The Harder They Fall Read online

  Trisha had to admit, it felt terrific to wear something so flattering. She actually felt pretty. “I think I like it,” she whispered, stepping into the matching black sandals Celia had brought.

  “Good. So maybe I could have some made up?”

  “Absolutely,” she said, smiling into Celia’s hopeful face. “We can sell these.”

  “Thank you.” Celia’s eyes were suspiciously bright. “You know how much this means to me.”

  “Yes. We’ve been dreaming together for years, Celia. This is the year that they all come true.”

  “Yeah.” Celia nodded thoughtfully. “You were locking lips with the scientist guy today.”

  Trisha sighed. “Don’t tell me how stupid it is. I already know.”

  Laughter flickered in Celia’s expression. “It’s only stupid if the kiss went bad. Which, given my view of the thing, didn’t happen.”

  No, it hadn’t been bad, not by a long shot. “It was a bout of temporary insanity. I’m not interested.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’re too different,” she said, echoing Hunter’s sentiments.

  “Okay.”

  “And—”

  “I said okay.” Celia interrupted with a laugh. “But methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

  Celia’s last comment gave Trisha pause on her short drive home. Had she protested too much? Was there any reason why she couldn’t enjoy Hunter and her newfound freedom at the same time? Of course not.

  But she sensed within him a hesitation that matched her own. He didn’t want anything between them any more than she did. Even that fiery kiss they’d shared had made him frown thoughtfully. No, he wouldn’t be chasing her anytime soon, though she didn’t know why not.

  But it was fine with her, just fine.

  Turning onto her street, she sighed. She loved this quiet, oak-lined street beyond reason. She pulled into the driveway of the duplex, thinking she also loved this house beyond reason.

  Oh, the place needed work, but beneath the shabby exterior lay the strong, beautiful, turn-of-the-century house she wanted to live in forever. Each room had character, and she just couldn’t imagine leaving.

  Yet she knew without being told, her days at the duplex were limited.

  Only if she let them be.

  Eloise had made her a promise, and God bless her soul, Trisha was going to do her best to make sure that promise was kept.

  Hunter Adams, if he chose to stay, was stuck with her.

  Hunter’s salvation, which was and always had been work, would have to wait. Much as he craved the pleasure of researching, drawing up data/theory comparisons, developing his projects, and designing them to fit into his missions, he couldn’t very well go off and leave the duplex as it was.

  The floor had sagged under the flow of water from Trisha’s refrigerator. For all he knew, the damn thing could give and he’d have a gaping hole—again. But at least Trisha had just been kidding about another peephole. He sighed, breathed deeply for patience, and once again gingerly touched the soggy floor with his toe.

  The black cat Trisha had called Duff strutted into the kitchen and eyed him. His tail swished, silently suspicious as only a cat can be.

  “You see this?” Hunter asked the cat, nodding to the floor. “Do you see what she’s done?”

  “Mew.” Duff sauntered over to his bowl, sniffed delicately, and turned up his nose at the dry food. Coming close, he bent his head and rubbed it over Hunter’s ankle.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” He scooped up the cat and stroked its sleek back for a long moment before letting it go.

  Then he tested the floor again, concerned. “The woman is a walking disaster,” he muttered. “And I have a feeling she’s only just begun wreaking havoc on my life.”

  Duff meowed his agreement and steered clear of the sinking floor.

  No doubt about it, the entire thing would cave under too much weight. The linoleum, already old, had peeled back at a seam, and the water from the freezer had seeped deeply into the crack. Beneath, the plywood had rotted. God only knew what lay beneath that, but hopefully some pretty sturdy joists.

  He took in the rest of Trisha’s clean but amazingly cluttered kitchen. The floor was covered with the same black-and-white-checkered linoleum that he had downstairs, probably from the early fifties. It made his eyes cross to stare at it, especially when juxtaposed with the high-gloss red paint that had been used to disguise the old cabinetry of the kitchen.

  Standing between the black refrigerator and the equally black stove, he had a clear view of the rather large room. Above the surprisingly attractive wood dining alcove, the walls were filled with pictures. Not personal photos, he noted with his usual attention to detail, but a collection of paintings, postcards, and drawings that made him wonder about Trisha’s private life.

  The window frames had been painted red, contrasting with the bright white walls. Across the floor, she’d scattered throw rugs, none identical, but each somehow complementing the others. The counter that separated the cooking area from the living space didn’t seem to be available for eating at, not with what were obviously samples of the merchandise she sold covering every spare inch.

  On top lay a black leather thong bikini. Irresistibly curious, he picked up the bottom of the thing and stared at the tiny swatch that was expected to cover the essentials. It took him a minute, but he finally figured out that the long black strip of leather was the back. Just looking at it gave him the urge to yank at his own underwear. How did women stand wearing such things?

  Beneath the bikini lay a soft, creamy ivory chemise, delicately lined in fine lace—with snaps at the crotch.

  His every muscle tightened.

  In a rare but fatally stupid move, he’d kissed Trisha Malloy. And she’d kissed him back, with such breath-stopping, sweet-tasting hunger that he got hard just thinking about it. No denying it, a dangerous attraction existed between them, dangerous because he had no intention of acting on it

  A woman was the last thing his life needed, especially a woman so opposite himself as Trisha. He hoped she felt the same way. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he knew women tended to think very differently than he did.

  Didn’t he have two ex-fiancées to prove that?

  He had no need for a woman, other than for the obvious, quick diversion, and only then with someone equally uninterested in any sort of permanence. He ran across that sort of woman surprisingly often in the sophisticated circle of acquaintances associated with the lab. Understated, elegant, intelligent, and wealthy in their own right, they often provided entertainment as well as funding for his projects.

  Trisha Malloy was not that sort of woman. He’d seen the flash of intelligence in her eyes, but nothing about her was understated or wealthy. And as for elegant ... he glanced down at the scrap of leather still in his fingers.

  The sudden blare of music had him dropping the bikini.

  Then came her soft, musical voice, the only voice in his history that could make his insides tighten in anticipation.

  “Looking for me?” she wanted to know.

  Five

  Hunter whirled to face Trisha. At the sight of her, his mouth went dry and his greeting croaked out, going unheard over the roar of the music.

  Her hair had gone wild in the light wind, the long wavy brown strands flying everywhere. Neatly encased in a body-hugging black dress that showed off her every sensuous curve, she swayed gently to the beat of the music. “How’s it going up here?” she asked with a secret little smile.

  “I—uh...” Oh, great. He’d lost his ability to form a complete sentence. “Fine,” he managed.

  “Doesn’t look like you’ve done much.”

  “I had to buy supplies and discuss the problem with a contractor.”

  “When does he start?”

  “Who?” He just wouldn’t look at her; that should keep his brain functioning.

  “The contractor,” she said patiently. “When will he get here?”