Читать книгу: «Stranger»

Megan Hart is the acclaimed author of over thirty erotic novels and novellas, including Dirty, Broken, and the bestselling Tempted. Megan lives in the deep dark woods of Pennsylvania with her husband and two children, and is currently working on her next novel for Spice.

You can contact Megan through her Web site at: www.meganhart.com.

Stranger
Megan Hart

www.spice-books.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To the Bootsquad for the crit and the craziness. To the Maverick Authors for the same. To Jared for growing on me.

And, as ever and always, to DPF, because I could do this without you but I’m awfully glad I don’t have to.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks to Steve Kreamer of Kreamer Funeral Home in Annville, Pennsylvania, for coming in to my high school class and making me think about the funeral director business as a career. And thanks as well for the time spent years later helping me understand just what it’s really like. Anything I got right is because of him—anything I got wrong I messed up all on my own.

Chapter 01

I was looking for a stranger.

The Fishtank wasn’t my usual hangout, though I’d been inside it once or twice. Recently redecorated, it sought to compete with a bunch of brand-new bars and restaurants that had opened in downtown Harrisburg, but though the tropical theme and aquariums were pretty and the drinks cheap enough, the Fishtank was too far away from restaurant row to really compete. What it did have that the other, newer bars didn’t, was the attached hotel. The Fishtank, “where you hook ’em,” was sort of a joke with the young and single crowd of central Pennsylvania. Or at least with me, and I was young. And blessedly, purposefully, single.

Scanning the crowd, I wove my way through the closely set tables toward the bar. The Fishtank was filled, literally, with people I didn’t know. One would be the perfect stranger, emphasis on perfect.

So far, I hadn’t seen him, but there was still time. I took a seat at the bar. My black skirt rode up a little and my stockings, held up by a garter belt of wispy lace, slipped on the leather stool. The sensation whispered up my thighs, bare above the tops of my stockings. My panties, of even wispier lace, rubbed me as I shifted.

“Tröegs Pale Ale,” I told the bartender, who passed me a bottle with a nod.

Compared to many of the women in the Fishtank, I was dressed conservatively. My black skirt was cut fashionably just above the knee, my blouse silky and formfitting, but in the sea of low-riding jeans and navel-baring T-shirts, spaghetti straps and hooker heels, I stood out. Just the way I wanted.

I sipped my beer and looked around. Who would it be? Who would take me upstairs tonight? How long would I have to wait?

Apparently, not long. The seat next to mine had been empty when I sat, but now a man took it. Unfortunately, it was the wrong man. A stranger, yes, but not the one I was waiting for. The guy had blond hair and a gap between his two front teeth. Cute, but definitely not what I wanted. Also unfortunately, he didn’t seem to take a hint.

“No, thanks,” I said when he offered to buy me a drink. “I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”

“You’re not waiting for your boyfriend.” He said this with unshakable confidence. “You’re just saying that. Let me buy you a drink.”

“I have one already.” I gave him points for persistence, but I wasn’t here to go home with a frat boy who thought “not” jokes were the height of humor.

“Okay, I’ll leave you alone.” Pause. “NOT!”

He laughed, slapping a thigh. “C’mon. Let me buy you a drink.”

“I—”

“Are you hitting on my date?”

Frat Boy and I turned, and both our jaws dropped. I’m pretty sure we each had different reasons. His was probably surprise at being wrong. Mine was in delight.

The man standing next to me had the dark hair and blue eyes I’d been looking for. The earring. The jeans, deliciously worn in all the right places and the white T-shirt with a leather jacket over it. I was seated on a high bar stool and he still towered over me. I guessed him to be at least four inches over six feet, if not more.

Very, very nice.

My stranger flicked his hand like he was brushing away Frat Boy. “G’wan, now. Go.”

Frat Boy, to give him credit, didn’t try to make excuses. He just grinned and got off the stool. “Sorry, man. You can’t blame me for trying, can you?”

My stranger turned to look at me, and his blue-eyed gaze roamed over my every inch before he answered. “No.” He sounded considering. “I don’t guess I can.”

My stranger took the vacated seat. He held out the hand not gripping the glass of dark beer. “Hi. I’m Sam. Don’t say Sam I am, or I’ll toss you back to that doofus.”

Sam. The name suited him. Before he gave it I might’ve imagined him as anyone, but once he did I could think of him as nobody else.

“Grace.” I shook his proffered hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“What are you drinking, Grace?”

I lifted my bottle. “Tröegs Pale Ale.”

“How is that?”

I sipped. “Pale.”

Sam held up his glass. “I’ve got Guinness. It’s not pale. Let me buy you one.”

“I haven’t finished the one I have,” I said, but with the smile I hadn’t given Frat Boy.

Sam leaned in. “C’mon, Grace. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

“Uh-huh. Do I look like I want hair on my chest?”

Sam blatantly eyed the front of my blouse. “Without seeing the chest in question, I’m afraid I can’t say.”

I laughed. “Riiiight. Try again.”

Sam gestured to the bartender and asked for two more bottles of the pale ale. “For when you’re done with that one.”

I didn’t take the second bottle. “I can’t, really. I’m on call.”

“Are you a doctor?” Sam tipped back the last of his beer from his glass and pulled a bottle toward him.

“No.”

He paused, waiting for me to say more, but I didn’t. He drank, swallowed. He gave the sort of manly grunt and lipsmack guys make when they drink beer from bottles and are trying to impress women. I watched him without speaking and sipped from my own bottle, wondering how he meant to do this. I really hoped he’d make it convincing enough for me to go upstairs with him.

“So. You’re not here to drink, then?” Sam eyed me, then turned on his stool so our knees touched.

I smiled at the touch of challenge in his tone. “Not really. No.”

“So…” He paused, as if thinking. He was very good. “So what you’re saying is, let’s say a guy, oh, bought you a drink.”

“Okay.”

“Before he knew you weren’t here to drink.”

I smiled again, holding back a laugh. “Sure. Let’s say that.”

Sam swiveled on his stool to fix me with an intense gaze. “Would he already have fucked up too bad, or would you give him a chance to make it up to you?”

I pushed the bottle he’d bought me toward him. “I guess that would depend.”

Sam’s slow grin was a heat-seeking missile sent straight between my thighs. “On what?”

“On if he was cute or not.”

Slowly he turned to show off his profile, then to the other side until he finally looked at me head-on. “How’s this?”

