Something Different/Pepper's Way Page 2

  “I see.”

  He sounded rather faint, and Gypsy looked over at him in amusement. “I’m not quite as disreputable as I look,” she said gently. “I’m dressed like this because I had to take Corsair to the vet.”

  “And the peace sign?”

  His mind obviously wasn’t on the conversation, and Gypsy wondered why. “It was a gift from some friends. Sort of a private joke,” she explained automatically, gazing at him searchingly She thought that he had the look of a man who had bitten down on something and wasn’t quite sure what it was. Odd. Before she could attempt to probe the cause of his strange expression—Gypsy wasn’t at all shy—he was speaking again.

  “Do you live around here? When you’re not house-sitting, I mean.”

  “I live wherever I happen to be house-sitting. Before this, I was in Florida for three months, and before that was New England. I like to move around.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Not your favorite life-style, I see,” she said wryly.

  “No.” Abruptly, he asked, “Do you live alone?”

  Gypsy thought briefly of all the bits of information a single woman generally didn’t reveal to strange men—like whether she lived alone. However, if she was any judge of character, this man hardly had rape or robbery on his mind. “Usually I don’t. A housekeeper usually lives with me; she’s a good friend and practically raised me. But she’s visiting relatives right now, so I’m on my own. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering.” He sent a sidelong glance her way. “You aren’t wearing a ring, but these days asking a woman if she’s single doesn’t automatically preclude a live-in ‘friend.’”

  Gypsy looked at him thoughtfully and tried to ignore the sudden bump her heart had given. She’d been on the receiving end of enough male questions to know what that one was pointing to, and it was not a direction she wanted to explore. As handsome as Chase Mitchell undoubtedly was, Gypsy nonetheless told herself firmly that she wasn’t interested. At this point in her life, a man was a complication she hardly needed.

  And Chase Mitchell would prove to be more of a complication than most, she decided shrewdly. They obviously had nothing in common, and he wouldn’t be the sort of man who could fit in with her offbeat life-style.

  Frowning, Gypsy wondered at the trend of her own thoughts. Why on earth was she hesitating? Usually she disclaimed interest immediately in order to avoid complications before they arose.

  Before she could further explore her inexplicable hesitation, Chase was going on in a smooth voice.

  “Of course, you could have a ‘friend’ who doesn’t live with you.” It was definitely a question, she thought.

  Gypsy answered wryly, “The way I move around?”

  “Some men would consider plane tickets a small price to pay,” he murmured.

  She wondered if that was a compliment, but decided not to ask. With that kind of fishing she was half afraid of what she might catch. Instead, she chose a nice, safe, innocuous topic. “Do you live around here?” she asked casually.

  He nodded, his eyes again on the road. The road was still both winding and tricky, but it no longer bordered on the cliffs. Trees hid the ocean now as they progressed further inland. “I’ve always lived on the West Coast,” he said. “Apart from school years, that is.”

  Gypsy nodded and sought about for more safe topics. “Nice car,” she finally managed inanely.

  “It was,” he agreed affably.

  She shot him a goaded glare and immediately became more irritated when she noted that he wasn’t even looking at her. “I didn’t mean to wreck your nice car,” she said with dignity. “And if it comes to that, you didn’t exactly leave Daisy in great shape, you know!”

  “If I were you,” he suggested, ignoring the larger part of her accusation, “I’d get another car.”

  “Well, you’re not me. I’ve had Daisy since I was seventeen; she’s a classic. She’s also my good-luck charm.”

  “Judging by the number of dents in her that I can’t claim credit for,” Chase said dryly, “she doesn’t seem to have been very lucky.” He was completely unconscious of following Gypsy’s lead in using the feminine pronoun to describe Daisy.

  Uncomfortably aware of her accident-prone nature, she didn’t dispute his point. And she was enormously relieved to see her house as they finally completed the long climb and the road leveled off. She pointed and Chase nodded, slowing the Mercedes for the turn into her driveway.

