Текст книги "Family Secrets"
Автор книги: Kate Kane
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 13 страниц)
The smoothness of the 15-minute ride to her office surprised Lane. Detective McGuire stopped in front of the building and walked around the car to open Lane’s door.
“Should I walk you in,” he asked as he released her seat belt and helped her get out.
Lane assured him she’d be all right, as she handed the empty plastic bag back to him. She hated these headaches, which were triggered by several things, among them, stress, tension, or allergies.
To Mick’s amazement, she walked unwavering toward the building.
She walked to the building nodding slightly to the guard as she entered. She waited until she was in the elevator to remove her sunglasses. Meg, God bless her, took one look at Lane, asked if she wanted to cancel the staff meeting and followed Lane into her office.
“What have you taken for it,” Meg asked. She knew that there was no way Lane dared to bend over right now; so Meg leaned down, took a Diet Dr. Pepper from the fridge, opened it, and handed it to her boss.
“Three Tylenol about twenty minutes ago. It’s almost tolerable now. The caffeine will help.” Lane took a drink and then held the cold can to her right temple. “Any calls while I was out?” She asked as she began to gather notes for the staff meeting.
“Ben called earlier. He said he’d try your cell.” Meg opened the door to the conference room. “And Craig Turner called to say he couldn’t make your staff meeting,” Meg said as she handed Lane the messages. “And that guy, Mick McGuire, called just before you walked in. He said he’d pick you up at five o’clock in front of the building. You’re supposed to call his cell if that’s not a good time. The number’s on your desk.”
Lane knew Meg was curious. She also knew that Meg would never come right out and ask. Meg knew how important Lane’s privacy was. Besides that, Meg was a patient woman.
Lane had five people who reported to her. Meg, Bob Carlson, and three other directors who reported to her directly, and Craig Turner, Senior Legal Counsel who worked with her office to analyze and interpret new legislation pertaining to privacy. Lane wanted to talk about the software companies they’d evaluated so far. She also needed to know if Craig had anything new to discuss. The states of California and Massachusetts, it seemed, were constantly enacting some new privacy legislation. The meeting, which was scheduled to last for an hour and a half, lasted less than an hour without Craig Turner.
Lane verified that she had no other pressing issues that afternoon, and took a BC as she used her desk phone to dial the number Meg had given her for Detective McGuire. After several rings, she heard the velvety voice.
“McGuire.”
“Detective, this is Lane Parker. My assistant gave me your message. I appreciate your offer, but my meeting is over and I don’t have anything for the rest of the day. I thought I’d just grab a cab and head home now.” Lane had already begun powering down her laptop.
“I’ll be there in ten.” Mick replied, and Lane was listening to dial tone.
He’d hung up before Lane could tell him she still shouldn’t drive. Meg came in and helped Lane pack her briefcase. Lane knew that a BC powder could kick a headache to the curb in minutes and she was sure she’d that feel better soon. She still had a lot of reading to do, and added the reports into her brief case.
Lane’s line rang and Meg picked it up. “Lane Parker’s office.” After a pause, Meg said, “Send him up.” She hung up and smiled at Lane. “Mick McGuire’s on his way up.”
Lane leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and rubbed her temples. Someone really needed to help that guy learn to tell time.
“I’ll go wait by the elevator for him,” Meg said as Lane heard the office door close. There was no need to wonder how Meg would recognize Mick. Lane knew she just would. Meg’s patience was going to pay off sooner than anyone expected.
“Thanks, Meg.” Lane heard the velvet voice before she heard the door to her office open. “Come on, you’re out of here.”
Lane opened her eyes to see the Detective picking up the rolling briefcase that held her laptop. She grabbed her purse and sunglasses and followed Mick McGuire.
“Meg, I’m on my cell. Call me if anything comes up. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Lane ignored Meg’s Cheshire cat smile as she walked out.
As the elevator doors closed, Detective McGuire turned to Lane. “I’m driving you home. We can get your car in the morning.”