I looked him over. His hair, the color of expensive black licorice and spiked on the crown, feathered a bit over his ears and against the back of his neck. His jeans had rubbed to white in interesting places. He wore black, scuffed boots I hadn’t noticed before. I looked back up to his face and the quirking mouth, the nose saved from being too sharp only by the way the rest of his features came together. He had brows like dark wings, arched high over the center of his eyes and tapering to nothing at the outside corners.

“Yes.” I leaned closer. “You’re cute enough.”

Sam rapped the top of the bar with his knuckles and wahooed. The noise turned heads, but he didn’t notice. Or he pretended not to. “Damn. My mama was right. I am purty.”

He wasn’t, really. Attractive, but not pretty. Still, I couldn’t help laughing. He wasn’t what I’d been expecting, but…wasn’t that the point of meeting a stranger?

He didn’t waste any time.

“You’re very pretty,” Sam, beer finished in record time, leaned to murmur in the vicinity of my ear.

His lips tickled the sensitive skin of my neck just below my lobe. Already primed by the fantasy, my body reacted at once. My nipples pushed against the lace of my bra and outlined themselves in the silk of my shirt. My clit pulsed, and I squeezed my thighs together.

I leaned close to him, too. He smelled a little like beer, a little like soap. A whole lot like yum. I wanted to lick him. “Thanks.”

We each sat back on our stools. Smiling. I crossed my legs and watched his gaze follow the hem of my skirt as it rose to give him a glimpse of bare thigh. His eyes widened in satisfactory appreciation. His tongue slid along his bottom lip, leaving it glistening.

He looked into my eyes. “I don’t suppose you’re the type of girl to go upstairs with a guy she just met, even if he is cute as all hell?”

“Actually,” I told him, matching his low, breathy tone, “I think I might be.”

Sam paid the bill and left a tip big enough to make the bartender grin. Then he took my hand to help me down from the stool, holding me steady when my foot came down wrong as though he’d known all along I’d stumble. Even in four-inch heels I had to tilt my head way back to look into his face.

“Thank you,” I said.

“What can I say?” Sam replied. “I’m a gentleman.”

He stood head and shoulders over most of the crowd, which had grown considerably since I came in, and he led me without faltering through the maze of tables and bodies toward the door to the lobby.

Nobody could have known we’d just met. That we were strangers. I was going upstairs to a stranger’s room. Nobody could know that, but I did, and my heart thumped hard and harder the closer we got to the elevator.

The walls inside reflected us both, our faces blurred by the dim lighting and the abstract pattern of gold in the mirrors. His T-shirt had rucked up out of his jeans. I couldn’t look away from his belt buckle or the hint of bare skin just above it. When I looked up again to meet his gaze in the mirror, Sam’s smile had shifted.

I saw him put his hand on the back of my neck before I felt his touch. The mirror had created that distance, that second of delay. Like watching a movie or TV, but somehow that small disconnect made this seem all the more real.

At the door to his room Sam took his hand away from the back of my neck to dig in his pockets for the key card. He tried both front pockets and came up with nothing but a few coins. He fumbled. His nervousness charmed me even as it prompted my own. He found the key inside his wallet, tucked into a back pocket.

I liked his laugh when he pulled it out and fit it into the door. The lock blinked red, and he muttered a curse I deciphered by tone, not by word. He tried again, his hands so big they engulfed the slim plastic card. I couldn’t stop staring at his hands.

“Fuck,” Sam said clearly, and handed me the card. “I can’t get the door open.”

I reached for the card. Our hands touched. Then somehow his hand had encircled my wrist and my back pressed against the still-closed door. Sam pressed against my front. His mouth found mine already open for him. His hand discovered my leg already cocked to fit his grasp just behind my knee. He fit between my legs like the key ought to have fit in the lock, without hesitation, opening my door. His fingers slid higher beneath my skirt above the edge of my stockings and found bare skin.

He hissed into my open mouth and his fingers tightened on my wrist. He lifted an arm above my head, pinning me with his hands and body and mouth to the door. There in the hall he kissed me for the first time, and there was nothing slow or easy about it. Nothing soft or hesitant.

Sam stroked my tongue with his. His belt buckle pushed my belly through my silky shirt. Lower, his cock nudged me, too, through the barrier of his jeans. He let go of my wrist.

“Unlock the door.” He stopped the kiss just long enough to speak into my mouth.

His hand hit the door handle as I rammed the key, without looking, into the lock. Behind me the door flew open with the pressure of our bodies, but neither of us stumbled. Sam was holding me too tightly for that.

He moved me, mouth still glued to mine, two steps into the room and kicked the door shut behind us. The slam of it echoed between my legs. Sam, breathing hard, pulled away to look into my eyes.

“This is what you want?”

I found the voice to rasp, “Yes.”

He nodded, just once, and took my mouth again. His kiss might have bruised me, had he not pulled back just enough to keep it from hurting. Without the door holding me up, I had to rely on Sam’s arms around me. One slid behind my shoulders. The other left the secret treasure of my thigh to go around my lower back. He pulled me along with him even as he step-by-stepped me back toward the bed. It hit the back of my legs. He broke the kiss again.

“Hold on a second.” Sam reached around me to tug down the comforter, tossing it unceremoniously into a pile on the floor.

He grinned at me. His cheeks looked a bit flushed, his eyes a trifle sleepy-lidded. He reached for me again, and I stepped again into his arms. Mine went around his neck. His went around my waist.

We made it to the bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Sam was as long lying down as he was standing, but on the bed I could move up to kiss him without having to tilt my head so far. I found his throat, the jut of his Adam’s apple. His skin tasted of salt. I rubbed the first poking bristles of his beard with my lips.

My skirt had ridden up, helped by Sam’s hands. He pushed the material higher. One large hand cupped my thigh. The edge of his fingers brushed my panties, and my breath caught.

I looked up to see him looking down with an expression of mingled amusement and something else I couldn’t quite decipher. I took my mouth from his skin and sat up a little, pushing back but not pulling away.

“What?”

His hand on my thigh shifted higher while his other went to prop his head. Stretched out that way, his clothes askew and our limbs tangled, he looked enviably comfortable in his own skin. Men often did. Sometimes they had to put it on, that confidence, the way they put on cologne. Sam’s seemed more innate, an awareness of himself as much a part of him as the color of his eyes or those long, long legs.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“It can’t be nothing,” I said. “You’re looking at me funny.”

“Am I?” He sat up a little but didn’t take his hand from my thigh. He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. “Was it like this?”

I burst into laugher. “Not quite.”

“Ah, good.” Sam nodded and leaned to catch my mouth in another kiss, speaking without taking his lips from mine. “That would have been embarrassing.”

