afternoon." Her green eyes narrowed, as if she finally sensed that he wasn't here as a friend.
He should have done all this at the door, demanded answers standing outside her threshold. How had he ended up sitting at her table with a teapot between them, trying desperately not to notice how tempting she looked in elasticized black?
He cleared his throat. "Wayne Miller has no business sending his daughter off for an afternoon with a woman he knows nothing about."
She settled back into her chair, her arms wrapping her midriff protectively. He felt a moment of guilt, pushed it away.
Sara was his concern, not Jamila Ferguson's possible sensitivity to criticism.
"You're here to check me out?"
"Exactly."
She pushed her chair back as she stood. "Are you going to question me? Ask for references?"
He stood to face her with the table between them. "You have dangerous chemicals under your sink, and a front porch without a rail—that's a contravention of the building code, by the way. You don't even have a living room, just a painter's studio filled with poisonous substances. Where is Sara going to be when she visits? What will she do when you get a fit of inspiration and start painting—when you forget she's here?"
Her arms were hugging her body again, her eyes wide and... innocent, like a child's.
"You think I'll bring Sara in here and forget her, neglect her?"
"You let me in and started painting, then forgot I was here. I could have done anything, been anywhere in this house, and you wouldn't have known or cared while you had that paintbrush in your hand."
The breath she took filled her body with visible tension. "I didn't realize I needed to supervise you. I certainly didn't expect you to snoop through my cupboards, looking for evidence."
"Somebody has to."
Her head tilted back, eyes narrowed. "Have you come to forbid me to see Sara because I'm an artist and there's no rail on my front landing?"
"If it's in Sara's best interests, I'll stop you. The nurse said you mentioned references to Mr. Miller. I think that's a good idea."
Her chest betrayed her rapid breathing. Anger, he thought, surprised at the tension he sensed in her body. He hadn't expected her to control it.
"You want me to give you references?"
"Exactly." What the hell was he going to do with references? Go around asking questions about her, like a private detective?
"No. I don't believe you have any right to ask. You're not Sara's parent or her guardian. For some reason you've decided I'm unsuitable, but that's your problem, not mine."
She shook her hair back. "Sara's coming Wednesday after school. I invited her, talked to her father about it. He's entitled to references from me if he wants them. You're not."
"Perhaps not," he agreed, his jaw aching with tension. "However, if you won't give me references, expect a visit from a social worker between now and Wednesday."
He felt something at his ankle, looked down, and saw the orange cat rubbing against him. Had she fed the animal? Probably not, he decided irritably.
Squiggles rubbed against his ankle again, emitting a long meow.
"I don't suppose you've thought to take the cat to a vet," he speculated grimly. "He's been living on the streets. He needs to be checked for disease, parasites."
"I think that can wait until Monday when the animal clinics have regular hours, unless you want me to call one of the emergency numbers in the phone book?"
What he'd really like was to grab her and shake her, hard.
"I'd like you to take this seriously, show some sense of responsibility." My God, he sounded like a frazzled parent coping with an adolescent. What the hell was he doing here?
"I think you'd better leave," said Jamila. "Bill me for services if you like." She smiled, inflaming his temper even more. "For changing the lightbulb."
Chapter 5
"I met a man," Jamie announced as she stepped into Liz's office the next morning.
Liz looked up from her desk, frozen in the motion of signing a
He should have done all this at the door, demanded answers standing outside her threshold. How had he ended up sitting at her table with a teapot between them, trying desperately not to notice how tempting she looked in elasticized black?
He cleared his throat. "Wayne Miller has no business sending his daughter off for an afternoon with a woman he knows nothing about."
She settled back into her chair, her arms wrapping her midriff protectively. He felt a moment of guilt, pushed it away.
Sara was his concern, not Jamila Ferguson's possible sensitivity to criticism.
"You're here to check me out?"
"Exactly."
She pushed her chair back as she stood. "Are you going to question me? Ask for references?"
He stood to face her with the table between them. "You have dangerous chemicals under your sink, and a front porch without a rail—that's a contravention of the building code, by the way. You don't even have a living room, just a painter's studio filled with poisonous substances. Where is Sara going to be when she visits? What will she do when you get a fit of inspiration and start painting—when you forget she's here?"
Her arms were hugging her body again, her eyes wide and... innocent, like a child's.
"You think I'll bring Sara in here and forget her, neglect her?"
"You let me in and started painting, then forgot I was here. I could have done anything, been anywhere in this house, and you wouldn't have known or cared while you had that paintbrush in your hand."
The breath she took filled her body with visible tension. "I didn't realize I needed to supervise you. I certainly didn't expect you to snoop through my cupboards, looking for evidence."
"Somebody has to."
Her head tilted back, eyes narrowed. "Have you come to forbid me to see Sara because I'm an artist and there's no rail on my front landing?"
"If it's in Sara's best interests, I'll stop you. The nurse said you mentioned references to Mr. Miller. I think that's a good idea."
Her chest betrayed her rapid breathing. Anger, he thought, surprised at the tension he sensed in her body. He hadn't expected her to control it.
"You want me to give you references?"
"Exactly." What the hell was he going to do with references? Go around asking questions about her, like a private detective?
"No. I don't believe you have any right to ask. You're not Sara's parent or her guardian. For some reason you've decided I'm unsuitable, but that's your problem, not mine."
She shook her hair back. "Sara's coming Wednesday after school. I invited her, talked to her father about it. He's entitled to references from me if he wants them. You're not."
"Perhaps not," he agreed, his jaw aching with tension. "However, if you won't give me references, expect a visit from a social worker between now and Wednesday."
He felt something at his ankle, looked down, and saw the orange cat rubbing against him. Had she fed the animal? Probably not, he decided irritably.
Squiggles rubbed against his ankle again, emitting a long meow.
"I don't suppose you've thought to take the cat to a vet," he speculated grimly. "He's been living on the streets. He needs to be checked for disease, parasites."
"I think that can wait until Monday when the animal clinics have regular hours, unless you want me to call one of the emergency numbers in the phone book?"
What he'd really like was to grab her and shake her, hard.
"I'd like you to take this seriously, show some sense of responsibility." My God, he sounded like a frazzled parent coping with an adolescent. What the hell was he doing here?
"I think you'd better leave," said Jamila. "Bill me for services if you like." She smiled, inflaming his temper even more. "For changing the lightbulb."
Chapter 5
"I met a man," Jamie announced as she stepped into Liz's office the next morning.
Liz looked up from her desk, frozen in the motion of signing a
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