She opened her mouth to protest but since she knew she had no business behind the wheel, she didn’t speak. It was strange, her head may be pounding, but for some reason, her mind never stopped processing. Lane couldn’t remember what the weather forecast was for over night. She was glad she was in the habit of putting the top up on her BMW convertible every time she had to leave her car outside. The elevator doors opened and they walked through the lobby into the afternoon sunshine. Lane quickly put on her sunglasses. With her headache subdued, Lane could see that Detective McGuire was driving a black Ford Excursion. No wonder she’d needed a push earlier. She was tall, but the pencil skirt of her suit restricted movement a bit. He opened the door. She stepped up on the running board, reached in for the handgrip, and climbed in. Detective McGuire put her briefcase and laptop in the back seat and got behind the wheel. They rode in silence. Once parked in the driveway, he reached down to the console and picked up Lane’s keys.
“Which one is for the front door,” he asked as he separated the house keys from the car keys.
“Use the key pad. The code’s 6-8-1-5-4,” she told him and motioned to the pad near the garage door. Lane sat motionless while he opened the garage door, then got out and rushed inside to the powder room and closed the door.
The house was a 2500 square foot ranch and the detective easily found the den. He put the briefcase on her desk, then, walked down the hall to what was obviously the master suite. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to survey the room, see on which side of the bed the phone and alarm clock were located, and deduce where Lane slept. He walked over to the bed and pulled the covers back, and discovered a Nebraska Cornhuskers football jersey neatly folded and tucked under the pillows.
Two migraines in three days, this was a new record for her. Lane exited the powder room. Eyes closed, she felt her way down the hall to her bedroom.
“Go, change. You’re going to bed.” The velvety voice swam toward her.
She squinted one eye open to find Detective McGuire had made his way into her bedroom where he now stood, as he held out the nightshirt he’d obviously found under the pillow.
Lane went into the master bath and stripped out of her clothes. When she returned to the darkened bedroom, she found the Detective sitting on her bed. He stood when she entered the room. He held the covers up as she slipped into bed. The detective pulled the coverlet over her, walked around to the other side of the bed, and sat down.
“We’ll talk when you wake up.”
Lane didn’t have the strength to argue. Figuring that neither the BC nor the Tylenol was going to do her any good now that they’d been flushed, she’d taken two muscle relaxers, a BC and two Sudafed tablets when she was in the bathroom changing. She wondered how Mick knew which side of the bed she slept on and fell asleep thinking, well, after all, he is a detective.
Lane rolled over on her left side, pulled her knees up, and pushed her feet toward the cool sheets on the unoccupied side of the bed. She woke with a start when her feet ran into mass of resistance. The mass was a six foot four inch 210-pound detective who sat on top of the covers as he read her backlit e-reader in the nearly dark room.
“How are you feeling,” the velvet voice said.
Lane closed her eyes as she recalled the events of the afternoon.
“Better. I’m feeling much better. No headache right now, no nausea. Just don’t bounce on the bed. I can tell it’s in the wings just waiting for a chance to make a comeback.” Lane rolled onto her back and propped pillows behind her. Mick sat nearly motionless as he watched Lane maneuver into a sitting position
“Ah, a good sign. A change in altitude and no throbbing.”
“Feel good enough to talk?” What was with this guy, hadn’t they chatted enough over lunch?
She closed her eyes. “Talk? Sure, what about?”
“How long have you been having these headaches?”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Since I was a teenager.”
“Have they gotten more frequent or more intense lately? Have you seen someone for them?”
She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose as she thought, what is it with this guy? Who had elected him her Father, Husband, caretaker, or whatever he thought he was? It occurred to Lane that she’d had more headaches in the three days since she’d met the Detective than she had in the three months before. Coincidence? She thought not.
“Yes, Maybe and No in that order,” she said firmly. She hoped he would understand that while she appreciated the fact that he’d gotten her home, she was a big girl and she really didn’t need a keeper.
“Look, Mick. Now that I’ve slept with you so to speak, I hope that I may use your first name. I’ve had severe headaches since I was a teenager. They’re brought on by various stimuli. Usually the onset can be attributed to allergies and sinus problems, but they can be brought on by stress or tension. There’s no arguing that since I met you, I’ve had more headaches than even I would normally have in three days. However, there’s also no disputing that I’ve had a little more stress and tension in my life since I met you. I think the headaches are understandable.” She finished her rant and began massaging the back of her neck with both hands.
Mick turned toward her. “You’re right. I’m sorry I’ve contributed to your tension. Here, let me do that.” He reached over and began massaging her neck and shoulders.