Then he laid me back onto that big, soft bed and proceeded to kiss me breathless. His hand stayed on my thigh, sometimes slipping down closer to my knee and moving up again, but though his fingers occasionally brushed the lace of my panties, he never actually touched me there. He didn’t lie on top of me, either, squooshing, but kept his weight to the side. Nothing was going quite as I’d expected…but wasn’t that what I wanted? To be surprised?

He kissed me fast. He kissed me slow. He nibbled and nuzzled and licked, and all the while his hand stayed in its maddening position so close to where I wanted it, but never quite making it there.

“Sam,” I whispered finally, hoarsely, unable to take it any longer.

He paused in kissing me to look into my eyes. “Yes, Grace?”

“You’re killing me.”

He smiled. “Am I?”

I nodded and slid a hand between us to tug on his belt buckle. “You are.”

His hand inched higher. “Can I make it up to you?”

I unhooked the buckle. “I think so. Maybe.”

He turned his hand as he moved it. When he touched me, finally, the heel of his palm pressed flat to my cunt, and my mouth parted in a gasp I didn’t bother to try to keep silent.

“How’m I doing so far?” he asked, his head bent so his mouth brushed my cheek.

“Good. Very…good.” Speaking took the effort of concentration I found difficult with his hand on me. So far he’d done no more than press against me. Hadn’t even rubbed. But primed by the long, slow minutes of kissing and the hours of mental foreplay I’d gone through already, my body was more than ready for him.

His lips slipped down my neck to center over the pulse in my throat. Sam sucked, gently, then took the skin between his teeth. The bite didn’t hurt, but it did send sensation ripping through me. I arched beneath him. My hands found the back of his head, the smooth silk of his hair, and I wound my fingers in it. Pressing him to me, keeping his mouth there while he sucked my skin. I would bruise. I couldn’t, just then, care.

“I like the way you say my name,” he murmured. His tongue slid along the place where he’d left his mark. “Say it again.”

“Sam.” I breathed it.

I heard the smile in his voice when he spoke again. “I am.”

Then we were laughing again, until he took his hand from between my legs and used it to tug open the buttons on my blouse, one at a time. Then I stopped laughing, too breathless to do more than sigh. He eased open my shirt. He pushed himself up on one elbow and folded back the material to show my bra. His fingers traced the lacy edges over the tops of my breasts.

My nipples had gone tight, hard, aching. When Sam’s thumb passed over one, I sucked in a breath. I watched his face as he looked down at me. When he bent to kiss my exposed skin, I bit my lower lip. My body moved beneath him.

Sam sat up. He shrugged out of his leather jacket and pulled his shirt off over his head, leaving his hair standing up all over the place. His body was as long and lean as his legs. He knelt beside me, one hand rubbing his chest almost absently. His other hand toyed with the open belt buckle, then the button beneath. He undid it, but left the zipper alone.

I watched him, enjoying the show. “Are you going to take those off?”

Sam nodded, solemn. “Absolutely.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Tonight?”

Sam laughed. “Yes.”

I slid one stocking-clad foot up over his thigh and rubbed the front of his jeans. “Are you shy?”

Sam’s hips pushed forward at the touch of my foot, and his mouth parted. His hand paused in its rubbing, fingers going flat over his heart. “Maybe. A little.”

Holy hell, that was hot. I didn’t believe him, really. He hadn’t acted shy anytime tonight. “Want me to go first?”

Sam’s grin melted me. “Okay.”

I got off the bed to make it easier for myself. Without my shoes on, I was face-to-chest with him—not a bad view at all. Sam’s bare chest was smooth and muscled, with a hint of six-pack abs but nothing overdefined. I took a couple steps back. My shirt hung open, courtesy of his unbuttoning. I took my time sliding the fabric from one arm, then the other. I tossed the shirt onto the chair. Sam’s eyes didn’t even follow it. They stayed on me.

I’d chosen my skirt for the ease of getting it off, but though it would have taken me but a second to unhook and unzip it, I took much longer than that. Never taking my eyes from his, I slipped open the button at my hip. A second later I unzipped, inch by slow inch. Then I slid the fabric over my hips and let the skirt fall to the floor in a puddle at my feet. I stepped out of it and hooked it out of the way with my foot. I stood before Sam in my white lace bra and matching panties, in the wispy garter belt and nude, seamed stockings.

The look on his face had made every second worth it.

I would never win any beauty contests. Too many bulges in places I wanted to be flat, too little curve in places I wanted to be round. I also knew that really didn’t matter. Not really, not to most men.

Sam didn’t appear to have any shields on his expression. His pupils had gone large and dark, nearly swallowing the green-blue. His lips glistened from where he’d swiped his tongue. “…Wow.”

The compliment was all the nicer because it sounded so sincere. “Thank you.”

He didn’t move. One hand still pressed over his heart, the other hooked into the front of his jeans. He looked at me, his mouth pulling up on one side. “My turn, huh?”

“Your turn, Sam.”

“God,” Sam said. “I love the way that sounds.”

“Sam,” I whispered, stepping toward him. “Sam, Sam, Sam.”

I’d heard of kinkier fetishes, but he said he liked it, and…hell, I liked it, too. There was something sweet and sexy about the name. About him. The way each time the word purred from my tongue his smile twitched broader.

I reached for the front of his jeans. The metal button and zipper were cool compared to the heat coming through the denim. My heart skipped a little when my fingers traced the outline of his erection. He groaned. I wanted to get on my knees at that sound, but I didn’t.

I looked up at him, instead. Way, way up. I tugged open the button. Click-clicked down the zipper. Always watching his face, not his crotch. Sam hadn’t moved his hand from his chest, though his fingers tightened a bit on his skin. The pulse leaped in his throat, and a muscle in his cheek twitched. His smile had thinned. He reached to push the hair off my face.

I hooked my fingers in the denim at his hips and pushed. It didn’t snag. He’d worn a belt for more than just fashion, and the jeans were loose enough I had no trouble sliding them down. He moved a little, helping me. Our gazes never left each other’s as I bent to push his jeans all the way to his ankles and waited while he lifted one foot, then the other, to pull them off. I stood then, swiftly, running my hands along his endlessly long legs as I did.

I couldn’t look at his crotch.

I didn’t know why I had suddenly become shy. I wasn’t a stranger to bulging boxers. Something in his face stopped me.

There is always a moment when the final barrier has to come down.

“Sam?”

