Underneath It All

4

DARREN KNEW he’d been a fool the minute he opened the door and his sexy new neighbor started yelling at him.

He’d played his part so well, careful to make sure she wouldn’t want anything to do with him—and doing it with notes had been a master stroke—because then she never got close enough to see him clearly.

He had to act like a jerk. He needed to keep his distance from everyone in his new life. Especially hot, sexy redheads who lived at the same address. Why couldn’t he have had the luck to land in a building where his fellow tenant was another guy, or a married couple with kids? Anyone but a woman who made him remember how much he liked women.

When he’d received her sassy note and a pair of bikinis, he’d been furious. The part of him that was still Darren Edgar Kaiser Jr. had taken over his actions. The women Darren Kaiser knew didn’t treat him like this. So he’d bought the most elegant camisole he could find and penned a note as insulting as hers had been.

The minute she’d launched the camisole at him, he knew he’d gone too far.

It was the look of angry hurt in her eyes that made him apologize. In wanting to be certain she left him alone he had never intended to hurt her feelings. Make her think he was a jerk? Yes. Make her question her own attractiveness? No.

He’d glimpsed her through the window a few times. The way she strutted in her flamboyant clothing, she certainly didn’t look like a woman who was insecure about her appearance.

So he’d acted out of character. The Dean Edgar character he and Bart had invented would never have apologized.

Of course, Dean Edgar would never buy a camisole like that in the first place. Then he certainly wouldn’t have stood there while his gorgeous neighbor yelled at him—picturing the soft silk against Kate’s creamy skin and auburn hair, imagining those pink cheeks flushed, not with anger, but with passion….

He’d been a fool, all right.

Darren stomped back to his computer, stretching his cramped shoulders. He removed the heavy glasses, rubbing absently at the indentation they left on the bridge of his nose, and sat down to get back to work. One thing he’d proved was that his disguise was working. Kate hadn’t treated him as though he were America’s most eligible bachelor; she’d looked as if she felt sorry for him.

The one good thing about the magazine disaster was that it had allowed him to leave the family firm and try to make his own career. This was the silver lining inside the black cloud of notoriety. All he needed to finish his software program was a few months with no distractions.

His mind wandered to the scene at his front door.

Kate.

Under the general heading Distractions, Kate would top the list.

She’d been so angry with him she couldn’t get the words out fast enough. Even her hair got angry, bouncing and swinging as she shouted at him, shooting fire every time the sun hit it. That hair curled all the way down her back.

It was amazing.

The stuff of fantasies.

Still, he reasoned, if she worked at a beauty salon it could be fake.

Yeah. That should stop any fantasies before they started. Every time he thought about that hair, he would imagine her taking it off before she went to bed. And he would do the same thing with the camisole.

No!

He just wouldn’t think about the camisole at all.

The blinking cursor on his screen reminded him that he’d been daydreaming again. He swore. He wondered how Kate would have reacted if she’d known who he really was. A reluctant grin pulled at his mouth. He had a strong feeling she wouldn’t care a bit whom she was yelling at once she lost her temper.

Darren dragged his concentration back to the computer once more, but words and images danced meaninglessly on the screen.

He started typing.

He stopped.

He breathed deeply.

Kate was taking off her hair before she went to bed. Underneath it—let’s see—she’d gone prematurely gray and had her own hair in a crew cut.

And he was not thinking about the camisole at all.

“SMELLS FANTASTIC,” Kate’s co-worker and best friend, Ruby, was over for dinner, a tradition they’d started that allowed them to visit inexpensively outside of salon hours.

She affected a bad imitation of a broad Irish brogue. “And you’ll be makin’ some lucky man a fine little wife.”

“Thank you, Ma,” Kate replied in a more authentic brogue. “But don’t be marryin’ me off now, till you’ve tasted it.”

“Here’s to mothers.” Ruby raised her glass in a toast. “How is your mom, anyway?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The same. They’re all the same.”

“Susan and her crew moved out yet?”

She shook her head. Susan, the eldest of the five children, was the only married one, and the only child apart from Kate who’d left home. She’d been married four years and had two children, but when her husband lost his job the four of them had moved back in with her mother and her other siblings. The small two-bedroom bungalow Kate grew up in now housed eight of her family.

“And I thought I’d lived in tenements.” Ruby shook her head.

“You did live in tenements. You’re just not Irish.”

The aromatic scent of lasagna filled the air as she scooped hefty portions onto two plates. A basket of crusty garlic bread and a big bowl of salad lay between the two women.