“Lane, the headaches you’ve been having just remind me of my wife. Her name was Gloria. She died four years ago from a brain tumor. It started with severe headaches that she ignored for too long. By the time she went to the doctor and was diagnosed, the cancer had spread and was inoperable.” When he’d finished speaking, he’d moved from rubbing her neck and shoulders to massaging her back. The tension had gone and so, for the first time in days, had her headache.
“Oh, you are amazing.” Lane moaned just as Ben walked in.
“Hey, Mick, how’s our girl doing?”
Lane had never thought jealousy was an attractive trait, still, she’d have expected a different reaction from the man who was her significant other and who had just caught her in bed in the arms of another man.
“Ben, I think she’s much better than she was when you called. She says her headache’s gone now.”
Ben walked around the bed, bent down, and kissed Lane on the cheek.
Mick stood. “I can see you’re in good hands now, I’ll be going,” Mick said as he walked toward the bedroom door.
“Wait,” Ben said and then looked at Lane. “Mick and I could go pick up your car, grab something for dinner, and bring it back. Is that all right with you?”
Lane nodded. Although she was rarely speechless, this scene had her dumbfounded and she had no idea why.
“Anything in particular you’re hungry for,” Ben asked as he and Mick headed for the bedroom door.
“Whatever you get will be fine with me,” Lane replied as they left.
Lane showered and replayed the bedroom scene in her head. She was flooded with emotions, ranging from anger – she hated it when people talked about her as though she wasn’t in the room, to confusion over Ben’s reaction. No, make that his non-reaction to the whole scene; back to anger because the two of them were having phone conversations about her as though she were some helpless sniffling female. She dried off, took two Tylenol as a preventative measure, dressed, and headed to the kitchen to prepare for what ever they brought back. She was just getting plates from the cupboard when Ben came through from the garage.
“I brought Godfather’s Pizza. I know it’s your favorite.”
Lane smiled. Godfather’s had started in Omaha, and when the kids were young, it was a weekly ritual. Funny, what memories conversation tidbits brought. Thursday was left over night. Friday was Godfather’s pizza night. Saturday was movie night.
“Beer for you,” she asked with her hand on the refrigerator door.
“Sure,” Ben replied as he put the pizza on the table.
Lane opened the fridge and pulled out a Diet Dr. Pepper and a Bud Light. “Where’s the detective?”
“Mickey said he had some work to do. He sent his apologies. Said he’d take a rain check.”
Ben got a glass, filled it with ice, and handed it to her. She handed him napkins. To anyone looking on, Lane and Ben appeared to be doing a dance they’d done a million times before.
Ben opened the pizza box. Supreme, her favorite.
So, she wondered what her problem was. She was comfortable with Ben. He was great looking, he cared about her, and as she was frequently reminded, he was a great kisser. She could say it was the age difference, but she wasn’t sure that was completely true. She could say it was just that after nearly marrying husband number three, she’d just sworn off men, but that wasn’t it either. She could say it was because of the kids, but they knew Ben and liked him. She couldn’t think of a single good reason preventing her from moving their relationship forward. Lane decided to practice avoidance by being contrary.
“What did Mick mean ‘she’s much better than she was when you called’?”
Ben didn’t take the bait. He just spoke calmly and slowly. “No mystery, I called your office this afternoon around 4:30. Meg said you had a headache and Mick had driven you home. Since I know how your headaches can be, I called him on his cell to see how you were. He told me he made you go to bed after you lost your lunch, and that you were asleep. I guess since you’re being contrary, you really are feeling better.”
Busted. Lane couldn’t decide whether she should feign indignation, pretend she hadn’t heard his last comment, fight dirty and cry or just talk about what was bothering her.
“What did you mean last night when you said ‘It’s about time I decided what I’m going to do about it?’”
Ben smiled as he reached across the table and patted her hand. “Don’t be afraid, Red. I’m not rushing you to the altar,” he said with a chuckle.
Lane laughed. Roared may have been more accurate. She caught her breath. “You’re so funny. Finish your pizza.”