He nodded. He stopped holding his heart and reached for me, instead. He bent, I stretched, and we met somehow in the middle with our mouths.

This time he covered me completely when he laid me on the bed, but I didn’t feel crushed. I felt…embraced. Enfolded. There was so much of Sam he surrounded me.

I should’ve panicked, maybe. Felt trapped. But too busy with his mouth and his hands helping me off with my underwear, too busy reaching to free him from the cotton boxers, I didn’t have time. I couldn’t think of anything but the silky heat of his cock in my hands when at last I found it.

Sam made a small, helpless noise when I touched him there. I slid my hand along his erection. Sam’s prick, like the rest of him, was long. His fingers closed over mine. There was no room to stroke him, not with him on top of me that way.

He buried his face in my neck. The rise and fall of his breath pushed our bodies together. The seconds ticked out between us, only a few. He moved down my body to kiss my breasts. His tongue stroked my skin and teased my nipples. He moved lower, over my ribs and the curve of my belly. He mouthed my hip, then down a little farther to my thigh.

I let the pleasure sweep over me, but at the odd motion of his head I had to look down. “What are you doing?”

“Writing my name,” he said without apology, and demonstrated with his tongue on my skin. “S-A-M-S-T—”

It tickled, and I squirmed. He grinned up at me briefly before dipping his head lower. His breath gusted over my trimmed pubic curls, and I tensed. I always did at that moment, waiting for the first touch of tongue on sensitive flesh.

Sam, perhaps reading the tension of my muscles as distaste, moved back up my body. He looked up past my face, stretched and hooked open the nightstand drawer with a finger. The movement brought his chest within licking distance, and I didn’t pass up my opportunity. He shivered. He pulled back to me and held open his hand.

“You pick,” he said.

I looked over the selection of condoms in his hand, thinking how sweet it was not to need to wonder if there was going to be an issue about using protection. “Wow. Ribbed for my pleasure, extra-lubricated…glow in the dark?” I laughed at the last one.

He did, too, and tossed it to the floor. He held up one of the ribbed condoms. “This one, then?”

“Looks good to me.”

He handed me the package, warm from his palm. Sam rolled onto his back, arms behind his head on the pillow. No more shyness, not for either of us. No point in it now.

His body was put together like someone had taken extra care to make sure everything fit just right. Legs and thighs and belly, hips and ribs and neck, shoulders, arms and hands. Each of Sam’s pieces fit. Clothed he’d looked a little gangly, but naked he was pretty near perfect.

He watched me looking, and his mouth tilted again. I couldn’t quite get a handle on Sam’s smile. It wasn’t a smirk, or smug. It was almost a little bemused.

Naked, I knelt next to his thigh. I stroked his erection, and he pushed his hips upward when I did. He untucked a hand from beneath his head and slipped it between my legs. His thumb pressed my clit, and it was my turn to shiver.

I stroked. He rubbed. In a minute we were both panting. He moved a finger along my folds. I knew he felt how wet I was. How ready. He slid a finger inside me and my grip on him faltered as I gasped.

“Grace,” Sam whispered, voice gone guttural and low. “I hope you’re ready, because I can’t wait much longer.”

Neither could I. “I’m ready.” I paused, then added, “Sam.”

I had no trouble figuring out what his smile meant that time. I shifted on his hand so he could slide free. I put the condom on him, and a moment after that, myself. His hands gripped my hips. I leaned forward, my hands on his shoulders.

We looked into each other’s eyes.

He moved me, at first, with slow, steady strokes. We found our rhythm almost at once. My clit rubbed him with every thrust, the pressure tantalizing but not quite enough. Sam solved that problem in another minute when he put his thumb against me again.

I didn’t care what came from my mouth just then. A string of words that made no sense, maybe. Something halfway between a prayer and a curse. But one thing I do know I said was his name.

Orgasms are like waves, no two alike. They ebb, flow, rise and crest. And crash. Mine crashed over me so fast it took me by surprise. Hard, almost sharp, the pleasure peaked as I moved on Sam’s cock. His thumb ceased its pressure, easing off just when I needed it to, but in the next moment he’d started doing this little jiggling motion that sent me up and up again. The second climax followed the first without time for me to catch my breath, but when it was over, that was it. Warmth rippled through me and languor crept along my limbs. I put my hand over Sam’s to keep him from moving it.

I didn’t know how close he was, but when I opened my eyes, his were closed. His hands gripped my hips again. His thrusts got harder. Sweat had broken out along his hairline. I wanted to lick it, and the sudden stab of fresh desire surprised me as much as the intensity of my orgasm had.

“Sam,” I whispered. I watched his face contort. “Sam…”

And he came. His face twisted and his fingers clutched, giving me more bruises. He arched and fell back onto the pillow, and let out one last, long and heavy breath.

He opened his eyes a moment later and smiled at me. His hand came up to twine in my hair. He tugged it, pulling me close to kiss my mouth tenderly. His pupils were still wide and dark, with nothing to reflect me.

We disengaged and took care of the things that needed to be done, but I hadn’t yet managed to rouse myself enough to climb out of bed and go to the bathroom when the distinctive jangle of my phone came from my purse.

“Is that ‘Smoke on the Water’?” Sam lifted his head to look at me.

“Yes.” I ignored it, too sated to think about getting up for a phone call, even though I knew I should.

Sam’s broad and hearty laugh shook the bed, and I looked over at him. “Awesome.” He made rock horns with his fingers.

I had to laugh, too. He seemed younger with postsex sleepiness lodged in his eyes and his hair all rumpled. Not that it mattered.

He yawned and of course, unable to help myself, so did I. He kissed my bare shoulder and rolled onto his back again, hands tucked under the pillow, to stare at the ceiling.

“I knew that fortune cookie was right,” he said without looking at me. “It said you will meet someone new.”

“My last fortune cookie told me I was going to find money,” I said. “So far, nothing.”

Sam turned his gaze to me, though his head stayed still. “You’ve got time. I don’t think there’s a statute of limitations on fortunes.”

I rolled my eyes. “I wish it would hurry up, though. I could use some money.”

Sam’s expression shifted, subtly, as we stared at each other. My phone rang again, this time with the less awesome ring tone that meant I had a message. I couldn’t ignore that, since it was probably from my answering service. Someone must’ve died.

“I have to get that,” I said without moving.

“Okay.” Sam smiled.

I leaned over to kiss him quickly, on the cheek. I felt his gaze on me as I gathered my fallen clothes and my purse and went to the bathroom. I punched in the number of the answering service as I slipped into my panties and juggled the phone while I hooked my bra. The garter belt and stockings I tucked into my bag, not wanting to bother with them when I was going home.