“Oh, I wish I could cook,” wailed Ruby as she did every time she came to Kate’s for dinner. “Will you marry me?”

Kate shook her head. “I’m looking for somebody with enough money to get me out of hairdressing.”

“Well, that lets me out. What about that escaped bachelor fellow I keep hearing about on the news? Maybe you could find him and pick up the reward.”

Kate snorted. “I never even find my lost earrings.” She vaguely recalled the blond man on the front of Bethany’s magazine. “I’m not sure I’m the type rich men go for.”

“I hear you. Why do people with money always look for people with more money? You’d think they’d try and spread the wealth a little. It’s more democratic.”

“I don’t know. But I do know that you have to rely on yourself. Dreaming of rich guys doesn’t help.”

“What about your bank man? He looks like a guy with money to spend.”

“You mean Brian.”

“Yeah, right. How’s it going?”

Kate sipped wine, thinking. “He’s been working really hard lately and so have I, so we haven’t seen each other that much.”

“Looked to me last time I saw him like he was getting set to propose. You going to marry him?”

Kate broke apart a piece of garlic bread, the crust crunching in the silence. “No. I can’t explain it. Sure, he’s good-looking and has a great job, but I’m pretty sure he wants kids right away.” Suddenly a bubble of despair welled up inside her. “Oh, Ruby, I’m just so tired of looking after people.”

Across the table Ruby’s chocolate eyes were soft with sympathy. “Don’t I know it.”

When the two had met at the beauty salon, they’d become instant friends. As they got to know each other, it was uncanny how similar their backgrounds were. Both came from big families headed by single women: Ruby’s through divorce, Kate’s through her father’s death. She’d quit high school to help her mother out financially, and to look after the younger kids since her mom had to get a job long before her grief had healed. A big chunk of both her and Ruby’s paychecks still went straight home to their mothers even though they had moved out on their own.

Both were willing to make extra sacrifices not to live at home ever again. Living alone meant working extra shifts, skipping breaks to squeeze a few more customers into each day, eating a lot of macaroni and being very creative with little clothing. They both agreed their freedom and the luxury of privacy was worth any sacrifice.

“He doesn’t know about your family, does he?” Ruby asked.

“No.” Brian certainly didn’t know that her mother relied on Kate’s financial support. And he didn’t strike Kate as the kind of man who would ever take on that burden himself once they were married. If she did marry him, how could she give her mother money and keep it a secret?

“Well, don’t rush into anything,” was Ruby’s advice, which was pretty much what Kate had already decided.

“Yes. We’re sort of taking a break from each other for a little while. It’s easier than both of us having to cancel plans because we’re working overtime.” She rose to clear the table and paused. “Plus, I think the spark’s gone. You know?”

After dinner, they moved to sit on the couch. Ruby unscrewed the cap on the bottle and topped up their glasses. “So, heard anything more from Angel-Butt?” she asked. Having heard the whole story, she’d now christened Kate’s upstairs neighbor with that nickname.

Nodding mysteriously, Kate rose from the table and crossed to the adjacent bedroom, returning with the gold-and-white box. Ruby let out a low whistle when she saw the name of the shop. Her jaw dropped when she removed the camisole, touching it reverently. “Oh, honey! This is to die for. Was there a note?” she asked.

Kate recited it.

Ruby laughed. “Revenge of the Nerd?”

She told her friend about storming up to his apartment, and his apology, while Ruby continued fondling the silk camisole.

“And he can afford this?”

“I guess so. I told him to take it back, but he insisted I keep it, just to show there’s no hard feelings.”

“He’s got good taste for a nerd.” Ruby let out a lusty chuckle. “Why, you should model this for him some night.” Ruby thrust out her impressive chest and held the camisole against it. “Give that angel a workout.”

THE QUIET TAP OF THE computer keys was the only sound in the room, but Darren was having trouble concentrating. He was hungry, and he was spending so many hours alone he was starting to worry about his mental health.

Sure, he wanted to work on his project, and yes, if the media got hold of him there’d be hell to pay, but still he needed to get out more.

Little noises from downstairs told him his neighbor was home. And that was his biggest problem. The person in Seattle he most wanted to socialize with—the only one he knew—was the one he most needed to stay away from.

He told himself it was simply loneliness and not his frustrated libido that had him thinking about her when he ought to be working. Thinking about her reminded him of the schedule that anal-retentive Dean Edgar had promised to draft.

He worked out a very Dean Edgarish schedule, coded in blocks, that gave him exclusive use of the laundry facilities Saturday, Sunday and Wednesday, while Kate got Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. He printed the schedule and was just about to take it to her when he heard shrieks of laughter coming from the downstairs apartment. He smiled, enjoying the sound. Kate must have a friend over, and something had struck them pretty funny.

