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But walking into her tiny living room was still shocking. Whoever had been there had done quite a number. Almost everything had been turned over, emptied, or broken.
She didn't understand it. She had no money, no jewelry, no art, nothing of value and yet her apartment had virtually been destroyed.
The police left behind a copy of the report and form with a number where she could call periodically to check on her "case." But Winnie knew nothing would ever come of the "investigation."
Winnie did a slow walk around her apartment, wearily noting that whoever had been here had been very thorough. Her pillows were cut. Her mattress upended. All the clothes dumped from her closet. What was the point? What did they want, and was it really necessary to slash her couch? Did the intruder honestly think she'd hidden a hoard of diamonds in her cheap sofa cushions?
"What the hell happened?" Morgan's voice thundered through Winnie's apartment.
Winnie jumped and shrieked, whether in fear or relief it was hard to say.
"Why didn't you call me?" he demanded, stripping off his blazer, dropping it on the back of her cushion less couch.
"I... I..." she looked at him, stuttering, utterly helpless. "I... "
"What?"
Her heart pounded. Her stomach churned. "I didn't think you'd care."
Morgan swore a string of violent epithets strong enough to make a hardened sailor blush. "What do you mean you don't think I'd care? I just spent the last week proving to you I care. If that doesn't say anything-"
Winnie's jaw dropped. "Say anything?" she interrupted hotly. "You never say anything. You make love and go to sleep. Make love and go to sleep."
His hands were on his hips. "But that should tell you something. I don't make love with someone I don't like."
"Like? I don't want to be liked. I want to be loved."
His eyebrows flattened, his expression as dark as Winnie had ever seen it. "For Pete's sake, woman, like, love, what's the difference? I want you. I wanted you with me. I asked you to move in with me. I told you I wanted to take care of you. But no, that wasn't good enough for you."
He was making it sound as if she'd been the unreasonable one. "You implied I'd be your mistress!"
"I thought you might like the idea."
"Like being your mistress?"
"Well, you sure didn't want to be my wife!" His dark blue gaze was as brittle and cold as black ice. "I'm just trying to figure out what you want, Winnie. You obviously don't want to be my mistress, you really don't want to be married to me, so what the hell do you want from me?"
Love. But that was the one thing he'd told her he couldn't give. He could give her things, give her a name, give her pleasure, but he couldn't-wouldn't-give her love.
She bit her lip, fighting tears. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
Morgan snorted, walked away from her, picking his way around the mess but even as he walked she heard glass crunching beneath his shoes. "Your building manager called, let me know what had happened." He turned back, eyes snapping. "Because you sure weren't going to phone me."
Winnie slowly sat down again. He was angrier than she'd ever seen him. "How did my manager know to call you?"
He made a hoarse sound, jaw jutting all over again.
"I can't believe you care about details like that at a time like this!"
She'd always thought he was so calm, so controlled, but there was nothing calm or controlled about him right now. He looked like a huge panther ready to pounce. He was stalking, growling, hissing. He wanted blood.
She swallowed, rubbed her hands on her knees. Her knees were cold. She felt chilled straight through. She'd worn a skirt and blouse on the plane, but despite the summer heat, she was freezing now. "I didn't know my building manager knew you."
Morgan muttered another unflattering word beneath his breath before marching back to her and pulling her up onto her feet. "I asked him to look out after you. I gave him money to keep an eye on you. I've been paying him since January if you really want to know."
"January?"
He grasped her upper arms, pulled her closer, head tipping so he was speaking very close to her mouth. "I worried about your neighborhood. I knew you didn't have family in the state, I thought you needed someone keeping an eye out for you. Okay?"
"Okay."
Any fight left in her was gone. She didn't know what to think at the moment and her emotions were scattered. She was tired. She was hungry. She was overwhelmed, really overwhelmed.
He tipped her chin up, stared down into her eyes.
"Don't you ever scare me like that again, do you understand?''
Winnie couldn't look away. She could see the navy of his eyes, the reflection of herself, and something else, too, something very dark and shadowed, something which made her think of long-buried pain.
"But I wasn't hurt, Morgan."
"That's not the point." A muscle popped in his jaw. "I told my driver to walk you up. I told him to check out the apartment first-" He broke off, teeth grinding together and, releasing her, he took a step away. For a long silent moment he did nothing but shake his head, a slow furious shake.
"You can't stay here tonight," he said at length. He glanced at his wristwatch, noting the late hour. "I'm going to call Mr. Foley and have him make up a room for you at my place."
The guest room, a voice silently taunted. Not his room, but the guest room.
"That's not necessary. I'll be all right here. It's just a mess. I'll start cleaning things up and it'll be fine by morning."
He snapped his fingers impatiently. "The lock's been jimmied. You need a locksmith. It has to be replaced. Or do you want to argue about that, too?"
He faced her. "Do you want to get anything? Is there anything you want to pack, anything you don't want to leave? This is your chance. Grab whatever you want because there might not be an opportunity to return."
Mr. Foley met them at the door of Morgan's Fifth Avenue
apartment. Morgan's elegant apartment was one of the most coveted spaces in all of Manhattan.
"Are you all right, Miss Graham?" Mr. Foley asked, solicitously taking her travel bag and the stack of mail she'd brought with her.
"I think so."
"You need a hot bath and some dinner in bed." Mr. Foley's tone was very firm. "I've something in the oven for you, a delicious stuffed Cornish game hen and a lovely pear tart for dessert. Now if you'll follow me," he said, bowing slightly, "we'll get you settled for the night."
Morgan watched Mr. Foley usher Winnie away as if she were the most delicate, fragile being on the face of the earth. Well, she might be delicate, Morgan conceded, but she was also damn stubborn. Let Mr. Foley spoil her. His butler was obviously crazy about Winnie and Mr. Foley had never been crazy about anyone Morgan had dated before. In fact, Mr. Foley had never even liked anyone Morgan had dated before.
Frowning, Morgan went in a different direction, heading for his study. He'd only just started going through a week's worth of voice mails and business mail when he'd been notified that Winnie was in trouble.
Winnie. In trouble. Winnie. And trouble. Didn't those two just go together like peas in a pod?
Morgan tried to go through the rest of his voice mail but now he was too tired to concentrate. Heading for his bedroom, he showered, put on a pair of old cotton sweats for bed, but stopped short of turning in for the night.
He had to finish catching up. He forced himself to return to his study.
Leaning over his desk, Morgan flipped on the halogen lamp, and continued playing
back the rest of his voice mail messages.
Family. Friend. Family. Sales call. Sailing buddy.
Sales call. Morgan sighed, and really hated the phone. It was way too easy for people to leave a dozen messages, but it took forever for him to answer them all.
The next call stopped him cold. It was a voice from the past.