I took care of the call and finished dressing, then patted some cold water on my face. Sam’s bathroom looked used, a rumpled towel on the floor by the toilet and a small toiletries bag on the sink. He used an electric razor and favored a different toothpaste than I did, but this peek into his private life seemed intrusive and personal and I stopped looking. I took an extra few minutes to freshen my makeup and tie back my hair.

When I came out of the bathroom, Sam had pulled his boxers back on. The remote lay next to him on the bed, but he hadn’t turned on the television. He sat up when I came out.

“Hey,” he said.

My phone beeped again with another message. Someone had called while I was on the phone. I pulled it from my purse but didn’t flip it open. “It’s been great, but I have to go.”

He got up, towering over me even after I put on my heels. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

I shook my head. “No. You don’t have to. I’m fine.”

“But I really should.”

I looked up at him. “Sam, it’s okay.”

We smiled at each other. He walked me to the door, where he bent to kiss me far more awkwardly than he had before.

“Good night,” I said on the other side of the door. “Thank you.”

He blinked and didn’t smile. “You’re…welcome?”

So cute.

I reached up to pat his cheek. “It was great.”

Sam blinked again, those dark brows knitting. “Okay.”

I waved and moved toward the elevator. He closed the door behind me, and I heard the blare of the television almost at once.

At my car I remembered to check my voice mail. Sitting behind the wheel, buckling my belt, I punched in my password and listened, expecting to hear my sister’s voice. Maybe my best friend Mo’s.

“Yeah, hi,” said a voice I didn’t recognize. “This is Jack. I’m calling for, um…Miss Underfire. We were supposed to meet tonight?”

He sounded uncertain; I felt suddenly sick. Miss Underfire was the name I used with the agency, the name I used to keep everything discreet.

“But I’m here at the Fishtank, and…well…you’re not. Um…call me back if you want to reschedule.”

I listened to a very long pause while I waited for the call to disconnect, but it didn’t.

“Anyway, I’m sorry,” said Jack. “Something got messed up, I guess.”

A click, and he was gone, and the pseudofeminine robotic voice-mail message was instructing me how to delete the message.

I closed my phone and put it carefully into my purse. I gripped the steering wheel tight, with both hands. I waited to scream, or laugh, or cry, but in the end I only turned the key in the ignition and drove home.

I’d wanted to sleep with a stranger, and that’s exactly what I’d done.

Chapter 02

“Earth to Grace.” Jared snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Gloves?”

I blinked and shook my head a little, laughing off my lack of concentration. Jared Shanholtz, my intern, held up the box of latex gloves that had seen better days. “Sorry. They’re in the laundry room, I think. On the rack of shelves by the wall.”

He tossed the battered cardboard box into the trash. He nodded toward the body on the table in front of us. “Need me to bring anything else?”

I looked over Mr. Dennison’s still form. “No. I think he’s just about done.”

I leaned forward to brush the hair back from his forehead. His skin, cool under my fingers, had a faint dusting of powder. It didn’t quite match his natural skin tone. “On second thought, grab me the box of foundation, okay? I want to redo this.”

Jared nodded and said nothing, though I’d already spent an hour on Mr. Dennison. I stared down at him. He couldn’t care if he looked like he was wearing makeup, but I did. Even if his family didn’t care, I still did.

Pride didn’t do diddly for my fingers, though, that kept fumbling with the small pots and brushes I used on the corpses. I’d nearly made a mess of the embalming, too, but turned it around by giving Jared the “opportunity” to do most of it himself while I supervised. Jared was the first intern I’d ever hired and though it was hard for me to give up control of what went on in my business to give him the chance to learn, I was glad he was there then. Thank God he was good. If he’d been a bumbling disaster, we’d have been screwed.

Screwed.

I turned away from Mr. Dennison’s placid face. I had to take small sips of air to keep from bursting into a flurry of giggles I would’ve been hard-pressed to explain to Jared. The stifled laughter twisted in my gut and made it hurt. Coffee would help. Maybe.

Shit, nothing would help. I’d fucked a stranger the night before, but the wrong one. Not the stranger I’d paid to play with. Dammit, not only had I taken a huge personal risk, I’d wasted a hefty chunk of change, too.

“Grace?”

I turned, again caught up in my own thoughts. I took the box of miscellaneous pots and jars from Jared, and set them on the table. “Sorry. My mind’s wandering.”

“If you wanted me to take over,” Jared offered with a gesture at Mr. Dennison, “I could. Give you a break.”

I looked at the man on the table, and at Jared. “No, thanks.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I looked up. Jared gave me a look that told me I hadn’t been as nonchalant as I’d thought. But…huh? Talk? To Jared? “About what?”

“Whatever it is that’s bothering you.”

“Who says anything is?” I stroked my cosmetic sponge down Mr. Dennison’s cheek.

Jared didn’t say anything until I looked up at him. “I’ve been here for six months, Grace. I can tell.”

I stopped what I was doing to give him my full attention. “Do you want to take over with this? I mean, if you really want me to give you something to do, Jared, I can tell you the hearse needs to be washed, and I’m sure Shelly could use a hand with vacuuming the chapel.”

Jared liked washing the hearse. I hated it. It worked out perfectly, and if he thought I was being nice by letting him do that instead of the hundred other tasks of running the funeral home, I was happy to let him think so.

He grinned, taking a bit of the wind out of my sails. “Sure, boss. If that’s what you want. I just thought I’d offer.”

He tipped me a salute. I smiled. “You could make sure there’s some fresh coffee, too. You know Shelly doesn’t have a clue how to brew it.”

He nodded. “Late night, huh?”

“The usual.” I shrugged.

“You know, Grace, I’d be happy to take more call time.”

I concentrated on putting away my pots and jars and washing my hands as I answered. “I know. I appreciate it.”

“Just thought I’d offer,” Jared repeated, and left.

Quick and eager to learn, Jared was excellent with the clients and unafraid to take on new tasks. I was seriously considering offering him a position after he graduated. The problem was, though Frawley and Sons had grown every year since I’d taken over from my dad three years before, I still couldn’t afford to hire another full-time funeral director. Not if I wanted to eat, anyway. I could make him take more call, but I’d have to pay him more and trust him to provide my clients with the same level of service I could give them myself.

Nobody could give them the same level of service I could. After all, I had very big shoes to fill. My dad and his brother, Chuck, both retired now, had taken over the business from their father. Frawley and Sons had been the only funeral home in Annville for fifty years. People could and did go to funeral homes in the adjoining towns, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t keep trying to be the best.

