“I spent the afternoon watching tabloid talk shows.” She crossed the kitchen to stand by the table. “Now I feel slightly nauseated but better about my life.”
“I think that’s the idea.”
Rubbing her temples with the heels of her hands, Claire snorted. “I certainly hope so. My mother send her regards, and my sister wants to know how you feel about European trawlers depleting the Grand Banks, but since she’s only trying to start a political argument, you don’t actually have to answer her.” She picked up a package that smelled unmistakably of turkey. “What’s this?”
“Thanksgiving dinner. I packed up some of the leftovers. The potatoes are cooked to a chuff, but you can’t tell under the gravy.”
When he got a plate and began arranging food on it, Claire folded her arms and shook her head. Only a young man could eat a full meal, then sit down and eat another. “I thought you were—How did it go—all chuffed out?”
“I am. This is for you.” The feel of the answering silence drew his attention up off the food. “That is, if you haven’t eaten. I mean, I don’t even know if you like turkey. It’s just that this was my first Thanksgiving away from home and I know how lonely I would’ve been without my friends and I thought that, well, that you should have some Thanksgiving dinner.” Flustered, unable to read her expression, he spilled the gravy.
The accident and the subsequent wiping and rewiping and polishing gave Claire a chance to swallow the lump in her throat. There were a number of things she wanted to say, but after the day’s emotional ups and downs, she didn’t think she could manage any of them without bursting into tears—and Keepers never cried in front of bystanders. With the table restored to a pristine state, she reached out and touched Dean lightly on the arm. “Thang you,” she said. “Thang you vera much.”
THAT BOY IS SO NICE HE’S NAUSEATING. THERE MUST BE SOMETHING WE CAN TEMPT HIM WITH.
WE’VE TRIED. HE DOESN’T LISTEN.
ISN’T THAT JUST LIKE A MAN.
NOT WHERE WE’RE CONCERNED, Hell told itself tartly.
The next morning, Claire found a pair of Dean’s underwear hanging off the doorknob as she left her suite. The imp must’ve spent the entire night dragging them up from the laundry room in the basement.
“I hope you gave yourself a hernia,” Claire muttered, pulling them free.
Briefs, not boxers. Navy blue with white elastic.
“Boss?”
They wouldn’t mash down into a small enough ball to bide. Keeping her right hand and its contents behind her, Claire turned. “What?”
“We’ve got lots of eggs, and I have to use them. I wondered if you wanted me to make you some for breakfast.”
“Fine.”
“How do you want them?”
“I don’t care.” He was wearing one of his brilliant white T-shirts and jeans, totally unaware of how good he looked. Briefs not boxers. Given how tightly his jeans fit she should have been able to figure that out on her own.
“Scrambled?”
“Fine.”
“With garlic and mushrooms?”
“Whatever.”
Dean frowned. “You all right?”
“Fine.”
He leaned left.
She shuffled just enough to cut down his line of sight “Was there anything else?”
“Uh, no. I guess not.”
“Good. You go ahead.” Her right arm started forward to wave him away but she stopped it in time. “Go on. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Shaking his head, Dean disappeared down the hall.
Twenty years old, Claire reminded herself whacking the back of her skull against the door.
The hollow boom of the impact echoed throughout the first floor.
“Boss?”
“It’s nothing,” she called. Rubbing the rising bump, she contemplated doing it again. She’d had the perfect opportunity to prove the existence of the imp. There could be no other explanation for the underwear delivered to her door. So why, she wondered, had she acted like such an idiot?
“It’s this place; it’s messing with my head.” Opening the door, she tossed the underwear into the sitting room. She’d figure out a way to get them back into Dean’s laundry, later.
“Souvenir?” Austin asked as the briefs sailed by and landed on Elvis.
“Thang you, thang you vera much.”
“You can both just shut up.”
“They put over the top, how do you say…plaster board?” Jacques announced, pulling his head back out of the wall. “But the works for the elevator, they are all here.”
“Should I start uncovering it?” Dean asked eagerly.
Claire shrugged. “Why not.”
“Great, I’ll go get my hammer.”
“And what will you be doing, cherie,” Jacques asked as Dean ran off, “while he bangs out his frustrations on the wall?”
“I don’t think Dean has frustrations.” She ducked under the counter flap, heading for the phone. “But to answer your question, I’m going to finish packing Augustus Smythe’s knick-knacks away.”
“To make the place your own, yes?”
“Yes.”
“So you are reconciled to staying here?”
An empty cardboard box dangling from one hand, she paused on the threshold, unwilling to take the final, symbolic step into the sitting room. “I might as well be, I haven’t any other choice.”
“You are needed here, Claire.”
When she turned, he was standing right behind her. A step forward would take her right through him. His eyes had gone very dark and he was wearing the smile that made her stomach feel like she’d swallowed a bug.
“I could reconcile you.” His hand caressed the air by her cheek. “It would take so little power.”
At first Claire thought that the bells she heard were the ringing of desire in her ears, but then, over Jacques shoulder, she saw the front door open.
“Yoohoo!”
She stepped forward, teeth gritted against the chill, Jacques de-materializing as she moved. There was no way Mrs. Abrams could’ve missed seeing him.
“Did you see that, Carlee, dear?”
“See what?” Claire asked.
“Nothing. Never mind. Of course you didn’t.”
Prepared for an argument, or possibly even hysterics, her satisfied chuckle confused Claire completely.
“I just came in to tell you that you’ve got guests. Two