The laughter downstairs emphasized how quiet it was in his apartment. His first Saturday night in Seattle and he was sitting here all alone, not knowing a soul in the city and dressed like a goof. He shook his head.

Was he crazy?

He thought back to what he would be doing back home on a Saturday night. He almost groaned at the thought of all he’d left behind—the restaurants, the parties, the clubs, the women.

He glanced out the window. The stars were out tonight. Maybe he’d take a walk by himself and go find something to eat in a restaurant where there were other people. He gazed down at the quiet tree-lined street.

A young black woman emerged from the downstairs apartment, throwing a laughing comment over her shoulder. He heard Kate’s voice calling out in reply. Great, the friend was gone, he could drop the schedule off on his way out.

He donned the glasses and an old jeans jacket Bart and he had found in a thrift store, shoved a Mariners cap on his head and let himself out of his apartment, the computer printout in his hand. He ran lightly down the stairs and knocked on Kate’s door.

“Honestly, Ruby, you always forget something.” Kate was laughing as she opened the door. The smile turned to an O of surprise when she saw Darren standing there. For some reason she blushed when she saw him.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” she answered, an embarrassed smile playing around her lips. She had bright yellow rubber gloves on, drops of soapy water clinging to them. They looked like clown hands, Darren thought, incongruous against the cherry-red sleeveless cotton sweater and jeans. Instead of shoes she wore oversize gray wool socks.

He cleared his throat. “I brought you the schedule,” he said, trying to hand it to her, but she backed away, laughing and flapping her wet yellow gloves.

“My hands are all wet. You’d better come in.”

Stepping into her apartment, he was assailed by delicious aromas: garlic and cheese, spicy tomato sauce. He breathed in rapturously. “Smells like a little Italian restaurant I used to love on…” He stopped himself before he mentioned East Seventy-third street. What was the matter with him? His cover was slipping again. “I can’t remember where it was,” he finished lamely. She didn’t look too surprised. She already thought he was a lame sort of guy.

“Lasagna.” She smiled. “You probably haven’t had time to get organized, do you want some?”

“No thanks,” he said, before his stomach and every other part of him could make him say yes.

She was even prettier when she wasn’t yelling. Her eyes were big and green with flecks of gold. Her lips were full and kissable. And that hair—if it was real—would be glorious to touch.

She peeled off the gloves and took the schedule from him. “Sure, this looks fine,” she said, casually perusing the page, then she focused intently. “You remembered my first and last name. And spelled it right, too.” She looked at him curiously. “Are you Irish?”

He chuckled, unable to resist. “No, I’ve got computer chips for brains, remember?” He leaned against the doorjamb, casually, watching one particular ringlet brush her temple. He could have watched it for hours. He’d never seen anyone with such sexy hair.

She put her hand to her cheek. She had the kind of fair skin that blushed easily. “Did I say that to you?”

“Among other things.” The urge to indulge in a little light banter, initiate the game, was strong. It took an effort of will to prevent himself, to move away from the wall and stoop as he backed outside.

“I’ll post that schedule in the laundry room, then. If there’s anything else we should schedule, like lawn mowing, or garbage duty or whatever, just let me know.” His glasses were sliding down his nose; he jabbed them irritably back up with a forefinger.

“Okay,” she said, a hint of humor in her voice. “’Night.”

“’Night.”

A long walk would do him good. He needed something to get his mind off the first attractive female he’d met in Seattle.

It was a clear night. From the duplex on Queen Anne Hill, Darren sauntered downhill in the general direction of the harbor. The smell of summer was in the air, assorted flowers, freshly mown grass and dogwood trees in full bloom.

After a good long walk, he’d worked up quite an appetite. He passed through Pioneer Square, his feet stumbling over the restored cobbled roads. He liked this area of town. Many of the late nineteenth-century buildings had been preserved and the old shells housed new life: coffee bars, offices, shops and restaurants.

He saw bright light spilling out of a corner pub and his stomach grumbled audibly. He read the name lettered on the door—O’Malley’s. He smiled to himself. It was a night for the Irish.

Inside, the atmosphere was warm. Wood paneling and a massive bar that must have been as old as the building gave an antique charm to the place. Taking a seat near the end of the long bar, Darren ordered a Red-hook ale, brewed locally he was assured, and a burger. Remembering to slouch was no problem as he tried to perch his tall frame on a bar stool.