  Her home for the next four months was a sprawling house, modern in design but not starkly so. Lots of glass, lots of cedar. It blended in nicely with the tall trees, and from the back it boasted a magnificent view of the Pacific. But the house next door was by far the more beautiful of the two. It was starkly modern, geometric in design, with an abundance of sharp angles and impossible curves. Cunningly wrought in glass, cedar, and stone, it was a jewel utterly perfect in its setting. And the landscaping around the house was among the most beautiful Gypsy had ever seen.

  She usually didn’t care too much for modern houses, but she loved that one. Glancing toward it as the Mercedes pulled into her driveway, she wondered for the hundredth time who lived there. She’d only seen a gardener who came every day to care for the trees and shrubs.

  The thought slipped from her mind as Chase stopped his car just outside the garage. Reaching for the door handle, she said, “You’d better come in; it may take a while for me to find the insurance card.”

  He nodded and turned off the engine, his eyes fixed curiously on the somewhat battered trailer pulled over onto the grass beside the driveway. “What—” he began.

  Gypsy slid from the car before explaining. “That,” she told him cheerfully, “contains all my worldly possessions when I move. Aside from Corsair, that is; he rides in Daisy with me.” She reflected for a moment as she watched Chase move around to her. “Although I don’t suppose one could call a cat a possession.”

  “Not any cat I’ve ever heard of,” Chase agreed, eyeing Corsair with disfavor. “They seem to be complete unto themselves.” He accompanied Gypsy and friend up the walkway.

  She fished her keys from a pocket and unlocked the heavy front door. Opening it and stepping inside, she murmured, “I suppose I should warn you.”

  “Warn me? About wha—” Beginning to follow her inside, Chase suddenly found himself pinned solidly against the door-jamb by two huge paws. Inches from his nose loomed a black and white face in which a grin of sorts displayed an impressive set of dental equipment. It was a Great Dane, and it looked as though it would have considered half a steer to be a tidy mouthful.

  A calm Gypsy holding an equally calm Corsair studied Chase’s still face for a long moment. “Meet Bucephalus,” she invited politely. “He was named after Alexander the Great’s horse.”

  “Obviously,” Chase murmured carefully. “Two questions. Is it yours?”

  “No; he belongs to the Robbins couple—the ones who live here. Second question?”

  “Does he bite?”

  “No.” She considered briefly. “Except for people who rear-end cars. He makes an exception for them.”

  “Funny lady. Would you mind getting him down?”

  “Down, Bucephalus.”

  The big dog immediately dropped to all fours, looking no less huge but considerably more friendly. His long tail waved happily and he tilted his chin up slightly in order to wash Corsair’s face with a tongue the size of a hand towel. The cat suffered this indignity with flattened ears and silence.

  Chase carefully shut the door, keeping a wary eye on the dog. “Any more surprises?” he asked ruefully.

  “I shouldn’t think so. This way.” She led him down the short carpeted hallway. A huge sunken den at the end of the hall boasted a brick fireplace, a beamed ceiling, and an open L-shaped staircase leading up to a loft. The furniture consisted of an off-white pit grouping with abundant cushions, a large projection television, and assorted tables and lamps.

  Gypsy stepped down into
the den, set Corsair on the deep-pile carpet, and immediately headed for a corner that was either an afterthought to the beautiful room, someone’s idea of humor… or both.

  Chase followed slowly, staring in astonishment. The corner was partitioned off from the room by an eight-foot-tall bookcase, clearly made from odd pieces of lumber and sagging decidedly in every shelf. It was crammed to capacity. Within the “room” was a battered desk that had seen more mileage than Daisy; it was cluttered with papers, a couple of dog-eared dictionaries, stacks of carbon paper, and a few more unidentifiable items. A ten-year-old manual typewriter sat squarely in the middle of the clutter.

  “Your corner,” Chase murmured finally.

  “My corner,” Gypsy confirmed absently, scrabbling through a desk drawer.

  Chase wandered over to examine the bookshelf, uneasily aware that the giant Bucephalus was right beside him. Trying to ignore his escort, he scanned the titles of Gypsy’s books, becoming more and more puzzled. “I’ve never seen so many books on crime and criminology in my life. Don’t tell me you’re also a cop?”

