butcher shop and picked up our supper.”
“I hope you’ve got more than bones in there,” she said with a little grimace.
“You found those, did you?”
“They were hard to miss.”
“Not to worry. Dog will take care of those, although I’m sure he would much rather share our goulash.”
Natalie eyed the tall, round carton he extracted dubiously. “The butcher shop sells goulash?”
“No, but Frau Kemper, the butcher’s wife, always makes extra for me when she cooks up a pot.”
“Oh?” She caught the prune before it formed but couldn’t quite keep the disdain from her tone. “It must be a burden having so many women showering you with gifts.”
“It is,” he said sadly. “A terrible burden. Especially Frau Kemper. If she keeps forcing stews and cakes on me, I’ll soon match her weight of a hundred and fifty kilos or more.”
“A hundred and fifty kilos?” Natalie did the math. “Ha! I’d like to see you at three hundred plus pounds.”
“No, you would not.” He cocked his head. “But you did that calculation very quickly.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Surprise gave way to panic. “How can I remember metric conversions and not my name? My past? Anything about my family?”