She expected to see shock, perhaps pity in his gaze, but these was neither. The look he gave her was one of utter neutrality.
"So you see," she said, "I'm not exactly to the manner born. Though my mother used to claim she had noble Spanish blood. But then, Mama said a lot of crazy things toward the end."
"Then she's…" He paused delicately.
"Dead. Seven years."
He tilted up his head, the next question plain in his eyes.
"Mama would say these really bizarre things," explained M. J. "And she'd get headaches every morning. I was in my last year of medical school. I was the one who diagnosed the brain tumor."
Adam shook his head. "That must have been terrible."
"It wasn't the diagnosis that was so wrenching. It was the part afterwards. Waiting for the end. I spent a lot of time at Hancock General. Learned to royally despise the place. Found out I couldn't stand being around sick people." She shook her head and laughed. "Imagine that."
"So you chose the morgue."
"It's quiet. It's contained."
"A hiding place."
Anger darted through her, but she suppressed it. After all, what he'd said was true. The morgue was a hiding place, from all those painfully sloppy emotions one found in a hospital ward.
She said, simply, "It suits me," and turned away. Her gaze settled on the refrigerator. "You wouldn't happen to have anything edible in there, would you?" she asked. "The wine's going straight to my head."
He rose from the couch and went to the refrigerator. "I usually stock a sandwich or two, for those impromptu lunch meetings. Here we are." He produced two plastic-wrapped luncheon plates. "Let's see. Roast beef or… roast beef. What a choice." Apologetically he handed her a plate. "Afraid it can't match up to the mayor's benefit supper."
"That's all right. I didn't pay for my ticket anyway."
He smiled. "Neither did I."
"Oh?"
"It was Isabel's ticket. She's a big fan of Mayor Sampson."
"I can't imagine why." M. J. unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. "I think he's Albion's Titanic."
"How so?"
"Just look at South Lexington. Sampson would like to pretend it doesn't exist. He caters entirely to the more suburban areas. Bellemeade and beyond. The inner city? Forget it. He doesn't want to hear about the Jane Does and Nicos Biagis." She went back to the couch and sat down, tucking her stockinged feet beneath her.
He sat down as well. Not too close, she noted with a mingling of both relief and disappointment, but sedately apart, like any courteous host.
"To be honest," he admitted, "I'm not a fan of Sampson's either. But Isabel needed an escort."
"And you didn't have any better offers for the evening?"
"No." He picked up a slice of beef, and his straight white teeth bit neatly into the pink meat. "Not until you turned up."
M. J. paused, the sandwich halfway to her mouth. His gaze was much too searching, too intimate for comfort. She didn't trust him; more important, she didn't trust herself. But those primitive threads of desire were spinning between them all the same, drawing her toward what could only be a mistake. Lord knew, she had never in her life felt such temptation.
She set the plate down on the coffee table and slowly wiped her fingers on the napkin. "You can flirt all you want with me," she said. "It's not going to change things. I still have a job to do. Questions to be answered."
"And suspects to be suspicious of."
"Yes."
"It doesn't bother me, being a suspect. Because I'm not guilty of anything. Neither is my company."
"Still, the name Cygnus does keep popping up in all sorts of places."
"What do you want me to say? Confess that I'm manufacturing some secret drug in the basement? Selling it on the streets for a profit? Or maybe we can come up with a truly diabolical scheme, say, I'm single-handedly trying to solve Albion's crime problem by killing off the junkies. The ultimate drug rehab! And that's why I was at the mayor's benefit. Because Sampson's in on it too!" He cocked his head and smiled, revealing yet again those beautiful white teeth of his. "Come now, M. J.," he said, leaning towards her. "Doesn't that sound the slightest bit ridiculous?"
He did make it sound ridiculous, and she didn't appreciate the insult. "I don't discount any possibilities," she said.
"Even wild and crazy plots?"
"Is it so wild and crazy?"
He was moving closer, but she was too stubborn to give up an inch of territory on that couch. She held her ground, even as his hand reached up to touch her face, even as he gently stroked her cheek.
Even as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers.
"If you knew me," he whispered against her mouth, "you wouldn't ask these absurd questions."
She felt an exhilirating rush of desire, felt it leap through her veins and flood her face with its warmth. Together they tumbled to the cushions. At once he settled on top of her, his weight driving her deep into the couch, his mouth closing over hers. This isn't supposed to happen, she thought, as her arms circled around his neck, tugging him hard against her mouth. He fumbled at his jacket, trying to peel it off and at the same time keep kissing her. She opened her eyes and caught a dizzy glimpse of his fair hair in disarray, of the circle of lamplight playing on the ceiling. What am I doing? she thought. Making love in an office. Yielding on a business couch.
"Don't," she said. He went on kissing her, his mouth ever more demanding. She said again, louder, "Don't," and pressed her hands against his chest.
He pulled away, his gaze hungrily searching her face. "What's wrong?"
"You. Me." She rolled away and slid free, onto the carpet. At once she scrambled to her feet. "It just doesn't work, Adam."
He sat up and smoothed back his hair. "I thought it was working just fine," he said with a grin.
"Tell me something," she said, restlessly moving about the room. "How often do you use that handy little couch of yours?"
He let out a sigh of frustration. "Not often enough."
"When was the last time?"
"You mean… truthfully?"
"Yes."
He shrugged. "Never."
"That's being truthful?"
"I am. I've never used this couch. I mean, not for that purpose." He patted the cushion. "Look, see how clean it is? Oops, coffee stain there. But that's all." He gazed up at her with a look of pure innocence. And regret. "Tonight you and I would've inaugurated it."
She laughed. "Why is it I don't feel particularly honored?"
He sighed. "M. J., you have to understand. I've been a widower for some time now. And here you are, this wildly attractive woman. And I…" He shrugged. "Got a little carried away."
"Is that plan B? Flattery?"
"Flattery's not my style. You should know that."
"That's just it, Adam. I don't know you. Except as a phone number in the hand of a corpse. Not exactly a confidence-inspiring introduction."
They both started as the phone rang. Adam went to the desk and picked up the receiver. "Hello, Grace." A pause, then: "We're on our way." He looked at M. J. "The results are back."
They found Grace sitting in front of the computer terminal. A readout was just rolling out of the printer. She tore off the page and handed it to Adam. "There you have it, Mr. Q. A little booze. Traces of decongestant. And that." She pointed to a band on the chromatographic printout.