  Still searching for the elusive insurance card, Gypsy answered vaguely, “No. Murder.” She looked up a moment later to find him staring at her with a peculiar expression, and elaborated dryly, “Murder mysteries. I write murder mysteries.”

  “You? Murder mysteries?”

  “I wouldn’t laugh if I were you. I know ninety-eight ways to kill someone, and all of them are painful.”

  Chase absorbed that for a moment. “Do your victims lose their insurance cards?” he asked gravely.

  “My victims are usually dead, so it doesn’t matter. Damn. It’s not here.”

  Chase was frowning. Then the frown abruptly cleared and he was staring at her in astonishment. “No wonder your name rang a bell! I’ve read some of your books.”

  “Did you enjoy them?” she asked him politely.

  “They were brilliant,” he replied slowly, still staring at her in surprise. “I couldn’t put them down.”

  Accustomed to the astonished reaction to her authorship, Gypsy smiled faintly and began to search through the clutter on her desk. “Don’t bother telling me that I don’t look like a writer,” she advised. “I’ve heard it many times. I’d like to know what a writer is supposed to look like,” she added in a reflective voice.

  Chase discovered that he had been absently petting Bucephalus and stopped, only to continue hastily when the dog growled deep in his throat. “Can’t you tell this monster to lie down somewhere?”

  “Tell him yourself. He knows the command.”

  “Lie down,” Chase said experimentally, and was immediately rewarded when the dog flopped down obediently. Stepping carefully around Bucephalus, Chase approached Gypsy and observed her unfruitful search. “Can’t find it?”

  Gypsy lifted a feather duster and peered beneath it. “It’s here somewhere,” she said irritably. “It has to be.”

  “You could offer me a cup of coffee while I wait,” he said reproachfully.

  “It isn’t Tuesday.”

  Chase thought that one over for a moment. No matter how many times he ran it through his mind, her meaning didn’t appear. “Is that supposed to make sense?”

  She looked up from her search long enough to note his puzzled expression. “I only fix coffee on Tuesday,” she explained.

  “Why?” he asked blankly.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Please. This is one answer I have to hear.”

  Gypsy pulled a squeaky swivel chair out and sat down, beginning to search through the center drawer for a second time. “When I was little,” she told him patiently, “I became addicted to iced tea. My mother thought that it was unhealthy, that I needed to drink other things like milk. I hate milk,” she added parenthetically.

  “So anyway Mother decided to assign different drinks to the days of the week. That way, she could be sure that I was getting a healthy variety. By the time I got around to drinking coffee, the only day left for it was Tuesday. And today isn’t Tuesday.”

  Chase shook his head bemusedly “When you adopt a habit, it’s your life, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well, what’s today’s drink?” he asked, deciding to go with the tide.

  “Is today Friday? Let’s see…. Friday is wine. Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.” She looked up with sudden mischief in her eyes. “Mother doesn’t know about that. Poppy—my father—told me that I’d better save Friday for when I grew up. So I did. It’s a good thing I listened to him. I like wine.”

  Staring at her in fascination, Chase murmured, “You seem to have … interesting parents.”

  “To say the least.” Abruptly she asked, “What do you do for a living?”

  Chase blinked, but quickly recovered. “I sell shoes,” he replied blandly.

  With sudden and disconcerting shrewdness, she said calmly, “If you’re a salesman, I’ll eat my next manuscript— page by page.”

  Chase wondered why he’d lied, then decided that it had probably been due to sheer bewilderment. “I’m an architect.”

  Gypsy made no comment on the lie, other than a brief look of amusement. “Now, that I believe. Residential or commercial?”

  “Commercial. I’ve designed a few private homes though.”

  “Would you like some wine?” she asked suddenly.

  After a moment Chase complained, “You take more conversational shortcuts than any person I’ve ever met.”

  “It saves time,” she said solemnly.

  He decided again to go with the tide. By this time he was beginning to feel like a piece of driftwood being battered against the shore. “Yes, I’d like some wine. Thank you.”

