“They’re just cautious.” He peeled his socks from his feet and took the bag from Elsie. “I haven’t led an exemplary life by Skogen standards.”

“Don’t sound so bad to me,” Elsie said, following him into the kitchen. “It isn’t like you’ve spent the last five years holding up convenience stores.”

The kitchen was large and old-fashioned looking with oak cupboards and a big claw-footed table dead center. The appliances seemed adequate, but certainly not new. The room had a nice lived-in feeling, and Maggie could imagine generations of Mallones eating at the big round table. It was a kitchen that provoked images of little boys snitching cupcakes, and mothers and grandmothers working side by side to prepare holiday feasts.

“I got potato salad and cold fried chicken in the refrigerator,” Elsie said. “You two can help yourselves. I got to get out of these wet shoes.”

“So,” Hank said to Maggie, “fried chicken or a hot shower and dry clothes?”

“No contest. I’m freezing. A hot shower sounds wonderful.”

“I’ll give you a quick tour en route to your room. Downstairs we have living room, dining room, powder room, kitchen. An addition has been added on to the original house. It was built as an in-law apartment when my Grandmother Sheridan came to live here after Grandfather Sheridan died. I’ve given it over to Elsie.”

Hank skirted around the puddles in the foyer and led the way upstairs. “There are four bedrooms up here. I’m in the master, and I’ve converted another into an office. That leaves two bedrooms for you. If you like, we can remove one of the beds and install a desk for your computer.”

He motioned her into the larger of the two rooms. Their gazes met and held, and he felt his toes curling. Maggie had an energy that was refreshing. She was bright and funny and forgiving. Thank goodness for the forgiving part. He suspected in the next six months he was going to do a lot of things that needed forgiving.

“The bathroom’s down the hall. Let me know if you need any help.”

And you’d better lock the door, he thought, because he badly wanted to soap her back. He wanted to get her warm and relaxed and content.

Then he scolded himself. This was a bogus marriage. Fake bridegrooms don’t get bathtub privileges. And decent men don’t take advantage of women employees. The only question left to resolve was the extent of his decency. Ordinarily he liked to think of himself as an honorable person, but at the present moment he felt desperate enough to sacrifice a few principles.

“Help? What kind of help?” Maggie’s stomach fluttered at the thought of all the possibilities.

He recognized the brief flash of panic that passed over her face. Great going, Mallone, he thought, you’ve succeeded in scaring her again. Nothing to be proud of, he admitted. He stuffed his hands into wet pockets and tried to make amends. “Extra towels, shampoo.”

“Oh yeah. Thanks.” Lord, what was wrong with her. She was far from naive, but she also wasn’t the sort of woman who ordinarily saw innuendo everywhere. She preferred to take life at face value. It was much less complicated that way. Today she seemed to be reading sexual overtures into every move Hank Mallone made. It was because he excited her, she decided. Virility fairly spilled out of him. Even in his wet, bedraggled state he was sex incarnate.

He backed out of her room, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, knowing he had a silly, embarrassed smile plastered across his mouth. “I’ll get your suitcases from the back of the truck,” he said. “I’ll put them in your room.”

Elsie’s voice carried up from the foyer. “Well, what the devil is this? For goodness sakes, it’s a cat. What are you doing locked up in this cage? Looks to me like somebody forgot to let you out.”

Hank wheeled around at the sound of the latch being released. “Elsie, don’t let the cat out while Horatio’s in the house!”

“Don’t Horatio like cats?” Elsie called up the stairs.

“I don’t know!”

“Too late,” Elsie said. “The cat’s already out, and it don’t look too happy about things.”

There was a loud woof, followed by the sound of dog toenails looking for traction on the kitchen floor.

“Fluffy!” Maggie shouted, pushing past Hank to get to the stairs. “Poor Fluffy!”

The cat raced through the living room, into the dining room, and up the summer sheers on the bay window. It clung there with eyes as big as saucers, its tail bristled out like a bottle brush.

Hank, Maggie, and Horatio all reached the cat at the same time. Horatio took a snap at the tail. The cat hissed at the dog, catapulted itself onto Hank’s chest and dug in.

“Yeow! Damn,” Hank yelled. “Somebody do something!”

“It’s the dog,” Maggie said, trying to get between Hank and Horatio. “Fluffy’s afraid of your dog.”

Elsie snatched a piece of fried chicken from the refrigerator and threw it at Horatio. The dog thought about it for half a second and abandoned the cat for the chicken leg.

“Just look at this kitchen floor,” Elsie said. “I just waxed it, and now it’s full of scratch marks. I swear sometimes it doesn’t pay to put yourself out.”

Maggie was whispering soothing words to Fluffy, as one by one she pried the cat’s claws out of Hank’s chest. “I’m really sorry,” she said to Hank. “Fluffy’s never done anything like this before.”

“It’s had rabies shots, right?”

“Of course. She’s had all her shots. I take good care of Fluffy.” She removed the last claw and cuddled the cat. “I thought you said Horatio doesn’t chase cats.”

“I said I didn’t know about him chasing any cats. Besides, Fluffy probably provoked him.” Hank unbuttoned his shirt to examine the claw marks in his chest. “You ever check that cat’s lineage? You ever find the name Cujo on the family tree?”

“Cujo was a dog.”

“Technicality.”

Maggie looked at the red welts rising over his hard, smooth muscles and felt a wave of nausea pass through her. His beautiful chest looked like a dart board, and it was her fault. She’d forgotten all about Fluffy, sitting not so patiently in the cat carrier. If she’d remembered to take Fluffy upstairs with her, this never would have happened. “Does it hurt?”

“Terribly. It’s a good thing I’m so big and strong and brave.”

“I’ll keep Fluffy in my room for a couple days until she acclimates.”

An hour later Maggie was sitting in the kitchen making her way through a mound of potato salad when Hank sauntered in fresh from his shower.

“How’s your chest?”

“Good as new.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He grinned at her. “Would you believe almost as good as new?” He took a plate of chicken from the refrigerator and dropped into a chair. “The rain is letting up.”

“I hope it doesn’t stop entirely. I love to fall asleep to the sound of rain on the roof.”

“I like it best when it snows,” he said. “The master bedroom is in the northeast corner and takes the brunt of the winter storms. When there’s a blizzard, the wind drives the snow against the window with a tick, tick, tick sound. I always lie there and feel like a kid again, knowing the snow is piling up, school will be closed, and I’ll be able to go out sledding all the next day.”

“And do you still go out sledding?”

He laughed. “Of course.”

It occurred to Maggie that she’d never sat across a kitchen table and shared small talk with a man whose hair was still damp. It was nice, she thought. It was one of those little rituals that was woven into the fabric of married life and gave comfort…like a good cup of coffee first thing in the morning or the fifteen-minute break to read the newspaper and sort through the day’s mail.

Maggie watched the man sitting across from her, and a pleasurable emotion curled in her stomach. It would be easy to believe the marriage was real, easy to become used to this simple intimacy.