Chapter 17
Daniela stepped from the steamy shower and wrapped her body in a thick cotton towel.
She’d spent the entire weekend in bed, alternately sleeping and tossing fitfully between the sheets.
On Sunday, Noah showed up to relieve Janie of duty.
Heedless of his sister’s protests, he’d planted himself on the living room sofa and become immersed in mounds of paperwork while his “patient” slept in the next room.
Their mother had called from Houston. Upon learning of Daniela’s illness, she’d promptly decided to cut her trip short. But Daniela—not wanting to cheat her mother of spending time with her sister—talked her out of returning home by agreeing to let Sister Jenkins stop by the house to pray over her.
She was barely lucid as the sweet, diminutive churchwoman stood at her bedside, eyes squeezed shut, hands clasped tightly together while Noah hovered in the doorway with his head bent in reverent silence, lips quirking with suppressed laughter.
What Magdalena Jenkins lacked in stature, she more than made up for in volume.
As she prayed over Daniela, her deep voice resonated with authority, booming so loudly through the house that Daniela feared the neighbors would call the police to report a domestic disturbance.
Once Sister Jenkins finished petitioning God for His healing mercies, she’d smiled sweetly at Daniela and Noah, then left with barely a whisper.
Daniela fell asleep afterward, and didn’t awaken until five o’clock on Monday evening—eight hours later.
As she climbed out of bed and made her way to the bathroom to take a shower, she felt noticeably better than she had all weekend.
Although she automatically attributed her improved condition to the long hours of rest she’d gotten, she couldn’t help smiling at the memory of Sister Jenkins’s morning visit.
She wondered if, indeed, her mother was right about the woman’s intercessory prayer gift.
After moisturizing her freshly washed hair with coconut-scented curl defining cream, Daniela dressed in pink high-cut boy shorts and a matching tank top emblazoned with the famous quote “Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History.”
She threw on her comfy chenille robe, then made her way to the kitchen. Noah had checked her mail and stacked the letters neatly on the breakfast table before leaving for work that morning.
While Daniela was listening to her phone messages and sorting through junk mail, the doorbell rang. Thinking it was Janie, who’d promised to stop by that evening to check on her, Daniela went to answer the door.
“What, you lost your key or some—”
The teasing admonition died on her lips when she saw who stood on her doorstep.
Not Janie, as she’d expected, but Caleb Thorne.
Caleb.
At her house.
Her eyes widened in shock. “W—What’re you doing here?” she stammered.
Hands thrust into the pockets of low-slung Levi’s that hugged the thick muscles of his thighs, he cocked a heavy brow at her. “Expecting someone else?”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I was.” Self-conscious, she tugged the lapels of her robe together and repeated, “What’re you doing here?”
“You missed my class,” Caleb said, deadpan.
“So I did.” Mouth curving, Daniela leaned in the doorway and crossed one ankle over the other, drawling, “Are you the truancy officer?”
He frowned slightly. “I came to see if you were all right.”
“Aw, how sweet. I’m touched, Professor Thorne.” She slid him a look beneath the dense sweep of her lashes. “Do you extend this courtesy to all of your absentee students, or just the ones you ravish in closets?”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. He held her gaze for a long moment, then turned abruptly and started away.
“Wait!” Daniela called, realizing she’d unintentionally pushed him too far. She hurried onto the porch after him in her bare feet. “I was just teasing you! Thank you for being concerned about me. I really do appreciate it.”
“Goodnight, Miss Moreau,” he said over his shoulder.
She reached out, grabbing his arm before he could take another step. Hard muscles bunched and flexed beneath her fingers, sending heat pulsing through her veins. He stopped but didn’t turn around.
“I didn’t blow off your class,” Daniela said softly. “I have the flu. I’ve been sick all weekend.”
He turned then, dark, assessing eyes roaming across her face. “Now that you mention it,” he murmured, “you have looked better.”
“Touché.” Daniela grinned. “You should’ve seen me on Saturday when my head wasn’t in the toilet.”
His mouth twitched. “Have a good evening, Miss Moreau,” he said quietly. “I hope you feel better.”
“Would you like to come inside for a cup of coffee?”
When his gaze darkened, Daniela knew he was remembering their coffeehouse excursion, and a whole lot more.
A slow flush crawled up her neck. “Or, um, I could make you tea instead?”