Ben had nailed it. Lane was scared out of her wits. He was everything she had ever told friends she wanted in a man. He was smart, witty, tall, handsome, rich, heterosexual, and available. He was sexy and a great kisser. In addition, they already knew they had a lot in common. They liked the same movies and music. They enjoyed each other’s company. They could talk for hours about everything from religion to politics and current events. He was her best friend. But, he was 36 years old. He had the body of man who worked out at least five times a week. Lane, on the other hand had never seen the inside of a gym. She’d been blessed with a great metabolism, and didn’t need to work out to keep her weight constant. Fully clothed, she frequently passed for a woman in her mid-thirties. Even in a swimming suit, she could pass for 40. Maybe she was analyzing too much, but she wasn’t sure this could work.
Ben still held her hand. “Come over here,” he said as he pulled her up and over to his lap. “I’ve known you for three years. I know the way you think.” He tapped his finger on her temple. “We’ve been dating for eight weeks now and nothing else has changed.”
Lane poked him in the shoulder. “That’s where you’re wrong. Things will change. They always change. Until now, when one of us had to cancel lunch or dinner at the last minute, it was no big deal. Now that we’re a couple, everything becomes personal.” She put her head on his shoulder and whispered into his neck. “I’m afraid of losing my best friend.”
Ben put his hand on her head and stroked her hair. “I promise you won’t,” Ben said as he cupped her chin in his hand, raised her head, and met her lips with his.
Chapter 4
Tuesday Morning
Lane awoke to ringing and reached for the snooze button. The ringing persisted and she realized it was the phone. She opened her eyes a slit as she picked up the receiver. “Hello,” she said groggily as she looked at the clock. It was 6:00 a.m. everyone knew better than to call her this early, someone must be dead.
“Good morning, Red. How’d you sleep?”
She laid back and closed her eyes. After some heavy duty kissing, she’d sent Ben home at ten o’clock last night so she could perform a nightly routine that consisted of the normal toilette (face washing, teeth brushing) and devotional Bible reading. This morning, she was torn between the euphoric feelings he’d elicited last night and biting his head off for waking her when she remembered last night’s devotional readings all about kindness and decided to at least try to be cordial.
“Ben, is there something wrong?” In the time they’d known each other, the differences in their sleeping habits had come up before. Ben was an early riser, and worse yet, a morning person. You may ask what the difference is between being an early riser and being a morning person. An early riser is someone who arises in the early morning hours. A morning person is someone who’s happy to be awake in the early morning hours. Lane needed a minimum of eight hours of sleep daily; ten hours would be better.
“No, I just wanted to check on you. I’ve had my run, my swim, my work out; I’ve taken my shower, and am ready to take off for the office. I’ll be in court by the time you get up and leave for work. How’s your head this morning?”
“My head’s fine. What am I going to do with you,” she asked. Ben had always been considerate and thoughtful. Maybe this dating thing was going to be okay after all.
“Well, I have some ideas. Dinner tonight would be a good start. I’ll pick you up at seven. If anything comes up, leave a message on my cell. Go back to sleep.” And, Lane was listening to dial tone.
She replaced the receiver and turned over. With luck, she could get another two hours of sleep.
It was 8:50 when she walked into her office. Meg had been there for nearly an hour. Steven Covey had nothing on Meg. She’d printed Lane’s calendar for Tuesday and put it on her desk. And, she’d listened to Lane’s voice mail and had sorted the messages into three categories: “Urgent,” “No Rush,” and “I’d Toss.”
Lane glanced over the calendar as she docked her laptop and turned it on. She was relieved to see that she had no meetings until after one o’clock. That gave her ample time to return calls and read the report Craig Turner had sent her on some new California privacy legislation. She went to the break room and filled her thermal pitcher with hot water, dropping two tea bags into it before tightly securing the lid. She could usually squeeze four cups of tea out of a single tea bag, not because she was frugal mind you, just because she liked her tea weak. She walked back to her office, told Meg she was on guard duty, and closed the door. Meg knew that meant unless there was a fire, no one got through – physically or virtually.
Lane looked through the “Urgent” messages. There were two. One from Ben Bellini at 7:05 reminding her about dinner; the other from Mick McGuire at 7:50 that said, “Please call.” She picked up the phone and dialed Mick’s cell.
“McGuire.”
Lane was unsure how to address him. Somehow, Detective didn’t seem right any more, and yet Mick seemed wrong too. “Lane Parker,” she said in the hope that he’d give her a cue to follow.
“How’s your head this morning?”
Lane still didn’t know if they were really on a first name basis. “Much better, thank-you. I had a very nice neck and shoulder massage last night and then I got a really good night’s sleep,” she replied as she rolled her head from one shoulder to the other in a circular motion. It really was the most relaxed she’d felt in days.