  Gypsy frowned. “I’d better see if I have any.” She rose from the chair and headed for the hallway, saying over her shoulder, “Go through the desk again, will you? I may have missed it.”

  It took Chase several seconds to realize that she meant the insurance card. With a shrug he sat down in the creaky chair and began searching through the desk.

  He’d searched three drawers by the time Gypsy came back into the room carrying two glasses filled with white wine. “Find it?” she asked, handing him a glass.

  “No. Tell me something.” He waved a hand at the general clutter of her desk. “How can someone so obviously disorganized write such ruthlessly logical and neatly plotted books?”

  “Luck, I guess.”

  Chase lifted an eyebrow at her as she rested a hip against the corner of the desk. “Luck. Right.” He lifted his glass in a faint toast, but the expression on his face indicated that he was not toasting Gypsy’s answer but rather some wry thought of his own.

  “Tell you what.” He sighed almost to himself. “Why don’t you keep looking for the card? Maybe you’ll have found it by the time I pick you up tonight.”

  “Pick me up? For what?”

  “Dinner.”

  two

  “DINNER?” GYPSY LEANED AN ELBOW ON her typewriter and stared at Chase. The reluctance in his voice had been so audible as to be ludicrous, and she fought an urge to giggle. “You don’t really want to do that.”

  “No,” he agreed amiably. After a moment he added cryptically, “I’ve always considered myself an intelligent man.”

  Was that supposed to make sense? she wondered. “Look, if you’re feeling guilty because of what you did to Daisy—” she began, but he cut her off decisively.

  “I’m not feeling guilty about Daisy; the accident was more your fault than mine. And taking women out to dinner because I feel guilty isn’t one of my noble habits. Do you want to go or don’t you?”

  Gypsy sipped her wine to give herself time to think. After hesitating, she asked cautiously, “Why are you asking me?”

  He stared at her. “You want to hear my motives, I take it?”

  “A girl likes to know where she stands.”

  “Well, my motives are the usual ones, I suppose. Companionship. Interest in a lovely woman
. A dislike of eating alone. And,” he added wryly, “I think that I should get to know my next-door neighbor.”

  Gypsy blinked. “You live… ?” She gestured slightly and sighed when he nodded. “You’ve been gone for two months.”

  Chase nodded again. “Back East working on a project.”

  “You didn’t know Bucephalus,” she pointed out.

  “I hardly knew the Robbins couple. And I never saw that dog before today. They must have kept him hidden, although how to hide something that big… Are you going out with me?”

  Gypsy hesitated again, and somewhere in the back of her mind her uncertainty was still nagging her. “Chase….” She was searching for the right words. “If you want a companion across the dinner table, that’s fine. If you want a neighbor you can borrow a cup of sugar from, that’s fine. Anything more than that isn’t fine. I don’t want to get involved.”

  “I see.” Chase set his wineglass on top of a dictionary, then took hers from her hand and set it down also. “That’s an interesting point.”

  “What is?” she asked blankly.

  “Whether we could become involved with each other. Would Bucephalus protect you?”

  Gypsy had the detached feeling that there was something here she was missing totally. Deciding that the simplest course would be to answer his question, she said, “I suppose he would. If I screamed or something.”

  “Don’t scream.” Chase rose to his feet and pulled her upright into his arms.

  “What’re you… ?” she sputtered, caught off guard.

  “A little experiment,” he murmured. “To see if we could become involved with each other.” Before she could utter another word, his lips had unerringly found hers.

  In that first instant Gypsy knew that she was in trouble. Definite trouble. A fiery tingle began in her middle and spread rapidly outward to the tips of her fingers and toes. It was totally unexpected and frighteningly seductive. And Gypsy couldn’t seem to find a weapon to combat the stinging little fire.

  Something had kicked her in the stomach; dizziness overwhelmed her, and shock sapped the strength from her knees. Her body seemed to disconnect itself from her mind, her arms lifting of their own volition to encircle his neck. She felt her lips part beneath the increasing pressure of his, and then even her mind was lost. Searing brands moved against her back, pulling her body inexorably against his, and the hollow ache in her middle responded instantly to the fierce desire she could feel in him.