Change of Life

He didn’t bother with talk. He didn’t have to.

Heath Moran seemed fully involved in a replay of that scene from the 1969 film Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The young Robert Redford. Katharine Ross. A classic now. Like Nora.

Before she could breathe again, he gently nudged her inside and shut them both into the cool darkness of her entryway. He pushed her up against the closed panel of the door and set his delicious, wicked mouth on hers, and she went limp.

“Why the hell do you keep torturing me like this?” Heath mumbled, his mouth pressed to the cleavage above the top button of her silk blouse. “Three flipping weeks without a word from you. Then I get that desperate-sounding tone on my answering machine. The Steel Magnolia in full meltdown mode. You’re enough to drive a man out of his freaking, already-insane mind.”

“Heath—”

Nora didn’t get the chance to continue. Or explain, as if she could. Clearly, he was a man bent upon a mission of the utmost importance. Critical. Now.

Within the next heartbeat, Nora agreed with him.

She felt his hard body against hers, the press of his already-stiff penis against her through the coarse fabric of his cargo shorts. He would be out of them in the next five seconds if she didn’t take control.

“You didn’t answer my call.”

“I’m answering it now.” She barely understood his muttering. “I was at work last night. Or did you already forget that Thursdays and Fridays I’m on the schedule?” Before she could push him away, his mouth dipped lower and he had unbuttoned her sufficiently to slip his hand inside her blouse. The heat of his palm on her breast, his fingers snaking inside her bra, felt like heaven. His breath came in pants. “The club’s…short-handed right now. One of the trainers…quit and I’m working…more hours.”

“Some excuse. And your cell phone battery died? I called both numbers.”

“Sounded important.” He nuzzled her half-exposed breast. “So is this.”

Nora fought not to whimper.

She didn’t think she could resist much longer. When she moaned, Heath smiled against her other breast.

“You want it. You know you do. You want me.”

“You do have…your skills. And here I thought—” she couldn’t help the movement of her own body “—that you were nothing more than a sadistic personal trainer. I’m still hurting,” she murmured, trying to be rational. “Those last pull-ups were murder.”

“A month ago? And you’re still sore? I doubt it.” Heath laughed a little, but he sounded winded. “Through tormenting me, then? Because if you are, we can get down to business here.”

Heath was forty-two and a stud muffin, as Savannah might say, the likes of which Nora had never known up close and personal until a few months ago. That is, until she’d finally rediscovered her common sense. She’d already made one mistake with Wilson, as today’s announcement reminded her. When compared to Wilson’s more cerebral, poetic nature, Heath might be embarrassingly physical, more of this earth with his sandy brown hair and eyes the color of topaz, and he was sensible to the core, but he was still a man. And men dumped her, or forced her to dump them, no matter what they promised.

“I can’t, Heath.” She pulled back, smoothed her skirt and rebuttoned her blouse. Her whole body felt sensitized as she glanced at his still-dazed face. “This is ridiculous. I’m—”

His head jerked up. “If you’d only get over this cockamamy theory that I’m too young for you, Nora, we could have some fun. Again.”

“We’re really not compatible.” Except in bed. She couldn’t deny that. What was she waiting for?

Heath’s voice stopped her. “I still scare you, don’t I?”

Nora couldn’t disagree. “Old habits—like Wilson—are hard to break.” And then, there was Detective Caine with his questions and his sorrowful eyes, the inspiration for yet another, different blast of heat. This time Nora couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.

Heath ran a hand through his thick sandy hair. He was obviously frustrated. “I’m not a habit. You’ve been divorced for over two decades. Isn’t it time to be happy again? With someone else? Me, for instance.”

She had to turn away not to jump his bones. He wasn’t just a pretty-boy face, a pack of muscles and six-pack abs. It wouldn’t be fair to him. Or to her.

He followed her into the living room, where Nora switched on the lamps so as not to leave them in the seductive darkness that had fallen.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” she admitted.

Their brief affair, a first for Nora, had taught her a few things. She wasn’t cut out for hot sex without strings. She also wasn’t above enjoying it.

That thought, at least, was comforting. Heath’s tone was not.