A couple of attractive women came in and looked around for somewhere to sit. They looked him over and then sat at the other end of the bar. He’d never thought of himself as attractive to women, because he’d just never thought about it. But being evaluated and found lacking was a new and unpleasant experience.

As the bar filled up, no one but the bartender came near him.

He was just finishing his second beer and thinking about heading home when a slight, balding man entered O’Malley’s. His cheap suit hung awkwardly on his bony frame. The light seemed to bother him, or maybe it was a tic that caused him to blink rapidly as he looked around the room. Darren chuckled silently when the man chose the stool next to him. It seemed the man saw in him a kindred spirit. If he had to strike up a conversation with a stranger, he wished it had been the pretty girls.

The man ordered a cheeseburger and a light beer. He took a sip of his drink and turned to Darren. “Nice evening,” he said.

“Yeah.”

The man squinted and blinked a few times. “I wish I had my glasses on. Darn contact lenses are driving me crazy. I only wear them when I see clients.”

“What kind of work do you do?” Darren asked politely, waiting to be bored.

“Computer programming.”

His boredom disappeared. “No kidding, that’s my line of work.”

The two were soon deep in conversation, engaged in the instant bonding of two people who share the same passion. Finally, the man introduced himself as Harvey Shield. He said, “I’m surprised we haven’t met before. Who do you work for?”

“I just moved to Seattle.”

The blinking eyes surveyed him sharply for a few moments. Taking another sip of beer, he said, “You seem pretty knowledgeable, where’d you go to school?”

“MIT.”

“Ever have a Professor Elliot?”

“Old Nellie? Sure. He was a mean old boot, but he sure knew operating systems.”

Harvey Shield nodded. “Had a habit of failing more students than he passed.” He took another drink of his beer. “How’d you do?”

Darren returned the scrutiny. The man beside him had contacts in the computer industry. Now was not the time for false modesty. He grinned. “Top of the class.”

Harvey grinned back. “So was I, fifteen years ago.” He sighed, as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “Listen, I need another programmer on my team. We’re falling behind on a big job. I don’t have time for ads in the paper and interviews. How’d you like to come work for us for a while on contract?”

Darren blinked. He hadn’t intended to look for a job, but one week of spending 24/7 with only a computer for company had him convinced that a longer stint of that was not healthy. Besides, with no other distractions, he thought about his downstairs neighbor far too often. A job in his industry would get him out of the house, give him other like-minded types to connect with, and the extra money meant he could stay in Seattle as long as he needed. He already had his own company set up, with a separate tax ID, so his paychecks wouldn’t even have his name on them.

He was very glad he’d chosen this particular night, and this particular bar. “Harvey,” he said extending his hand, “you have yourself a deal.”

Darren walked back home in an entirely different mood. He had a job. Dean Edgar had snagged it all on his own without any help from the Kaiser name. And he had freedom like he’d never had in his life with months stretching ahead to work on his project. To succeed or fail on his own terms.

He was whistling softly when he got back to the duplex. He had to pass Kate’s door to get to the stairway that led up to his own apartment. She had a motionsensitive light hooked up that almost blinded him when it shone full on his glasses.

As he dropped his head in reaction, he had the unpleasant but now familiar experience of seeing his own newsprint-grainy face grinning up from the bottom of the recycling bin.

With a muttered curse he leaned down and snatched the paper up. Please, let them not have figured out he was in Seattle.

“Can’t afford your own copy?” He jumped at the sound of Kate’s voice from behind him. She sounded half amused, half exasperated.

Fighting the urge to hide the wretched thing behind his back, he flipped the paper inside out to hide his picture. “Sorry, I…ah…forgot to buy today’s. Just wanted to check the sports scores.”

The shock of seeing himself in the Seattle-Post Intelligencer made him unusually clumsy and suddenly a cascade of newsprint hit the ground. His grinning face mocked him from dead center. He stomped his sneaker square on his own face, and squatted, grabbing what he could and scrunching the paper back in the recycling bin.

Kate dropped down beside him. “Here’s the Lifestyle section.” She looked up at him and with a shake of her head thrust the section back in the bin. She picked up another bundle, and he could see she’d retrieved the fashion page. She didn’t say a word, just gave a secret little smile and shoved it on top of the Lifestyle section.

“It’s okay. I can manage,” He sounded desperate. He felt desperate; pretty soon he was going to have to move his foot.

She was so close, her hair kept swinging against his shoulder, gleaming chestnut and ruby when she moved. No wonder she worked in a beauty salon, she was a walking advertisement for her profession. She even smelled like a beauty salon: like tropical fruit and exotic lotions. How was he supposed to think straight?