I busied myself with cleaning up the supplies I’d used on Mr. Dennison, glad for the chance to work in silence. I couldn’t stop thinking about the stranger. Sam. The hair, the eyes, the smile. Those long damn legs. The way he’d gotten harder when I said his name. I hadn’t even asked for his number.

Hell. He hadn’t asked for mine, either. I don’t blush easily, but I blushed just then, thinking what he must have thought. No wonder he’d looked so strange when I thanked him. He hadn’t known it was an accident.

The first time I’d paid for sex had been an accident, too, though the date was on purpose. For years my parents had supported a local preschool’s dinner-dance fund-raiser, but since taking over Frawley and Sons, I’d also taken on the social obligations that went along with the position. With no boyfriend in the picture and no desire to get one, I’d done what any organized woman would do. I’d hired a man to take me.

I could have gone alone. I wasn’t afraid of being without a man. Hell, the last boyfriend I’d had was in college and when that relationship ended, I’d been more relieved than upset. But dinner and dancing at the country club was always more fun with someone to dance with. It had been a no-brainer. I hired people to service my car and pull my weeds. Paying someone to pull back my chair and bring me drinks didn’t seem any different. In fact, paying someone to treat me like a goddess without having to deal with any corresponding male-ego crap had seemed like the best idea I’d ever had.

It was ridiculously easy to find a place where men could hire female “companions,” but it had taken a little bit of searching to find an agency offering similar services to women. As director of the funeral home I had to be discreet, but I also had a lot of contacts. People consumed by grief didn’t always censor their commentary. I’d learned about a lot of crazy things while offering the tissue box to mourners, most of which was useless. Places to buy drugs, who was sleeping with whom, where Mr. Jones had gone to buy the garter belt and stockings he’d been wearing when he died. The mourning widow, Mrs. Andrews, had slipped me a card just before launching into full-on mourning-widow mode.

Mrs. Smith’s Services for Ladies. Massage, conversation and other. I’d called the number on the card, made the arrangements and paid in advance. Mark had shown up at my door on time, perfectly groomed and handsome in a tuxedo that looked as if it had been cut to fit every line of his perfect, gorgeous body. It had been a little heady, being on his arm and entering the room filled mostly with people I’d known my entire life. Heads had turned and gossip had started, but the good kind.

It was, hands down, the best date I’d ever had. Mark was considerate, charming, a good conversationalist. If his responses were a wee bit slick and practiced sounding, that was all right, because the intensity of his deep blue gaze more than made up for any hint of role playing. I hadn’t, even then, been fooled into thinking the promises in Mark’s eyes were real. I didn’t believe it from men who tried to pick me up in bars or the grocery store, much less from a man whose time and interest I’d used a credit card to secure.

Yet I couldn’t help being flattered by the way his hand never strayed far from my shoulder, the small of my back, my elbow. By the end of the night, I had a pretty good idea what the “other” listed on the card meant. For safety reasons, and upon the advice of the anonymous Mrs. Smith, I’d met Mark in the parking lot of a nearby strip mall, then driven to the country club together in my car. On the way back to Mark’s car the tension had been as thick as honey and just as sweet.

“The night doesn’t have to be over,” he’d said when I pulled up next to his road-worn Saturn. “Not if you don’t want it to be.”

We’d gone to a shabby motel in the next town. My college boyfriend, Ben, had been good looking but nothing like Mark, who was truly so handsome it sort of made my eyes hurt to look at him for too long. My hands had been shaking when I undid the bow tie at his throat and the buttons on his shirt. He hadn’t rushed me. I’d unwrapped him inch by inch, revealing a body as delicious unclothed as it had been in the tux. I’d touched him all over, from the tight hard muscles of his belly to the thick branch of his cock, which swelled nicely in my hand. At his low noise, I’d looked up, startled out of my mesmerization. His gaze had gone dark. He’d reached out to touch my hair, softly, his fingers tugging it out of its loose coil.

I’d paid him to act like he thought I was sexy. I’d hired Mark to treat me like a queen—and in doing so learned I deserved to be treated that way. That I was lovely, and sexy. That I could get a man hard with a cocked hip and a slide of tongue on lips. Money can buy a lot of things, but a hard cock doesn’t care about a bank account. I might have paid him to spend time with me, but when it came right down to it, he’d wanted to fuck me just as much as I wanted him to.

It wasn’t the best sex I’d ever had; I was too nervous and uncertain to be adventurous. But Mark had made it easy for me. He was an expert lover, using his hands and mouth until we both lay panting in the tangle of sheets.

It was a hundred-dollar orgasm, when it finally happened, and worth every cent.

He didn’t stay. He shook my hand somewhat formally at the door, then lifted it to his mouth and kissed it, shooting me a grin that no longer had any hint of plastic about it. “Ask for me anytime,” he murmured against my skin, his eyes never leaving mine.

Right then, I’d understood exactly why the price had been so high.

Mrs. Smith had perfected an expert matching system to suit her clients. In the three years I’d been using the service, I’d never had a bad date. Whether I wanted to go to a concert or a museum, or spend a night having orgasm after orgasm while tied up with a red velvet ribbon, Mrs. Smith provided it all.

Contrary to my girlfriends, who either bemoaned the lack of a boyfriend or bitched about the men they did have, I was the most fulfilled woman I knew. I never had to go anyplace alone unless I wanted to. I never had to worry about what the sex “meant” and if my lover cared about me, because it was already prenegotiated and prepaid. Hiring escorts had given me the freedom to explore parts of my sexuality I’d never known existed, and without risking my safety or emotions.

More importantly, for their sake as well as mine, my gentlemen friends were utterly discreet. My business was open to constant scrutiny. It had been hard enough not being the son of Frawley and Sons. The funeral-home business was still mostly male dominated, and though I’d spent my entire life in Annville and had been a part of the family business for just that long, there were still those who thought a woman couldn’t do the job a man could. There was far more to the work than sending death announcements to the newspaper and embalming corpses; a good funeral director offered grief support and helped each and every family through what was often the most difficult time of their lives. I love my work. I’m good at it. I like helping people say goodbye to their loved ones and making the process as easy and bearable as possible. Even so, I never forget that people won’t bring their loved ones to someone they don’t trust, or whose morals they felt were questionable—and in a small town, morals are easily questioned.

“Grace?”