When he hesitated, she warned half-seriously, “The longer we stand out here, the better the odds that old Mrs. Flores across the street will call the police to report you as an intruder. She’s ninety-eight years old and somewhat senile.
Last year she called the cops on the mailman.
The year before that it was the garbageman.
Don’t look now—she’s staring out the window at us. ”
Caleb scowled, but without any real rancor. Daniela tugged gently on his arm, and after another moment, he followed her into the house.
She swept a quick look around the living room, searching for anything that might betray her true identity.
Thankfully, P.I. for Dummies was not among the rows of assorted books lining the built-in bookshelves, nor was her monogrammed messenger bag anywhere in sight.
Even if she could justify an interest in learning about private investigators, she’d have a hard time explaining why she owned a bag stamped with the initials D.R.
“I was about to brave my first meal in two days,” she said, closing and locking the door behind him. She couldn’t believe he was here. In her home. It was surreal. “Do you like tortilla soup?”
“Sure,” Caleb answered, dipping his hands in his jeans pockets as he glanced around the living room with its overstuffed sofa and chairs and canvas oil paintings hung on shiplap walls. “You have a nice place.”
And you, sir, have a very nice tush, Daniela thought naughtily. Aloud she said, “You like my shabby chic look? See, I knew you were a man of discerning taste.”
He sent her a wry look over his shoulder. “My judgment can be flawed on occasion,” he said in a tone that suggested he wasn’t just talking about her decorating skills.
She gave him a guileless smile. “I’ll try not to hold it against you,” she quipped, brushing past him to head into the kitchen.
When he followed, she waved him into a chair at the breakfast table, then lunged for the stack of mail she’d been sorting when he rang the doorbell—mail addressed to Daniela Roarke.
He raised a puzzled brow at her but said nothing as she hastily stuffed the letters inside one of the cabinet drawers.
Close call, she thought.
“Do you live here alone?” he asked, sitting down while she busied herself with dinner preparations, which consisted of heating up the tortilla soup and uncorking a bottle of pinot grigio.
She shook her head, filling two long-stemmed wineglasses. “My mother lives with me. She’s in Houston visiting her sister for the week.”
“Thanks,” Caleb murmured, accepting a glass from her. He took a sip, watching her over the rim in a way that heated her skin. “You two must be close. You and your mother, I mean.”
“We are.” As Daniela walked over to the stove to check the simmering tortilla soup, she grinned ruefully.
“I must confess to being somewhat of a mama’s girl.
When I bought this house three years ago, I had to convince my mom to move in with me, explaining that I wanted to help look after her, and that it made economic sense to combine our two households and save money on rent and utilities.
While both of those reasons are true, the simple fact of the matter is that I wanted her around.
I enjoy her company.” She glanced over her shoulder at Caleb. “Does that make me a loser?”
A gentle smile curved his mouth. “Not at all. I think it’s very sweet, actually.”
Smiling, Daniela picked up her glass and took a sip of wine, though she knew it wasn’t wise to drink alcohol on an empty—and as yet unstable—stomach. “What about you and your father?” she casually probed. “Are you two close?”
Just as she’d expected, Caleb’s expression grew shuttered. “Not as close as you and your mother,” he answered abstractedly. He nodded toward the stove. “Soup smells great.”
“Wait till you taste it. It’s my sister-in-law’s mother’s secret recipe.
” Daniela ladled tortilla soup into two ceramic bowls and grabbed two spoons, then carried everything over to the table.
“Don’t worry about catching my germs,” she joked as she served Caleb.
“I didn’t cough or breathe into the pot. ”
He grinned. “I’ll take my chances.”
She settled into a chair beside him. It wasn’t exactly a romantic candlelight dinner at Le Rêve, but it was as good a start as any.
“What did I miss in class today?” she asked as they began eating.
“Get the notes from April,” Caleb told her. “I don’t do encore lectures.”
“Not even for the sick and shut-in?”
“Nah.” Dark eyes glinting with amusement, he gave her a long, considering look. “Come to think of it, you don’t look all that bad for someone three days into the flu.”
She laughed. “That’s not what you said when we were standing on the porch.”
“What I mean is, when I had the flu, I was laid up for a week.”
“That’s surprising. You don’t strike me as the type of person who gets sick very often.”
“I don’t. The last time I had the flu was in tenth grade.”
She grinned. “In that case, you should be totally immune to me.”