Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [35]
“You certainly ask a lot of questions,” he said coldly, not liking his physical response to her. No point in his getting excited when he knew it would end in frustration. How was he going to tell her he had never had a woman before? She looked experienced. Hell, he would just have to bluff. A bright flush stained his cheeks and he adjusted his pants. “I never had a secret in my life,” Charlie lied.
“That’s hard to believe. Everyone has a skeleton or two in the closet. You do, too. You just don’t want to tell me,” Angela pressed, to Charlie’s obvious embarrassment. Fleetingly, she sensed that she had crossed a line, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Her sense of what was right and what was wrong was dissolving somehow.
He had to be careful; she was clever. She almost acted like she knew something. What could she know? “Well, you’re wrong. My life’s an open book.”
“Actually,” Angela said, searching her memory for some kind of compliment to pay him, “you have a nice, open kind of face. Very readable, if you know what I mean.”
Holy crap, did that mean he was giving away his—what was the word everyone used now—oh yeah. Inappropriate. He definitely had an inappropriate interest in her. Charlie told himself that he had to get out of here, and he had to do it now.
“Look, I have to get back to the mall. I still have part of my shift to finish, and then I have to clean up the area.”
“Do you want me to help?” Angela offered, not wanting to see him leave. “Say, where do you live?”
Charlie debated a second. Then, what the hell, he thought. “I live on West End Avenue, second house from the end.” Without another word he got up and left the restaurant.
Angela stared after him, struggling to figure out why she had wanted to even talk to an oddball like him. Her sixth sense was tingling faintly. But he couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the terrifying threat to Timberwoods Shopping Mall.
She crumpled her coffee cup in her hand and threw it in the garbage on her way out.
Chapter 5
Eric Summers opened his front door and invited in Harold and Lex. He took their coats and introduced them to his very pregnant wife, Amy.
Lex looked into her soft, doe-like eyes and grinned. “The big day is soon, right?”
Amy ran her long, tapered fingers through her short-clipped natural hair. Her tea-colored skin glowed with vitality as she laughed happily. “Christmas Day, what do you think of that? What better Christmas present could I give Eric?”
Eric’s gaze was clear and direct as he explained to Harold Baumgarten, “This is the closest we’ve come in six years. Amy has had two miscarriages and the doctors told us we couldn’t have children. Someone up there must like us,” he said, smiling.
Harold blinked. “I didn’t know . . . what I mean is . . . I’m sorry.” Suddenly he reached out and grasped Amy’s slender hand in his. “Congratulations. I wish you both the very best,” he said sincerely.
Eric looked across at Lex. “How about a drink?” he asked, rubbing his square jaw, his fingers making a rasping sound against his fiveo’clock stubble.
“Scotch for me. What about you, Harold?”
“I’ll have the same. I’ve never had scotch before. Is it any good, Lassiter?”
“In answer to your question, Baumgarten, it grows on you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t drink,” Eric apologized.
“Don’t be sorry. I just took up the habit. A double scotch,” Harold said firmly.
“Honey, why don’t you . . .” Eric turned toward his wife.
Amy laughed, a bright tinkling sound that fell softly on Harold’s ears. How long since he’d heard a woman’s warm laugh? “I’m going, I’m going. I think I’ll make some brownies. Do you like brownies, Mr. Baumgarten?”
“I love ’em.” Harold beamed. “With lots of nuts.”
“One pan of brownies with lots of nuts coming up.”
“Amy,” Eric said anxiously, “don’t overdo it, okay?”
“Honestly. If I need you to slide the pan into the oven, I’ll call you,” she complained as she waddled toward the kitchen.
Eric sighed. “I just don