Again, I’d been caught in contemplation. I looked up to see Shelly Winber, my office manager. She looked apologetic, though she didn’t need to be. I’d been off in la-la land. “Hmm?”

“Phone for you.” She pointed upward. “Upstairs. It’s your dad.”

Obviously upstairs, since my ever-present cell phone hadn’t done so much as peep from its place on my hip. “Great, thanks.”

My dad called me at least once a day if he didn’t stop in. For someone who was supposed to have retired, my dad sure didn’t take much of a break. I took the call at my desk while I listened with one ear and made the appropriate “Mmm, hmms” and scrolled through the columns of my advertising budget.

“Grace, are you listening to me?”

“Yes, Dad.”

He snorted. “What did I just say?”

I took a stab. “You told me to come over for dinner on Sunday and bring the ledger so you can help me balance the books.”

Stone silence meant I’d messed up. “How do you expect to succeed if you don’t listen?”

“Dad, I’m sorry, but I’m a little busy here going over some things.” I held the phone next to my computer mouse and click-clicked. “Hear that?”

My dad huffed. “You spend too much time on the computer.”

“I spend time on this computer doing work to help the business grow.”

“We never had e-mail or a Web site, and we did just fine. The business is more than marketing, Grace. It’s more than just numbers.”

His intimation stung. “Then why are you always on my case about the budget?”

Aha. I’d caught him. I waited for him to answer, but what he said didn’t make me happy.

“Running the funeral home is more than just a job. It’s got to be your life.”

I thought of the recitals and graduations and birthday parties my dad had missed over the years. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“I have to go, Dad. I’ll see you at dinner on Sunday. Unless I have to work.”

I hung up and sat back in my chair. I knew it was more than a job. Didn’t I spend nearly all my time here? Giving it my best? Giving it my all? But try to tell my dad that. All he saw was the new gadgets and logo and the commercials on the radio and ads in the paper. What he didn’t understand was that just because I had nobody to sacrifice but myself didn’t make my efforts any less noble.

“You’re looking sparkly today.” My sister, Hannah, raised an eyebrow.

I flicked one of my chandelier earrings until the tiny bells chimed. They matched the Indian-style tunic top I’d bought from an online auction. The deep turquoise fabric and intricate beading could be described as sparkly. “Thanks—eBay.”

“I don’t mean the earrings. They’re cute, though. The shirt’s a little…” Hannah shrugged.

“What?” I looked down at it. The fabric was sheer, so I’d worn a tank top beneath to keep it from being too revealing. Paired with the simple pair of boot-cut black slacks, I hadn’t thought the outfit was too outrageous, especially with the black fitted jacket overtop.

“Different,” Hannah amended. “Cute, though.”

I checked out Hannah’s demure scoop-necked shirt and matching cardigan. She was missing only a strand of pearls and a hat with a veil to be the epitome of a 1950s matron. The outfit was better than the cartoon-character sweatshirt she’d been wearing the last time we had lunch, but not by much.

“I like this shirt.” I hated the defensiveness that rose up, hardwired to the buttons my sister knew just how to push. “It’s…sassy.”

“It sure is.” Hannah cut her salad into precise, astoundingly symmetrical bites. “I said it was cute, didn’t I?”

“You did.” She’d said “cute” the way some people would say “unfortunate.”

“Anyway. That’s not what I meant.” Hannah never spoke with her mouth full. She gave me a dissecting stare. “Did you have a…date? Last night?”

At the memory of Sam’s hand between my legs a few days before, I couldn’t hold back the smile. “Not last night, no.”

Hannah shook her head. “Gracie…”

I held up a hand. “Don’t.”

“I’m your big sister. I’m allowed to give advice.”

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “Um…is that in the handbook someone forgot to give me, or what?”

Hannah didn’t laugh. “Seriously, Grace. When are we going to meet this guy? Mom and Dad don’t believe he exists.”

“Maybe Mom and Dad spend too much time worrying about my romantic life, Hannah.”

The more I denied having a boyfriend, the more convinced my family seemed to be that I was hiding one away. I thought it was funny, most of the time. Today for some reason, I wasn’t as amused.

I got up to refill my mug of coffee, hoping by the time I got back to the table my sister would have decided to abandon the topic. I should’ve known better. Hannah with a lecture was like a terrier with a rat. Probably the only thing holding her back from full-on rant mode was the fact we were in a public place.

“I just want to know what the secret is. That’s all.” Hannah fixed me with the glare that used to be able to yank any secret from me.

It was still pretty effective, but I had years of practice at resisting. “There’s no secret. I’ve told you before, I’m not seeing anyone seriously.”

“If it’s serious enough for you to look like that,” Hannah said with a sniff, “it should be serious enough to bring him to meet your family.”

This veiled reference to sex so stunned me, I could only stare. My sister, older and prone to lectures as she might be, had never been free with advice on lovemaking. Other girls had gone to their big sisters for advice on boys and bras, but Hannah, seven years older, had never made our relationship comfortable enough to discuss sex. I wasn’t about to start now.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.” Hannah picked me apart with another look.

“No, really, Hannah.” I grinned, defusing her the best way I knew how. “I don’t.”

Hannah’s mouth thinned. “Fine. Whatever. Be like that. We’re just all wondering, that’s all.”

I sighed and warmed my hands on my mug. “Wondering about what?”

Hannah shrugged and looked away. “Well. You always make an excuse for why you won’t bring him around. We’re just wondering if…”

“If what?” I demanded. It wasn’t like Hannah to hold back on anything.

“If he’s a…he,” Hannah muttered. She stabbed her salad as if it had done her wrong.

Stunned again, I sat back in my chair. “Oh, for God’s sake!”

Hannah’s mouth set in a stubborn line. “Is he?”

“A man? You want to know if I’m dating a man? Instead of what…a woman?” I wanted to laugh, not because this was funny, but because somehow laughter might make this less strange. “You have to be kidding me.”

Hannah looked up, lower lip pushed out in the familiar way. “Mom and Dad won’t say it, but I will.”

In a moment of insanity I considered telling her everything. Which would be worse, admitting I paid for sex or that I dated women? Maybe paying women for sex would’ve been worse, and the thought of my sister’s face if I told her that curved my mouth into a smile. I resisted, though. Hannah wouldn’t find it as funny as I did.

If it had been anyone else asking the question, I really would have laughed, but because it was my sister I just shook my head. “Hannah. No. It’s not a woman. I promise.”

Hannah nodded stiffly. “Because, you know, you could tell me. I’d be okay with it.”

I doubted that. Hannah had a pretty narrow worldview. There wasn’t much room in it for sisters who liked girls or who hired dates. Not that it was any of her business.