“Look, I’ve been a good boy. I left you alone for weeks. Believe me, that wasn’t easy. Then all of a sudden you call me, but I can’t figure out why. I stew about that for a couple of days, but when I get here—against my better judgment—you light up like one of these lamps. Then just when things start looking good, and I feel human again, you go into some deep freeze. What the hell happened, Nora?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Forget that. What? Your future son-in-law disapproves of us? That doesn’t sound like Johnny, or Savannah. She introduced us, for God’s sake.”

Nora took a deep breath. “She’s pregnant.”

When she turned from lighting the last lamp, Heath was staring at her.

“Pregnant. And that means…”

“I’m going to be a…you know.” Nora turned away.

“Well, that’s it, then.” If Heath slammed the door for good this time, she couldn’t blame him, but she wouldn’t watch him leave. Instead, he stalked her across the room. “There’s no use pretending that it’s not all over now,” he murmured too close behind her. “A grandmother.”

Her throat had closed. “That’s a good thing, but…” She couldn’t go on.

“Jeez, Nora.” Heath turned her into his arms. He did have the smoothest moves. She never saw them coming. “Do you think that matters to me?”

A slight thrill ran through her. “It matters to me.”

“So why did you call me, then?”

“I wanted…” She didn’t know.

“Comfort?”

“Maybe. A little.” A lot. A whole cartload of the stuff. “I needed…”

“Reassurance?”

He had gone from bemused bewilderment to curiosity. Now she heard irritation. She might as well finish this off.

“And I had a…hot flash.” She didn’t quite choke on the word this time.

Neither did Heath. “Well, of course you did. You’ll turn fifty next week.”

I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. Please don’t make me.

She felt petty, immature, but couldn’t stop herself. “Then I came home the other night and Johnny was here with Savannah. They told me about the baby. Then yesterday Starr Mulligan—”

“That witch?”

But even that wasn’t all. Nora told him about her latest quarrel with Starr, but couldn’t bring herself to say she was being accused of a crime. Who on earth could have taken Geneva’s vase? And she couldn’t tell Heath about Wilson’s marriage.

He raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like you’ve had a weird couple of days.”

“Well, yes, and if you include Leonard Hackett—” To her absolute horror, she gulped back a sob. Nora whirled away.

Heath stopped her. His hard, sinewy arms wrapped tighter around her more slender frame. She felt Heath’s chin come to rest on the top of her head. He rocked her lightly back and forth, letting her feel that he still wanted her.

“I have a few good ideas to make you feel better.” His sexy tone almost undid her. “Want to hear them? It’s a free offer,” he said in a tempting voice. “Better than a sweaty workout at the club.”

Nora gave him a shaky smile.

“My life is changing too fast,” she whispered.

But Heath still had her in his arms. He felt strong and good and he wasn’t laughing at her. He just held her.

And, despite knowing that no good could come of it, Nora let him.

In that instant she felt vanquished yet determined, like a modern-day Scarlett O’Hara.

Tomorrow, as Scarlett had claimed, would be a better day.

If it wasn’t, Nora knew exactly what to do about Caine.

She would just have to hire her own Dream Team.

CHAPTER 4

T he next day, Nora was still a free woman.

That pesky Caine wouldn’t get the best of her.

And neither would Starr.

On another hot and humid morning with the temperature already climbing, Nora gave the broad front door of Geneva Whitehouse’s home another determined blow with the brass knocker. She’d tried the doorbell, which had summoned no one. Now she waited in the blazing sun, then heard the click of heels on wood in the entry hall.

For a second, the back of her neck prickled. She felt she was being observed. Then the tap of stilettos clacked again, going quickly in the opposite direction. Her gaze homed in on the discreet brass peephole in the door.

Not to Nora’s surprise, Geneva obviously wasn’t glad to see her. A temporary setback.

She leaned on the bell with one finger, lifted the knocker again with her other hand and set off a cacophony inside the house.

“Ms. Whitehouse,” she called through the closed door for good measure.

Tap, tap, tap. The returning sound of heels was agitated.

“Geneva, please. Open up. We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to say. Our business is finished.”

No. It was not. She wouldn’t leave until Geneva Whitehouse reconsidered her decision to choose Starr for the redesign of her home. Ten thousand square feet, Nora reminded herself. The very numbers made her salivate.

She could imagine Starr’s gloating triumph when Geneva chose her instead of Nora. The insult wouldn’t stand.

