“Hi,” she said, and wiped her free hand down the front of her jeans. “I figured if we could get this thing to work I could use it to carry supplies to the bedrooms so that I can strip the fireplaces.”

“You checked it out by climbing into it?”

“It was a tight fit, but there’s plenty of room for paint and stripper and stuff. It’s actually in good working order.”

“Ever hear of rust? What if those cables had broken? You could be in the basement with a broken back and no one to hear you yell for help.”

“I was careful. Besides, for its time, this is a top-of-the-line dumbwaiter. It’s got automatic brakes. If the cable breaks, these little feet keep it from going more than one floor down. I don’t normally do truly stupid things. I do not like risk. I’ve had more than my share for one lifetime.”

“I doubt if we could replace you easily.”

“There are plenty of other people who do what I do. I worked for a really high-class restoration firm in Washington before I came home. I still freelance for them when Buddy doesn’t have any work for me. They’d send someone—for a bunch more money than you’re paying me.”

“I don’t know what I’m paying you, but I’ll bet it’s not chicken feed.”

“I’m worth it. Now, I’ve got to start working that stripper off before it dries too much. Then Dante and I will get out from under your feet until morning.”

He followed her to the front hall and started up the staircase. Halfway up he leaned over the banister. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“Then join me for dinner.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m alone. If you’re alone, why not be alone together?”

She laughed. “The café?”

“I was thinking about maybe driving into town. Don’t you have good barbecue in this area?”

“Oh, for sure. If we do that, I’ll have to stop by my place to shower and change. I’m filthy.”

“Fine. I prefer to eat late, anyway.”

“It’ll be midnight if I don’t get started.”

Upstairs he unloaded his mattress. It took barely ten minutes to turn the lump of plastic into what looked like a comfortable double bed. He’d already hung the few clothes he’d brought with him in the small closet, but he would have to start looking for suitable furniture for this room soon. He had a few decent pieces of furniture from his old apartment, but they were sleek and modern, nothing that would be suitable for this house.

Maybe he could enlist Ann’s help. He planned to sell the place furnished. He didn’t want any souvenirs of this little venture.

Or did he? He wandered out onto the sleeping porch that ran across the back of the second floor. With nightfall the air had grown chilly again after the afternoon warmth, but there was no breeze. He felt as though he were in a tree house. Except for the glow from the parking lot next door, he might as well have been in the wilderness.

Someone had left an old folding chair leaning against the wall. He opened it, turned it to face the backyard, sat down and propped his feet on the railing in front of him.

He let the darkness envelop him. Somewhere close by a bird called, and frogs were already making noises. His father should have loved growing up in this house. Why had he run away to Paris?

“SORRY. I DIDN’T MEAN to wake you.” Ann stood in the doorway to the little porch.

Paul sat up quickly. “I wasn’t asleep.” He stretched and smiled at Ann. He felt more relaxed than he had in days.

“Sure you weren’t. If you’d rather skip that dinner, I’ve got plenty of stuff at my place. I could at least come up with a decent omelet.”

“I couldn’t ask you—”

“You’re not asking. I am. Actually, I’m being selfish. I’d much rather cook than have to fix myself up and drive into town and back.”

“You don’t need fixing up.”

“Oh, yes, I do.” Ann laughed. “So are you game?”

“Yes, and thank you.” He pulled himself out of the chair and followed Ann and Dante. His mattress sat in the middle of the bedroom floor. Ann sidestepped it neatly and went ahead down the stairs.

They walked the short distance across the square and around the three row houses to the short alley in back. The alleyway was pitch-dark. The anemic illumination of the wrought-iron streetlights around the square didn’t reach over the tops of the buildings, but Ann took a small flashlight from her back pocket and switched it on. Something moved in the bushes on the far side of the alley.

Dante gave a low woof.

“Hush. It’s just a cat,” she said.

Something, probably the cat, banged against one of the large garbage cans at the far end, then disappeared in a streak of fur. Dante looked up at Ann beseechingly, but she grasped his collar. “No. No chasing cats.”

They came to an old wooden staircase at the back of the second building. It looked as though it was ready to collapse into the small parking lot across the alley.

Paul followed Ann up to the little landing at the top and waited while she unlocked and opened her door. She turned on the lights.

Paul was no stranger to lofts. Several of his friends had invested in and restored lofts in lower Manhattan. They usually wound up modern, austere, cold and expensive.

This loft across two of the buildings was still very much a loft. Their footsteps and the click of Dante’s toenails echoed on the bare hardwood floors. The doorway opened into the half that Ann used as an apartment.

Beyond it, a broad archway led into the workshop half. Since the lights came on in both at the same time, Paul could see a large worktable in the center and cabinets along the back wall.

There was also a table saw, router table, a lathe, industrial shelving with molds, brushes and all sorts of equipment Paul couldn’t identify.

To the left of the door they’d come in was a galley kitchen, separated from the rest of the room by a high breakfast bar with stools. A harvest table and two benches constituted the dining room, and a heavily carved Victorian credenza served as a room divider from the living area, which was delineated with a soft, worn Oriental rug. To the right white duck curtains obviously divided the public space from bedroom and bath. The walls were the original rose brick, and overhead naked trusses held up the roof.

“Take a seat.” Ann pointed to one of the steel stools in front of the counter. She rummaged in a stainless-steel refrigerator and came out with bacon, green onions, sweet bell peppers and a carton of eggs.

“May I help?”

“Nope. I’m used to juggling stuff.” She set everything on the counter. “Would you like something to drink? Beer? Wine?”

“White wine if you have it.”

“Sure.” She reached into the refrigerator, brought out a bottle and poured them each a glass. “Salut.”

He looked up into those wonderful gray-blue eyes of hers. Their glances locked and held for too long. He felt his body tighten and knew that she felt the same pull he did.

He should never have come up here, never have allowed himself to see her in her own habitat. Not if he intended to keep his promise to keep her at arm’s length.

She broke eye contact first with a tiny gasp. The tips of her ears were red, and she sounded brusque. “Okay, now, you can help me chop the bell pepper.” She seemed to skitter away from him. The reluctant female, aware of him but not certain she wanted to go any further.

Nor was he.

His gaze lighted on a pencil drawing in a simple black frame hanging on the wall beside the refrigerator. He was instantly certain it must be one of the caricatures his father was noted for. He wanted to leap over the counter, rip it down and stare at it for any revelation of the hand behind it. Instead, he said casually, “The drawing. Is that Buddy?”

She laughed. “Look closely.” She reached up, took it down and handed it to him.

He’d have known Buddy anywhere. The big bullet head with only a fuzz of hair, the black sunglasses. He wore his police uniform, but instead of a Sam Browne belt, he wore a tool belt, and instead of aiming a revolver, he pointed an electric drill. His fierce expression said he was definitely going to “drill” somebody.