“I just go out. Have a good time. That’s all. I’m not dating anyone regularly enough to bring him around the family, that’s all. If I ever do, you’ll be the first to know.”

Probably the easiest way to figure out if you’re doing something you shouldn’t is if you can tell your family about it. There was no question about me telling my family anything about my dates. Hell, I’d never even told my closest friends. I wasn’t sure they’d understand the appeal. The satisfaction of it. No worries. No hassles. Nothing to lose.

“Boyfriends take a lot of work, Hannah.”

She rolled her eyes. “Try having a husband.”

“I don’t want one of those, either.”

“Of course you don’t.”

I couldn’t win for trying. Her sniff told me what she thought of that—it might be fine for her to complain about her spouse, but for me to say I didn’t want one was like saying she was wrong to be married.

“I like my life.”

“Of course you do. Your life,” she said like an insult. “Your simple, personal, single life.”

We stared each other down. After another long moment in which we battled with our eyes, she let hers go pointedly to my neck. I kept myself from touching the small bruise I knew Sam had left.

Much unspoken hung between us in the way it does with families. Hannah changed the subject finally and I let her, relieved to be past the awkwardness. By the time we parted, the regular balance of our sisterhood had almost been restored.

I say almost because the conversation clung to me for the rest of the day. It left a sour taste on my tongue. It made me clumsy and forgetful, too, refusing to be put aside even though I had a meeting.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Stewart?” I folded my hands on top of the desk my father had used, and his father before him. At my left, I had a pad of lined paper. At my right, a pen. For now I kept my hands folded between them.

“It’s about my father.”

I nodded, waiting.

Dan Stewart had regular features and sandy hair. He wore a suit and tie too nice for the meeting, and probably was what he wore to work. It was too nice for an office job, which meant he was either a corporate bigwig or an attorney.

“He’s had another stroke. He’s…dying.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I might not believe in a chorus of heavenly hosts, but I understood grief.

Mr. Stewart nodded. “Thanks.”

Sometimes they needed prompting, those who sat across from me, but after a second Mr. Stewart spoke again.

“My mom doesn’t want to deal with it. She’s convinced he’s going to pull through again.”

“But you want to prepare?” I kept my hands folded, not picking up the pen.

“Yeah. My dad, he was always the sort of guy who knew what he wanted. My mom…” Stewart laughed and shrugged. “She does what my dad wants. I’m afraid that if this isn’t prepared in advance, he’s going to die and she’ll have no clue what to do. It will be a real mess.”

“Did you want to begin the planning now, yourself?” It could be awkward, planning a service without the spouse.

He shook his head. “I just want to get started. Thought I’d take some stuff home, talk about options with my mom. Talk to my brother. I just want…” He paused, his voice dipping low for a moment and I understood this was for him more than anyone else. “I just want to be prepared.”

I slid open my file drawer and pulled out the standard preplanning packet. I’d revised it myself, one of my first tasks when I’d taken over. Printed on ivory paper and tucked inside a demure navy blue folder, the packet contained checklists, suggestions and options designed to make the process as easy as possible on the mourners.

“I understand, Mr. Stewart. Being prepared can be quite a comfort.”

His smile transformed his face from plain to stunning in seconds. “My brother would say I’m being anal. And please. Call me Dan.”

I smiled in return. “I wouldn’t. Planning a funeral can be stressful and exhausting. The more you take care of beforehand the more time you have to devote to your own needs when you’re dealing with a loss.”

Dan’s smile quirked higher on one side. “Do you have a lot of people preplanning funerals?”

“You’d be surprised.” I gestured at my wall of file cabinets. “Lots of my clients have planned at least something, even if it’s just the type of religious service.”

“Ah.” He looked past me at the row of file cabinets, then met my eyes again. The intensity of his stare would have been disconcerting if his smile wasn’t so nice. “Do you handle a lot of Jewish funerals, Ms. Frawley?”

“You can call me Grace. A few. But we certainly can accommodate your service. I know Rabbi Levine from the Lebanon synagogue quite well.”

“And the chevra kadisha?” He eyed me, his mouth stumbling a bit on words he’d probably never had to say before.

I knew what the chevra kadisha did, though I’d never been present while they prepared the bodies for burial according to Jewish custom. Traditionally, Jews weren’t embalmed, nor laid to rest in anything but the simplest of pine coffins.

“We don’t have many Jewish services,” I admitted. “Most of the local congregation goes to Rohrbach’s.”

Dan shrugged. “I don’t like that guy.”

I didn’t much like him, either, but wouldn’t have ever admitted it. “I’m sure we’ll be able to provide your family with whatever they need.”

He looked at the folder in his hands, his smile fading. Funny, though, how it left its imprint on his face, which I no longer would ever have considered plain. His fingers tightened on the blue paper, but it wouldn’t crease.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure you can.”

His hand, when he offered it, was warm and the shake firm. I stood as he did, and walked him to the door.

“Is it hard?” he asked, turning. “Dealing with so much sorrow all the time?”

It wasn’t a question I’d never been asked, and I answered it the way I always did. “No. Death is a part of life, and I’m glad to be able to help people deal with it.”

“It doesn’t get depressing?”

I studied him. “No. It’s sad, sometimes, but that’s not the same thing, is it?”

“No. I guess not.” Another smile tweaked his mouth and made him handsome again.

It invited me to smile, too. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be happy to talk to you and your family about how to take care of your father.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

I closed the door behind him and went back to my desk. The unmarked pad of paper, the still-capped pen. I had paperwork to fill out and phone calls to return, but I simply sat for a moment.

There’s a fine line between sympathy and empathy. This was my work. I dealt with grief, and this job might also be my life, but it wasn’t also my grief.

The e-mail from Mrs. Smith had an innocuous subject line. “Account information.” It could have said “Information about your fuck buddies,” and it wouldn’t have mattered. I had correspondence from Mrs. Smith and her gentlemen sent to a private e-mail address I accessed only from my laptop.

My account information showed a credit. Normally, missing the appointment wouldn’t have meant anything. Clients paid whether or not they showed. There were no refunds, unless the escort had to cancel. But Jack hadn’t canceled. He’d been unable to find me. I’d figured that three hundred bucks to be lost.

Mrs. Smith didn’t seem to agree. Her polite tone and careful phrases were always the same. I pictured Judi Dench in red lipstick every time I read one of Mrs. Smith’s messages. This time, she was offering to reschedule the “missed appointment” at my convenience.