Apparently this had been her week for outrageous insults.

Nora blocked from her mind the sudden image of Caine’s dark, brooding eyes, his accusations. He hadn’t gone quite that far, but he’d implied as much, and she knew she was a definite suspect in the burglary here at Geneva’s house. Nora desperately needed to repair her reputation.

Damage control. In spite of her aversion to Geneva’s husband for reasons of her own, she couldn’t afford to lose business. If Geneva would only hire her after all, and she liked Nora’s work, she might recommend her to her friends.

Through the still-closed door she heard heavy breathing. Geneva was still there, as if hoping Nora would get discouraged and give up.

“Please,” she said again, softening her tone to convey the courtesy that Maggie had ingrained in her long ago. “This won’t take long. I just want—”

“Go away.” Geneva’s voice shook.

Nora took a step back as if she’d been slapped. Geneva really was mad.

Nora reached for the black leather portfolio she’d left leaning against the brick wall beside the door. She chanced a look through the frosted glass panels that flanked it but could detect no movement or the outline of Geneva’s body. She must be pressed to the door itself, eyeing Nora through that peephole.

Nora tried another tack. “I have something to show you,” she said in a singsong tone. “I think you’ll be sorry if you don’t take at least a peek.”

The door crashed open, rattling the glass.

“Are you threatening me?”

Shocked, Nora clutched the big briefcase to her front. Her heart had begun to thump ominously, and for a moment she felt breathless.

“No. Of course not. I have some sketches here…”

With a weary sigh, Geneva clattered away from the open door.

“Come in, then. But I won’t change my mind. After Detective Caine and I spoke, I know that wouldn’t be wise.”

What did the man say to her?

Nora clenched her teeth. “I am not a criminal.” She followed Geneva inside, the cool air washing over her like a damp cloth against her heated skin. “That man has problems of his own. And if you believe Starr—”

Geneva clipped toward the nearby living room, right past the antique, glass-fronted curio cabinet that had held the now-missing heart-shaped vase. Nora glanced at the barren space on the shelf. The cause of her current troubles, or one of them.

Her business might depend on these next few moments—she had no doubt they would be very few—but so did her shaken sense of self-worth.

She perched on the edge of an obviously costly sofa. “I have never been accused of dishonesty before,” she said, zipping open the black case to draw out her sketches. “If you need references, I’ll provide them. I’m terribly sorry for your loss, but I can assure you I didn’t take your vase. What would I do with it?” Nora gave her a weak smile. “Adorn another customer’s home with a stolen object? Hardly. Keep it for myself—and wait for the day when Caine barges in to catch me in the act? Sell it on eBay?”

For the first time she noticed that Geneva, who sat on the matching sofa opposite, didn’t look quite herself. Maybe Nora shouldn’t have tried to make a joke. Geneva’s normally perfect blond hairstyle looked in disarray, and her blue eyes lacked their usual sparkle. Her gray sweatpants and T-shirt matched the pallor of her complexion beneath its tan. Even while wearing those three-inch heels, black with fetching crystal beads across the instep, she looked thrown together. Of course, she’d had no reason to expect company.

Geneva’s mouth quivered.

“All right, then. Show me.”

Nora had expected a bigger fight.

“Really?” She handed Geneva the first of half a dozen drawings, her ideas for the main rooms of the Whitehouse home. Despite Geneva’s decision Nora had put them together last night and she felt they’d turned out well. There would be none of Starr Mulligan’s typical touches, no garish colors, strange artifacts or overstuffed furniture. The fact that Starr did possess an eye for arrangement, and that her judgment on wall coverings could be pleasing, didn’t enter into Nora’s assessment. “As you can see, I’ve gone for a minimalist effect. Neutrals, clean lines, a contemporary look that should serve as a natural background to highlight your treasures.”

Her sharp glance made Nora swallow. Perhaps she shouldn’t have reminded her would-be client—her temporarily lost client—about the missing vase or any of its scintillating companions.

“This sort of design is all the rage now. I think you’d be very pleased with the outcome—”

“Or else?”

Nora faltered. “Why, of course I’d be happy to work with you on any changes, minor or more extensive.”

“Nora. As you know I’ve already hired Starr Mulligan.”

