Page 45 of Edge of Whispers

“Put your head down.” Liam pushed my head between my knees. “Breathe.”

I did so. When I dared sit up again, he had a small, thoughtful frown in his eyes.

“Don’t think about it anymore,” he said. “Please, don’t faint.”

The thought exploded in my mind. So give me something else to think about, idiot. I wanted to yell it, at the top of my voice, but I contented myself with a hysterical crack of laughter.

He looked around my apartment. The cramped room was crammed with floor-to-ceiling shelves, CD racks, books, electronics. A file cabinet, copy machine, and a water cooler crowded around my desk. Liam patted the back of the couch where we sat.

“Does this thing open up into a bed?” he asked.

My hackles rose, sending criticism in formation. “Yes, it does. Anything else? More pronouncements about my apartment, my life, my choices? By all means, Liam. Express yourself.”

“So this place is an office. With a couch, for those occasional moments when you want to assume a horizontal position.”

Yeah. Like, right now. With you.

I couldn’t say that, so I groped for the next best thing, a smart-ass retort. Nothing came to me, but then something did. An unexpected insight formed in my mind as I looked into his clear, keen eyes.

“You’re pissing me off on purpose,” I said slowly.

“I guess,” he said. “A little. Just a couple of snarky zingers, just to get you going. It kicks up your blood pressure. I like to see some color in your face.”

I covered my face with my hands. “So I’m being managed.”

“Little bit, maybe.”

“I must look like death warmed over,” I muttered. “Or not even. Death served cold, right out of the fridge.”

“No.” He reached out, pulled my hands gently off my face. “You’re so beautiful, Nancy. You shine. Like a jewel.”

I was embarrassed, mortified, and charmed beyond belief. “Sweet of you to say so.”

“Sweet has nothing to do with it,” he said calmly.

“Ahhh. Now who’s defensive when I call him sweet?”

“You don’t believe me, do you?” His voice was incredulous.

My face heated. “Well, not exactly. I mean, I, uh, appreciate the compliment, and all. Really. But it’s not a matter of believing or not believing. It’s just that beauty is such a subjective thing. So it just doesn’t mean anything, really.”

He looked baffled. “Subjective, my ass. Beautiful is beautiful.”

I rushed on, trying to articulate the thought. I’d had it many times, in the course of my disasters with my exes, but I’d never put it into words for someone else. “What I mean is, does it mean anything, when a man says that? Men have told me I was beautiful before. It felt really nice. Then they changed their minds when they met someone they thought was more beautiful. By comparison, I suddenly became less beautiful. That sucks, by the way. When you look into your boyfriend’s face and realize that your stock just went down the toilet.”

“Nancy,” he said gently.

“Who knows what a person sees when he looks at another person?” I went on, my voice tight with emotion. “It changes with his mood, the weather, what he ate that day! How beautiful would I look to you after I’d annoyed you by popping my knuckles, or slurping my soda, or whatever it is that I do that grates on you? Telling me I’m beautiful is meaningless. So just don’t do it. You’d have more luck coaxing me into bed if you stayed away from the whole subject.”

“You think that’s what this is about? Just getting you into bed?”

Damn it, I was doing it again. Babbling nonsense, like an idiot. I was hoping that was your plan. I barely managed to swallow the words back.

“Be quiet for just one second.” His voice was as soft as drifting smoke. He reached out and carefully lifted a spray of miniature orchids from a vase on the end table by the couch. I’d bought them the week before, in honor of Lucia, who had always loved them. Deep pink, spotted with purple, luminous and mysterious. “Are these beautiful?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Gorgeous. Magical.”

“How do you know that they are?”

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