“Glad I could help,” he replied as he wondered if she’d spent the night sleeping in Ben’s arms.
“Lane, I called because I seem to have misplaced my sunglasses. I had them when I drove you home yesterday afternoon. Since it was dark when I left, I didn’t miss them until this morning. I’m hoping you’ve found them.”
Lane did a quick mental check. She didn’t recall seeing any extra sunglasses. “No, I haven’t seen them. Any idea where you might have set them down? I wasn’t in very good shape yesterday afternoon, you know.” She said remembering he’d left her briefcase in the den. “But if they’d been near my laptop, I’d have seen them this morning.”
“I probably put them on the night stand when I was reading.”
“Since my sons are out of town this week, there’s no one home right now. Listen, you know the code to the garage door. Why don’t you just drop by and check? ” She figured after all, not only was he a friend of Ben’s he was a cop. If it wasn’t safe to have him in the house when no one was home, then it wasn’t safe to have anyone there.
“I appreciate the offer, but the truth is I don’t remember the code. Even if I did, I don’t think I’d be comfortable going in without you. I thought maybe if you didn’t have lunch plans, I could pick you up, buy you lunch, and maybe we could swing by your house to check for them then.”
Lane picked up the list of appointments Meg had left for her. “Will 11:30 work for you? I have a 1:30 meeting.”
“That’s good for me. Eleven-thirty in front of your building then.”
Lane poured a cup of tea and picked up the “No Rush” stack of messages, only one was of any importance. Craig Turner wanted to talk after she’d read his report. She pulled out a green high lighter and a green felt tip pen. Her second husband, Phillip Parker, who apparently had latent teacher tendencies, always used a red pen to make notes, even on the grocery list as though he were correcting every written word in the house. She had come to hate red ink.
When she got through the first page, Lane accessed the California state web site so she could read the actual wording of the law herself. Craig Turner might have a law degree, but she wanted to see it herself. It was the same way she approached her devotional Bible reading. Sometimes she had as many as four Bible translations, a Bible dictionary, and a concordance open on the bed in an attempt to decipher the meaning of a single word within the context of a phrase. Lane printed pages from the web site and made notes on them as well as making references back to Craig’s report. In no time, her desk could have appeared as the cover photo on Organized Chaos – if there were such a magazine. Her teapot was empty and it was time to move on to Diet Dr. Pepper. It was also a good time for a stretch and a walk down the hall.
Meg was on her phone and as Lane passed, Meg put the call on hold. “Did you possibly forget to tell me something,” Meg asked.
“I may have.” Lane looked at her guiltily. “What is it,” she said sheepishly.
Meg pointed to a huge bouquet of red tipped yellow roses and handed Lane a card.
“Yellow for friendship, red for passion all for you and our new relationship. Happy two-month anniversary. See you at seven. Ben.” She handed the card and envelope back to Meg not bothering to replace the card in the envelope. Lane knew Meg would read it anyway.
“I’m on my way down the hall. Will you put them in my office?” Lane chuckled as she walked away. She loved Meg who was often “in her business,” but Lane never found it annoying. In fact, she usually found it humorous. Meg was in her mid-twenties, had never been married, and had a two year old daughter from a relationship that had ended badly just before she found out she was pregnant. Lane had to applaud her decision to have and keep the baby. Many women, of any age, in those circumstances would have made a different decision. Lane also admired Meg’s parents who had taken a nonjudgmental stand and helped her by allowing her to move back home and providing very low cost day care.
This was Meg’s first Corporate America job. She’d gotten a degree in Marketing and had been working at Dillard’s. When she found out she was pregnant, she wanted a job that gave her nights, weekends and holidays off. Besides that, she needed to earn enough money to support herself, and a child, and Telco Unlimited provided a good salary and great health insurance. As luck would have it for both of them, this was the first job Meg had applied for, and she was the first person Lane had interviewed. They just hit it off.
Lane returned to her office and found Meg moving the roses from one location to another searching for the perfect spot. She pointed to the credenza on the wall near the door to the conference room, “What about over there where I can see them as I sit at my desk?”
Meg picked up the vase. It was almost as big as she was. Lane hadn’t noticed earlier, but there must have been two dozen roses in the vase.