“Yes, I do know.” She cleared her throat. “And I realize my comment to her was less than, well, businesslike. I’m sorry you heard it. Starr and I have our differences, but they shouldn’t concern you. It’s the job that really matters.”

“Does it?” Geneva’s strained tone alerted Nora. There was something wrong here, even more wrong than Nora being replaced by Starr because of some silly misunderstanding. She’d already apologized, but maybe not enough.

“I am sorry, Geneva. I made a bad impression, but that’s why I’m here. Other than to show you my sketches, of course, which I had hoped might speak for themselves. And me,” she added.

“The sketches are beautiful.”

“You like them?”

Geneva’s blue gaze swept over the last drawing in the stack. For an instant her eyes brightened, but then, to Nora’s horror, they filled with tears. A few brimmed over, and before she stopped to think, by instinct Nora had fallen to her knees onto the thick carpet in front of Geneva’s sofa. She reached out to pull Geneva awkwardly into her arms. “There, there. We can work something out.”

“I doubt that,” Geneva wailed.

Maybe she felt terrible about her earlier decision. She might feel torn between Nora and Starr but regretted her rejection of Nora based on such tissue-thin evidence of a crime. Maybe now she wanted to make amends, as Nora did, but wasn’t sure how.

Nora rocked Geneva in her embrace, as she might one of her children even now. Geneva clung to her, sobbing as if her heart had broken.

“I don’t know about you,” Nora said after a few moments, “but I can’t sit on this rug as if I’m in a Japanese restaurant with one of those little tables that are no higher than a foot.”

Geneva Whitehouse didn’t smile. She pulled back, embarrassed by her display of emotion, and avoided Nora’s searching gaze. Geneva studied the pale cream carpet, the wall covered in an exquisite gold-washed French paper, the violated curio cabinet just visible in the hall, then the deep crown molding that edged the double tray ceiling before at last she met Nora’s eyes. Nora had misunderstood.

“Oh, Geneva. Please tell me what’s wrong. What have I done that can’t be corrected? Certainly you don’t believe Detective Caine—”

“No,” Geneva murmured. “It’s not him.”

Unable to speak, she gestured at the elaborate living room before she followed Nora’s lead and struggled to her feet. They faced each other with the marble-topped coffee table between them, a gorgeous piece of stone that Geneva hoped would be incorporated in the new design. Right now the house was the furthest thing from her mind. Odd, when it had consumed her for so long.

“My husband…lately, he hasn’t been very attentive. He works almost every night—not in his study here, as he used to do, but at his office in town. When I called there last evening, I—I got his voice mail.” The last was uttered in a shaken tone. “I thought then he was on his way home, but he didn’t show up until three in the morning. I know because I was still awake.” She made a futile gesture. “I don’t know what’s happening…”

Nora sat beside her again on the sofa. She took Geneva’s cold hand.

“You’re freezing, angel.”

Geneva shivered, feeling more bereft than she had since before she met Earl and at last escaped the life her parents had wanted for her. But had she only exchanged one misery for another after all? “I can’t seem to get warm.”

Nora looked eager to help, but it was clear she didn’t know how.

“When my relationship became…difficult, I didn’t feel warm for weeks.” Nora blanched, as if realizing what she’d said. “Not that I think you have the same problem,” she hastened to add. “Marriage is a long-term investment,” she tried again. “One that sometimes doesn’t work as we’d like. What I’m trying to say is, there are always ups and downs. I wouldn’t worry,” she said. “Don’t even think about my experience.”

Geneva withdrew her hand from Nora’s clasp. The memory of that other existence, and of one recent night, were still fresh in her mind. “A few nights ago when Earl was home, I went up to his study—it’s next to our bedroom—to ask him something and I found him at his computer. That’s not unusual, but when he noticed me standing in the doorway, he blanked out the monitor, I think so I couldn’t see what was there. He looked…guilty. I don’t know that anything was wrong, but it didn’t feel right.”

Nora looked away. “Your husband is probably embroiled in one of those male things that always seem to consume them.” She flushed. “That is, men get caught up in rectifying some global injustice or correcting the company balance sheet while we women do so in our smaller way without much fanfare.”

Geneva sniffled.

“Is that what your husband does, too?”

