The Unknown Malone. Anne Eames
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between them and concentrated on the present. He held the door open and she squeezed through the narrow space between him and the door frame. The scent of aftershave floated on a breeze, and she moved quickly, suddenly uneasy.
He took her duffel and said, “Follow me.”
They crossed through French doors that led to the west wing, stopping when they reached the first room to the right. He stepped back and with a wave of his arm motioned her in.
“This will be your room.”
There was a hint of amusement in his eyes, which confused her. Until she stood m the doorway and looked in. Then she froze, dill pickles revisiting the back of her throat.
“The previous owner had a son. All the other bedrooms are in various degrees of disrepair, so I guess this will have to be it.”
In front of her was a young boy’s room, decorated in red, white and blue, a twin bed the shape of a race car with an appropriate spread. She took an involuntary step backward, a sharp intake of air sounding loud to her own ears. Her back hit Michael’s chest, but he didn’t move. Instead he gripped her shoulders and held her firm.
“You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you?”
She closed her eyes to what was in front of her and took a cleansing breath. It was only then she realized his hands were still on her. Warm and gentle.
She turned quickly, breaking contact. “N-no, of course not.”
He slanted her a disbelieving frown, then turned. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest.”
She vaguely remembered Michael showing her the sitting room next to hers and beyond that his own room, but whatever else she’d seen, Nicole would have to explore another time, the image of this room having occupied her thoughts.
She sat gingerly on the race car bed, buried her face in her hands and wondered for what cruel deed she was being punished to be sentenced to this room. Tenaciously, behind the darkness of her fingers, burned bright a dirt-smudged, freckled face.
No! She leaped from the bed and paced to the long, narrow window. She couldn’t afford the luxury of self-pity. There was a job to be done, money to earn. People in need.
Compartmentalize, she lectured herself. As often was the case, she imagined her heart as a large warehouse with many private chambers, each storing its own joys and pain, some atrophied with neglect, others—such as the one she accessed now—ripe with worry and longing.
Reluctantly she filed away the pain and surveyed her surroundings with a more objective eye. Someone’s little boy had actually lived here. Of that she was certain. But why? What a strange place to raise a child. As with the swing outside, Nicole wished these walls could talk. Or did she? Would she want to store another sad story?
Heavyhearted, she hiked her duffel atop the bed and found places for her meager belongings in the lone dresser—save for one item, a small photo album. She debated between the nightstand drawer and the small desk by the window, finally deciding on the desk. A less likely place for one to look.
She opened the drawer slowly. Inside was a pad of construction paper, all the colors of the rainbow, and her heart was in her throat once again. Quickly she hid her album at the back and closed the drawer. More than anything, she longed to study her precious photos, but the day had been long and dizzying enough. She shed her clothes and headed for the shower, taking her time as the refreshing spray washed away the dust from her hair and limbs, until finally she felt the soothing comfort of optimism return.
Silently she offered up a prayer of thanksgiving. She had found a safe harbor. And with God’s help, maybe more.
Of the few calls Michael had received, none had panned out. Building materials loomed at the end of the walk, challenging him to begin alone. He could do it if he had to. And he would. But not today. He looked at his watch: it was time to leave for Taylor’s.
He grabbed the keys to his work van, then remembered the bottle of wine chilling in the refrigerator. Backtracking to the kitchen he stopped short when Nicole entered the living room. Her wet hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. If he didn’t know better, he’d think someone new had taken her place. Also missing was the attitude, when she crossed the room toward him.
“What time would you like supper?” she asked, almost shyly.
“Uh, well, I’m eating out tonight.” And the refrigerator was pretty bare. He should have thought of this before.
“Oh.” Suddenly she didn’t seem to know where to look.
“I’d say ‘help yourself tonight’ but there’s not much here. Just a few things I picked up on my way through Joeville. The previous owners left staples, baking stuff, but the freezer is empty.” He thought a second and came up with an idea. “I could give you some money and you could do some shopping in town.”
Her gaze flitted to her car in the drive. “Um, could I wait till tomorrow and use your car?” Then she added hastily, “A lot more bags would fit it yours.”
“Not really. The back’s full of tools and—”
She lowered her eyes. “I’m not sure I have enough gas.”
He watched embarrassment tinge her freshly scrubbed cheeks, and the urge to comfort her flared. The cocky, confident woman of earlier had been much easier to deal with. This one smelled of trouble. The kind he couldn’t afford.
“Look, Ms. Bedder—”
“Would you mind calling me Nicole?”
Michael ran a hand through his hair and hid his frustration the best he could. “Nicole...I’m just going to my sister’s, the farm next door. Why don’t you come along? We’ll worry about groceries and gas tomorrow.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
He crossed to her and tugged at her elbow. “I insist. It will be okay.” He glanced down at her and met her doelike brown eyes. “Trust me.”
Three
Nicole’s fears about being the uninvited guest were quickly dispelled when Taylor and Josh welcomed her. She’d heard plenty about the Malone dynasty—the fact that Max Malone was a legendary surgeon and that his three sons, their wives and children all lived on the sprawling miles of ranch and farmland in the shadows of the MoJoe Mountains. It just never occurred to her that the Purple Palace was next door, or that there would be a connection between the owners.
It seemed there was much to be learned about Michael Phillips, a thought that both intrigued and frightened her.
While Josh got Michael a beer, Taylor gave Nicole a quick tour of the house. Had she not known how wealthy the family was, she never would have guessed. There was nothing pretentious about their warm home.
The women were just descending the stairs to the living room when two little ones ran in from the kitchen. The toddler, trying to keep up with her big brother, tripped and fell face first on the bearskin rug in front of the open hearth.
Instinctively, Nicole ran to her, knelt down and nghted the child, who seemed startled at seeing a stranger’s face so close to hers. When her bottom lip started quivering, Nicole sat cross-legged and pulled the little girl onto her lap.
“My name’s Nicole. What’s your name?” She tucked a stray blond curl behind the little one’s ear, smiled down at her and waited patiently for a reply. Shyly the toddler held up one hand and pulled down all but two fingers.
“You’re two years old!” Nicole feigned surprise. “You’re so big for two.”
A wide smile exposed perfect little new teeth. Her eyes were big and blue like her mother’s, and Nicole knew she was hooked, the sweet scent of baby shampoo making it nearly impossible not to squeeze the child closer.
“Em—a—lee,”