Loving Again(20)

                When he tried to force his way behind the shrubs, thorns snagged his shirt, scratched his hands and face. Overgrown rose bushes were intermingled with broad- leafed shrubs covered in green buds. The shrubs must have been ten feet tall. To squeeze behind them he had to break off branches and tear at the leaves.

                But there it was. Finally. The hardware was old, easy to jimmy. He got the door open and went into the basement. A phone rang upstairs and a dog barked. The security system was still working, it seemed.

                Not long after he went out the side yard gate to his car, the blond from her studio pulled into the driveway, went into her house and was back out in less than ten minutes.

                As soon as the car disappeared around the corner, the observer started his engine. If he did this a few more times, she’d have the motion sensor taken off that door and he could get in at his leisure. He congratulated himself that this phase of his plan, recovering the reward he was due, was coming along.

                And so was the part about settling the score for what she’d done. He was sure he’d scared her following her around. He smiled. That was only the beginning.





Chapter Four


                “I met with her,” Eubie Kane said, “and I really made her sweat.” He was having coffee at a café a couple blocks away from the scene of his confrontation with Amanda. With him was a man who could have been his brother — tall, dark-haired, young, although more muscular than the slender artist. “And you should have seen the reaction I got from everyone in Bullseye. That was inspired. I’m glad I took your advice.”

                “Dude. You’re rocking it.” His companion put up his hand for a fist bump.

                “And I’m going to tell Liz Fairchild about my other opportunity, too, like you suggested.”

                “That only leaves Bullseye.”

                “I’m not sure I can get what I want from them. They’re different.”

                “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m sure we can come up with a plan.”

                • • •

                Amanda finally felt at home. After days of moving furniture back to the way she liked it and unpacking boxes, her books were in the built-in bookcases, her favorite leather couches were arranged around the stone fireplace, the Persian rug and low table were centered between them.

                In the resettled dining room, she’d set the table for dinner. All she needed was Sam. He said he’d be there at seven but had called to say he’d be late. He offered to bring take-out. She’d turned him down, saying she wanted to cook a meal in her own home. She didn’t add “cook a meal for you” but she thought he might have figured it out.

                He arrived with a six-pack of beer and a bottle of her favorite pinot gris. As he rummaged around in a kitchen cabinet for a wineglass, he asked, “Did you get the rest of your studio settled?”

                Amanda busied herself with the chicken breasts she was broiling, not sure how to answer him. She must have taken too long because when she straightened up from poking around in the oven, he was staring at her as if trying to figure out why she hadn’t said anything. “Well, I guess you can say I’m settled, but … ”

                “What’s the ‘but,’ baby? You look worried.”

                “God, Sam. All I seem to do is dump my problems on you. I hate it. Doesn’t it bother you?”

                “What’s going on?” He had his cop face on now. Sadly, she knew it all too well.