“Not any longer. I’ve been divorced for some time. But I’m sure he does,” she added quickly. “Or he will, with his new wife, as he must have with the others. He’s getting married again soon. I’m invited to the wedding.”

Geneva’s eyes widened. She dabbed at them with the handkerchief Nora handed her, using the delicate lawn fabric and Swiss embroidery to blot her smeared mascara. When she saw Nora wince at the stain, she set the cloth aside.

“That,” Geneva murmured, “was more information than I need.”

Nora wasn’t being very tactful, but Geneva knew she was trying, and it wasn’t easy to deal with a hysterical woman. Geneva wondered miserably if she was turning into her mother, the stage mama of all time who had been given to outrageous displays of temper and tears.

She couldn’t hold back her worst fear. “What if Earl is having an affair? Or visiting Web sites with nubile women on display?” Women younger, prettier, than Geneva now?

“Wilson’s first peccadillo nearly killed me,” Nora admitted, not helping at all, “and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” She couldn’t seem to stop herself. “For a long while I regretted that it didn’t kill Wilson instead, even when I still loved him with all my heart.” Nora paled again. “Oh, my God. That doesn’t mean you should worry about Earl.” But something in her expression told Geneva that Nora felt exactly that about Geneva’s husband.

Geneva looked at her hands. “I was his trophy wife, you know. We’ve been married for fifteen years,” she said, her voice gathering strength now that she’d stopped crying. “When we said our vows, I was barely twenty-five. Now I’m forty, and no matter how little I eat or how long I spend on the treadmill every day, I’m still ten pounds heavier than when I met Earl—” She broke off, then began again, “I’ve done a thousand sit-ups, a million leg lifts, or I did until I quit my health club. But my face…oh, God.”

“Nonsense.” Nora adopted a perky expression. “Forty is the new thirty, even twenty-something. You’re a beautiful woman, Geneva. Stunning. Certainly you know that. I’m sure Earl does, too.” She gestured at the room, as Geneva had. “He must love you very much. This house, the car you drive, the exquisite pieces you display…” Nora trailed off, as if not wanting to tread too near the subject of Geneva’s missing vase again. Another reason she’d spent so much time crying today. “Those are material things, I know, but many men use them to express how much they care. It’s easier, you see, than admitting their feelings.”

“You think so?”

“Positive.” When her stiff-upper-lip approach seemed to work, Nora plowed on. “Maybe you and Earl could talk tonight.”

Geneva shook her head. “He called just before you rang the bell. He has a dinner meeting at seven. He won’t be home until late again.”

“Ah,” Nora said.

Geneva felt about to tear up all over again. “What if he doesn’t see me as a desirable woman anymore? Then what?” she demanded of Nora, who had no answer. Geneva didn’t notice. She swept the half dozen sketches of Nora’s designs off the marble table. “If he wants another woman, she’ll be the one who lives here! Not me.”

Nora looked horrified. “This house isn’t in your name?”

“We own it jointly,” Geneva said.

“Then at least you have a half interest, which is probably worth a great deal in Royal Palms, should the worst happen. It won’t, of course. You’re just feeling neglected, and insecure. It happens to all of us,” Nora assured her. “But there’s no sense giving in to a major depression. That’s not healthy, and good health is the first defense.” She rummaged in her handbag and came up with a card. “This is my doctor’s number. Mark Fingerhut. Call him. He can give you a lift in no time.”

Geneva examined the card. “An obstetrician?” Her mouth trembled. If only she could have given Earl children. He’d said he wanted only her, without anything else between them except her perfect body, but maybe a family would have provided a stronger bond. Given them something to hang on to other than Geneva’s beauty. It had been her lifelong curse. And it was all she had.

“He’s also a gynecologist,” Nora said. “But he can refer you to the right person if you’d like Botox injections, for example.” Nora composed her face into a serene expression. “They were the best thing I’ve ever done. I’d send you to the man I used, but he just retired.”

Geneva stared at her, then down at the card. Nora fished in her bag for another, handing it to Geneva with a flourish. “This might come in handy, too.”

Geneva read the name. “‘Heath Moran.’”

“I belong to this club where he works. He’s absolutely marvelous, and quite easy on the eyes,” she added. “Not that I think you need some fine-tuning, but if you’re really concerned about a fitness program, join the club and get a personal trainer. Heath is just the man.”