“Even your underwear?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t think I want anyone touching my panties,” Jane said while Marie opened the door. At least not strangers, she thought as she stepped inside and came to an abrupt halt. The impact of the windows stopped Jane in her tracks and replaced thoughts of strange people folding her thongs. The windows ran from floor to ceiling and took up an entire wall. Beyond the tops of buildings, she could see the ships in Elliott Bay. The room was filled with a deep blue couch and chairs and wrought-iron-and-glass coffee and end tables. The angles of the rooms seemed to flow in on themselves and big potted plants thrived in brushed stainless steel pots. To her left, the Devils battled Long Island on the big-screen television, while Dave Matthews pumped through the stereo fit into a huge entertainment center.
Luc stood in the open kitchen separated from the living room by a granite bar. The cabinets behind him had glass fronts with chrome handles. The appliances were stainless steel and a bit futuristic-looking. Luc picked up a remote and cut the sound to the stereo. A smile curved his mouth and crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You look great, Marie.”
Marie dumped her bags on the floor and tossed her coat on the couch. She spun around for her brother. “I think I look twenty-one,” she said.
“Not quite.” He turned his smile on Jane, and she once again felt like a magnate, pulled by a force stronger than herself. “Wanna beer, Jane?”
“No, thanks. I don’t drink beer.” She set her briefcase and jacket on the couch.
“What do you drink?”
“Water’s fine.”
“I’ll take Jane’s beer,” Marie volunteered, bless her heart.
“As soon as you
“I bet you drank before you turned twenty-one.”
“Yeah, and look how I turned out.” He shut the door with his foot and pointed the bottle at Jane. “Don’t say it.”
“I wasn’t going to say a thing.” She moved across the room and stepped between two chrome and gray leather barstools.
“Better not.” He tossed a few ice cubes in a glass and twisted the top off the bottle. He’d pushed up the sleeves of a plaster-colored ribbed sweater, and the edge of a white T-shirt showed beneath the crew neck. He wore his gold Rolex and a pair of olive cargo pants. “ ‘Cause I know stuff to blackmail you.”
He knew she melted when he kissed her and that she didn’t like to wear a bra. “You don’t know any of the really good stuff.”
A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “How good?”
Stuff that would blow his mind, and she just thanked God he would never figure it out. He would never know that she was Honey Pie.
“What stuff?” Marie wanted to know as she took a seat beside Jane.
“That I’m a Girl Scout,” Jane answered.
Luc lifted one dubious brow and set the glass on the bar.
“Well, I was,” she assured him.
“Me too,” Marie added. “I still have all my patches.”
“I was never a Boy Scout.”
Marie rolled her eyes. “Well, duh.”
Luc looked at his sister as if he meant to comment, but at the last second decided against it. Instead, he returned the water to the refrigerator and set a bowl of marinated chicken breasts on the counter.
“What can I do to help?” Jane asked.
Opening a drawer, he took out a fork and turned the chicken. “Just sit tight and relax.”
“I’ll help you,” his sister volunteered and slid off the barstool.
Luc glanced up and smiled, his blue eyes warm as he looked at Marie, and Jane’s heart squeezed in a way that had nothing to do with her lust for him. Nothing to do with infatuation, and everything to do with seeing the kinder, gentler side of Luc Martineau. “That’d be great. Thanks. Grab the pasta and get it boiling.”
Marie walked around the bar and joined Luc in the kitchen. She pulled down a red box from one glass-faced cabinet, then reached for a measuring cup. “Two cups of water,” she read out loud. “And a tablespoon of butter.”
“When Marie was little,” Luc said as she turned on the faucet, “she said ‘gotter’ instead of water.”
“How do you know?” Marie asked as she measured water into a cup.
“I heard you when I came to visit when Dad was still alive. You were probably two.”
“I was cute when I was a baby.”
“You were bald.”
She turned off the water and poured it into a pan. “So?”
He reached over and messed up her hair. “You looked like a monkey.”
“Luc!” Marie set the pan on the stove and brushed her hair with her fingers.
He laughed, a deep pleased-with-himself ha-ha-ha. “You were a
“Okay. That’s better.” She turned on the burner and added the butter. “You’re just jealous because you looked like a Teletubby.”
“What’s a Teletubby?”
“Oh, my gosh! You don’t know what a Teletubby is?” She shook her head at her clueless brother.
“No.” A bewildered crease furrowed his brow as he turned his blue gaze on Jane. “Do you?”
“Unfortunately, yes. It’s a show geared toward very young children. And, as far as I could tell from the one time I watched it, all the Teletubbies do is run around in Teletubbyland babbling and baby-talking.”
“And they show pictures on their tummies,” Marie added.
His mouth fell open a bit, his eyes glazed, and he looked as if he were getting a sudden headache just thinking about it. “You’re kidding.”
“No.” Jane shook her head. “And in my own defense, I only know this because a few years ago, Jerry Falwell made headlines when he warned parents that there are gay undertones in Teletubbyland. Apparently because Tinky Winky is purple and carries a red purse.”
“Tinky Winky?” Slowly he turned and looked at his sister. “Holy hell, and you make fun of me for watching hockey.”
“It’s not the same thing. You watching hockey is like me watching school.”
She had a point.
He must have thought so too because he conceded with a shrug of his shoulders. “I can’t believe you watch those Telebelly things,” he said, but he did pick up the remote and shut off the hockey game.
“Teletubby,” Marie corrected him. “When I go to Hanna’s, she puts in the tapes for her two-year-old brother. It mesmerizes him so we can paint our fingernails.”
“Hanna?”
“The girl who lives on the third floor. I told you about her.”
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot her name.” Once Luc set the vegetables steaming, he turned on the stovetop grill and put the chicken on.
“I’m going to the movies with her after dinner.”
“Do you need a ride?”
“No.”
Luc had an innate grace about him, whether it was reaching for a puck or turning chicken breasts on a grill, an economy of motion and fluid style that was fascinating to watch. Almost as fascinating as the way his butt filled out those cargo pants. The bottom edge of his sweater hit just below his hips and right above the Nautica label sewn on his back pocket.
Jane listened to Luc and his sister talk about her day. Everything Marie had bought, and her plans for later. Jane knew from her conversations with Luc that he didn’t think he was doing a good job with Marie. Seeing them together, Jane wasn’t so sure he was right. They seemed to get along pretty well. They were a family. Perhaps not
