Midnight Rhythms. Karen Van Der Zee
exhausted, but clean. Wrapped in a short cotton robe, she looked a little better, too, the blue of the robe brightening her eyes. Her stomach was grumbling now, and she felt thirsty. Having dried her hair and tied it back to keep it out of her face, she went to the kitchen to find something to eat. A banana, a glass of milk. She wasn’t sure what she would find. She hadn’t shopped for food in days.
The hardwood floor felt cool and smooth under her bare feet. It was such a beautiful house and she was happy to have the opportunity to live here for a while, house-sitting for Susan and Andrew, friends who were on a six-month tour of southern Europe, making a documentary. Such a stroke of luck, too, just when her apartment building had gone co-op and she’d been forced to move out.
House-sitting for Susan and Andrew was a perfect solution. The McMillans owned several acres of wooded land in Virginia, not too far from the civilized world of Washington D.C. The one-story house was an irregular, sprawling structure built to fit in with its natural surroundings. It had a big wooden deck and an in-ground swimming pool in the yard. Inside, the house was airy and spacious and furnished with casual, comfortable furniture and colorful artwork. Being used to apartment living, Sam found all the space simply wonderful, although sometimes, when she allowed herself the luxury of a moment of introspection, all that space made her feel a little lonely.
Light came from the kitchen. Had she left it on this morning? No, she was sure she hadn’t. Besides, she hadn’t noticed it being on when she’d come home. Trepidation gripped her. She stepped into the kitchen and her heart stopped as she took in the scene.
A red towel wrapped around his hips, Michelangelo’s David was pouring himself a whiskey.
CHAPTER TWO
SAM froze as she stared at the man. He was tall and tanned and well-built. Very short black hair damply hugged his well-formed skull and his dark eyes looked at her with surprise, but only for a moment. An amused half-smile curved his mouth.
“I didn’t know you were home,” he said, putting the whiskey bottle on the counter. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Sam couldn’t talk. Here he was, a stranger in her house, huge, naked apart from a towel, and he hadn’t meant to frighten her. What had he expected? A hug? She swallowed with difficulty, aware he was still observing her. Who was this man? This very good-looking man—she couldn’t help noticing, tired as she was. He had strong, angular features that were not quite regular, a square jaw, a nose just a bit crooked. Dark, compelling eyes. A very masculine face. All of him was definitely very masculine—the broad chest, the muscular legs and arms, nicely tanned, all radiating a disturbing virility. She was aware of it even through the fog of her fatigue. Gina would be happy to know all her female hormones were still alive and kicking.
“Didn’t you get my messages?” he asked, taking a drink from his glass. Feet planted squarely on the floor, he looked as if he owned the place. “I called several times yesterday and today and left messages on the machine.” His voice held a vague note of reproof, which she did not appreciate.
“No, I didn’t,” she said tightly. She hadn’t checked the answering machine, which was in Andrew’s office and out of sight. She’d been too busy and too tired and too preoccupied. Actually, she’d plain forgotten. Not having had an answering machine in her apartment, she was not in the habit of checking one.
“You must be Samantha,” he stated.
He knew her name. “And you must be David,” she said promptly, and watched his eyebrows shoot up.
“I thought you didn’t get the messages I left you?”
“I didn’t.” She took a step back. He was looming over her.
“But you know my name.”
Oh, no. This could not be true. She swallowed a little laugh. “I was just guessing,” she said, trying to sound casual. David. His name was David!
“Just guessing?” he repeated. “Out of thousands of possibilities, you come up with David? Why?”
Because you reminded me of Michelangelo’s David standing there naked by the pool.
She wasn’t about to tell him that. Instead, she shrugged and managed a cool look. “Yes. Sometimes I do that. Guess, I mean. People look like their names sometimes. You look like a David.”
“Ah,” he said. “Well, good. I wouldn’t like to look like a Flip or a Bucky.”
His tone was dry, and she caught a glimmer of humor in his eyes. She wondered if it had been there all along and he was laughing at her. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and crossed her arms defensively in front of her chest, wishing she didn’t feel so puny with her five foot three inches and one hundred and eight pounds. “So who are you and what are you doing here in my house?” Oddly, she felt no fear. This big man emanated strength, but she registered no threat to her physical safety. “I could call the police, you know,” she added bravely.
He was not impressed by her threat. He quirked an eyebrow, his expression indicating that the very idea of his being mistrusted was rather amusing.
“This is not your house,” he said calmly, taking another leisurely drink. “This is Susan and Andrew McMillan’s house and I am David McMillan, Andrew’s cousin.”
Yes, Your Majesty, she was tempted to say.
“Oh,” she said instead, sounding not very bright. She squared her shoulders. “But I am house-sitting for them and what right do you have to come barging in here disturbing my privacy?”
“It was not my intention to do any barging and disturbing,” he said soberly. “That’s why I made all these calls, none of which you returned. However, I do need a place to stay for the next few months and I did have a key and—”
“What?” Sam’s heart crashed into her shoes. “You’re going to move into the house?” A surge of adrenaline momentarily revived her. She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “No way! You are not moving in here!” So brave she sounded. As if she could prevent him from doing anything he might want to do—this man with his perfect physique and well-trained muscles.
He tossed back the rest of his drink and smiled benignly. “Oh, yes, I am, Samantha Bennett.”
She stared at him, feeling helpless rage. Her head began to throb. She was so tired. She had the sudden, frightening urge to burst out into tears, which she hadn’t done in years. Something was seriously wrong with her. First hallucinating, now crying. No, she hadn’t been hallucinating, after all. Seeing David McMillan standing starkers in the moonlight had not been the delusion of an overwrought mind. It had been plain reality. She rubbed her forehead, trying to erase the image from her mind. She was in no state to contemplate a naked male.
She was uncomfortably aware of his scrutiny, the dark eyes intent on her face. He moved toward her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Sit down,” he ordered. “You look as if you’re about to collapse.” He eased her into a chair at the kitchen table. She sagged down like a bag of potatoes, too tired to fight his order. A moment later he put a glass with a measure of whiskey in front of her and seated himself across from her at the table.
“You have nothing to worry about,” he said calmly. “I’m not a mass murderer or a rapist or a con artist—which is easy for me to say, I’m well aware, but we can try to contact Susan and Andrew by phone tomorrow so they can set your mind at ease.”
“We can call them now,” she said. He was taking control of the situation and she didn’t like it.
“We could, but it’s the dead of night in Turkey and I’m not sure they’d appreciate it. Now, drink up. It’ll calm your nerves.”
She gritted her teeth and glared at him. “Do you always order people around?”
Surprise flared in his dark eyes, as if he had never considered the issue. Then the left corner of his mouth lifted with faint amusement. “Yes,” he said. “Now,