Public Secrets

shampoo.
“Hold it!” Michael snapped.
That wouldn’t have stopped him, but Emma’s soft purr did. “Oh, you have a dog.” She crouched to rub his head. “You’re a nice dog, aren’t you?” Since Conroy was disposed to agree, he sat down and let her scratch his ears. “Yes, such a nice dog. Such a pretty dog.”
No one had ever accused him of being pretty. Conroy mooned at her with the one eye that showed beneath his hair, then turned his head to sneer at Michael.

“Now you’ve done it.” Michael took her hand to help her to her feet. “He’ll expect to be complimented on a regular basis now.”
“I always wanted a dog.” Conroy leaned against her slacks, the picture of devotion.
“I’ll give you fifty bucks to take this one.” When she laughed, Michael drew her inside.
“This is nice.” She turned around the room, comforted by the sound of the dog’s nails on the floor behind her.
A big gray chair looked cushy enough to sleep in. The couch was long and low, inviting afternoon naps. He’d tossed an Indian blanket in gray and red stripes on the floor as a throw rug—and as a sop to Conroy. Vertical blinds let in slashes of sunlight.
“I’d imagined you in one of those slick condos near the beach. Oh, Marianne’s Legs” Delighted, she walked over to the print he’d hung over the couch.
“I picked that up the night of your show.”
Emma glanced over her shoulder, one brow lifted. “Why?”
“Why did I buy it?” Thoughtful, Michael tucked his thumbs in his pockets. “I liked it. If you want me to start talking shadows and texture, forget it. The fact is, it’s a great pair of legs, shot with a great deal of wit.”
“I like your opinion a lot more than a discussion on texture.” She turned back, smiling. It had taken them hours to set this shot. Not that it had been so difficult really. They just hadn’t been able to agree on the shoes.
It showed Marianne’s legs, crossed elegantly at the knee, with a ladylike flounce of hem sliding across them. They’d finally decided on plain black Chucks for her feet.
“You didn’t have to buy this. I know the outrageous price Runyun set. I owed you at least a print.”
“You gave me one once already.”
She remembered the picture she’d taken of him with her father. “But I wasn’t a professional then.”
“I imagine an early McAvoy would be worth a tidy sum if I ever wanted to sell it.” He felt her quick, instinctive jerk when he touched her arm. Gun-shy, he thought automatically. It was natural enough for a woman to be gun-shy right after the breakup of a marriage. “Let’s go into the kitchen. I was just getting started on dinner.”

The dog followed them in, resting his head adoringly on Emma’s foot when she sat at the table. Michael poured wine in glasses he’d borrowed from his neighbor. He turned on the radio, low. Emma recognized Nat King Cole’s creamy voice as she idly scratched Conroy’s head with her other foot.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Nearly four years.” He was glad to have company in the kitchen, a rarity for him unless he counted Conroy. He had fresh vegetables lined up on the counter. Puzzling over them, Michael wished he’d asked his neighbor for a recipe for tossed salad. He remembered to wash the lettuce, then taking up the neighbor’s carving knife, prepared to chop it up.
“What are you doing?” Emma asked.
“Making salad.” Because of the way she was looking at him, he paused with the knife over the head of romaine. “Maybe you don’t like salad.”
“I’d rather eat a hot-fudge sundae, but I like it well enough.” She rose to inspect the vegetables. She counted four fat tomatoes, slightly underripe, a half-dozen peppers of every color and description, leeks, mushrooms, a gourd of some kind, a full head of cauliflower, and a bunch of carrots. “There’s certainly enough of everything,” she decided.
“I always make a lot,” he improvised. “Conroy’s a fiend for salad.”
“I see.” Emma smiled, then took the knife from him and set it aside. “Why don’t you let me do this, while you deal with the steaks?”
“You cook?”
“Yes.” Laughing, she began to tear the lettuce leaves. “Do you?”
“No.” She smelled like wildflowers, fresh and delicate. He had to fight back an urge to press his lips to her throat. When he smoothed her hair behind her back, she lifted her head, eyes wary. “I never imagined you cooking.”
“I like to.”
He was standing close,