“Judging from the size of this bouquet, Ben’s decided to step things up. He must be worried now that Mick McGuire’s on the scene.”
Lane looked at her watch, and gasped. It was 11:35 and she was late again. “I’ve got to run.” She grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “I’m on my cell. I’ll be back in time for my 1:30 meeting.”
Mick was sitting at the curb. When he saw Lane come out of the building, he got out and opened the passenger door for her. As he wondered if she was ever on time for anything, he said, Lady’s choice. Where are we headed for lunch?”
“I’m craving pie. Is Aunt Em’s Diner okay? It’s sort of on the way to my house and they have the best pie around.”
Mick laughed. She had a great body, not an ounce of fat as far as he could see anyway, and since he’d seen her in her nightshirt yesterday, he’d seen a lot. “Somehow, I didn’t figure you for a dessert person.”
“Hmm, shows what kind of detective you are. I love dessert. Have you heard the saying, ‘Life’s short, order dessert first’? I’ve been known to order two desserts and skip the entree.”
“Well, you see, there’s a reason for that. I’m a homicide detective. I may not have detected your sweet tooth yet, but I can promise you that if you ever use it to commit a murder, I’d figure it out.”
They both laughed.
“You have a great laugh,” Mick said as he turned out of the parking lot.
Lane had always had a full-bodied audacious laugh. During lunch, Lane discovered what a witty guy Mick was. He joked, she laughed. They talked about kids, hers, and his. They had a lot in common they each had three kids. They each had two boys and a girl. He was impressed that Jamie was heading to West Point next year. He hadn’t raised his kids alone as she had and he knew how much trouble kids could get in. His boys had been a bit of a handful. Michael, who was 27, married and expecting his first child around Christmas was a pharmacist. His middle child, Shane was 25 and a sports reporter for the local FOX affiliate now. But, in his high school and college days, he was a football jock. He’d been a good kid who had a harem of girls following him around. Where a harem of girls were, problems followed. Mick told Lane about the day when he Gloria had awoken to find every tree in the yard draped with toilet paper. Shane’s car sat in the drive way covered in whipped cream, and a huge sign in the yard declared Shane was the biggest lying two faced jerk, (although not in those exact words) at Rockhurst High School. It seemed he’d been dating two girls at the same time. The girls were both students at St. Teresa’s Academy and unbeknownst to Shane, were friends who eventually compared notes. Mick’s daughter, Kiley, 23 had recently graduated from nursing school at Kansas University and still lived at home.
Lane laughed as she told Mick about Jess, who growing up thought she was the boss of and protector for the family. It made for one difficult yet hilarious situation after another. She related a story about the rainy day when Jake, who was six, was riding a tricycle through the house with Jess, who was two standing on the rear axle behind him. It was great fun. They rode from one end of the house to the other. Round and round in circles from the living room through the dining room and into the kitchen. After about the twentieth lap, she’d had enough and told them to stop. Kids being kids, they didn’t. Lane had stepped in front of the tricycle, grabbed the handlebars, and firmly said, “I told you to stop.” Jess had gotten off the tricycle, put her little fists on her little hips, stood toe to toe with Lane, looked up, and said, “You can’t talk to my brother like that.” Lane had kept her composure long enough to reply, “I’m the Mom and yes, I can.” Then she had quickly gone to her bedroom, closed the door, buried her face in a pillow, and laughed. The waitress delivered their pie, lemon meringue for Lane, strawberry for Mick, just as Lane finished the story.
Mick couldn’t remember when he’d laughed so much. The waitress brought the check, and Lane let Mick pay it. It wasn’t until they were in Mick’s SUV and heading toward Lane’s house when Lane noticed the time. It was nearing one o’clock. They continued chatting on the short ride to Lane’s house. Mick parked in the driveway. Lane entered the code and the garage door opened. They walked through the house stopping first in the den, and then headed toward the bedroom.
“So, do you wear contacts most of the time,” Lane said, as she remembered that Mick had worn glasses the first time they met.
Mick turned and looked at Lane. “Yeah, most of the time. Why do you ask?”
“I just remembered you had on glasses the first time we met.”
”Saturday had been a long week,” He said crawling on the floor lifting the bed skirt. There was no wall-to-wall carpeting in Lane’s house. She was a hard wood floor and Oriental rug gal.
