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He could get her out of the condo, but he couldn’t intrude on her memories. She deserved to have them, to remember the man she’d loved and lost. She had been silent on the drive across the bridge into Manhattan. He’d seen her fingers twist in her lap, and he’d wondered what he was doing bringing her here.
Certainly not what he’d hoped in the mad moments he’d pushed for her to come. It had seemed like a perfect opportunity to get her where he could spend time with her, get to know her again—without being the odd man out this time. Charm her off her feet. Go to bed with her.
But she hadn’t even been able to look at him while they were putting sheets on her bed. And he’d been ready to cut his losses and head out the door when she’d said quickly, “I have a bottle of wine. We should drink a toast to my new life.”
Anyone less likely to be embracing a new life than the Holly who’d smiled tremulously at him would have been hard to imagine. Her face was pale, her eyes deep-sunken. She looked as if she was going to shatter any second.
But maybe a glass of wine would settle her, make her sleep. And apparently he was a glutton for punishment, because Lukas had found himself nodding. “Sounds good.”
She’d found the wine without too much trouble, and even came up with a corkscrew to open it with. “Charlotte labeled the kitchen boxes very thoroughly,” she’d said with a laugh.
But she’d fumbled with the corkscrew and muttered in frustration. So Lukas had taken it from her and done it himself. “Got glasses?”
She’d rooted in another box and produced a pair. He’d poured, then set the bottle down and raised his glass to her. And Holly had looked at him with her eyes wide and terrified looking.
Lukas didn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t make things worse. Then at last Holly smiled, a small, twisted smile. “To the future.”
It sounded as if she was expecting one unmitigated disaster after another. But as long as she didn’t say so, Lukas could drink to that.
He clinked his glass to hers. “To the future.”
She had taken a sip, then followed it with something close to a gulp, after which she had coughed herself silly. Lukas had taken her glass and set it on the counter, then didn’t know what to do with his hands. Patting her on the back—touching her at all—was out of the question.
She’d laughed, a little desperately to his ears. “God,” she’d muttered. “I’m hopeless.”
Lukas had shaken his head. “No. You just need a good night’s sleep,” he added. “Everything will be all right in the morning.”
Of course it wouldn’t. It was just one of those platitudes his mother used to tell him. “Let’s hope so,” she’d said.
“Right. I’ll go. Let you get some sleep.” He gulped down the rest of his wine and turned for the door.
Holly followed him. “Thank you, Lukas.”
Her voice sounded breathless and achingly sexy, and he needed to get out of there before he did something he’d regret. He gave her a wave of his hand without even turning around. “G’night.”
Then he had shut the door behind him with a solid thunk.
So he hoped to God she was sleeping now. She’d been tired enough. As for him—well, no rest for the wicked. Another of his mother’s platitudes. And one better suited for the occasion.
From outside Lukas heard the wail of a siren, reminding him that there were people with greater problems than his. The clock on his dresser read 2:42 a.m. He wasn’t going to sleep.
He wanted to get up and go knock down a wall, get rid of some of the tension. But there were no walls that needed knocking down. He groaned and rolled over again.
And that was when he heard the knock.
Knock? There was no one in the building but him.
And Holly.
Holly was knocking on his door? He half vaulted out of the bed before he dropped back again, breathing hard.
Suppose it was Holly. Suppose she needed him to fix the thermostat or maybe the refrigerator wasn’t working. Suppose she was afraid of the dark in a new place and wanted him to sit with her until dawn.
Did she trust him enough to do any of those things in the middle of the night?
Did he trust himself? Lukas scrubbed his hands down his face. Trust himself? Ha. He slumped back against the pillows and assured himself that he was hearing things. Tormenting himself with imaginary knocks from a woman who, God help him, wasn’t imaginary at all.
And then he heard it again. A little louder.
