Page 18 of Too Hot to Sleep
"I appreciate the warning. See you tomorrow."
She disconnected the call, feeling itchy and restless. What a lousy end to such a promising day. Waiting for Rob to call, the dog episode, the choking incident, her mother's letter.She laughed morosely. Her mother would never have forgiven her if she'd died at the mall—well, maybe in Nordstrom's, but certainly not in the food court.
She closed her eyes, trying to pinpoint her unease, and Ken Medlock's face came to her. Why did the stranger push her buttons? Because he challenged her authority? Because he made her feel inept? Because his intriguing presence mocked her decision to become more intimate with Rob?
Rob. Such a nice man. So... predictable. Nice and predictable. The kind of man a woman could depend on to be faithful. In these days of disposable families, fidelity and trust were high on her list of characteristics in a lasting partner. Rob never looked at other women when they were out together, and he never bragged about a colorful sexual history. He was a gentleman.
She poked her tongue into her cheek. Well, he didn't call her "ma'am" in a rolling Southern tongue, but he was a gentleman nonetheless. Georgia tried not to dwell on the fact that while Rob never flirted with other women, he never flirted with her either. Because after last night, perhaps that part, at least, would change.
She stared at the new phone, willing him to call and end the suspense. She counted to one hundred, but it didn't ring. She counted backward from one hundred, but it still didn't ring. Disgusted with herself for literally waiting for the phone to ring, she picked herself up, changed to loose shorts and a T-shirt, then went for a power walk. Hoping to fatigue her muscles enough to induce sleep, she tried to outstride her plaguing thoughts. Last night she'd slept like the dead—the satisfied dead—but tonight looked doubtful.
The exercise provided enough solitude to rehash her sudden and seemingly persistent lapses in judgment—the infamous call, jeopardizing her job, lashing out at a lawman. Around andaround her mind spun, dredging up more remorse on each pass. This was why she'd always been a good girl, had always followed the rules. Because she was no good at being naughty. At this age, the most debauchery she could successfully aspire to was exhibiting bad manners.
She returned an hour later, winded and perspiring, to find her apartment almost as warm as the outdoors, and her message light flashing. With fingers crossed ridiculously, she pushed the Play button.
"Thank you for buying this Temeteck product! This is a test message to allow you to adjust the volume. Press1 if you don't want this message to play again."
She cursed and stabbed the "1" button, then stalked over to her blasted thermostat. "Eighty degrees?" she mumbled. "It's eighty degrees in my apartment." She turned the knob until sixty-eight appeared on the display, but when she released it, the number flashed back to eighty, and there it remained.
Recognizing an impending breaking point, Georgia forced herself to take ten deep breaths of stale, hot air before she called the landlord. Even more irritated at not reaching a live person once she did call, she left an unladylike message about the broken thermostat.
Under the rush of a cool shower, she leaned into the wall and allowed the water to run over her neck and shoulders until she felt somewhat refreshed. More than anything, she needed food in her stomach and a good night's sleep. In the morning, she'd have a better perspective on today's unsettling events.
But when her eyes were still as big as silver dollars at two in the morning, Georgia remembered the old saying about a clear conscience being the softest pillow.
She rolled onto her side and stared at the phone, working her mouth back and forth in thought. Suddenly, the answer came to her. She would call Rob and leave a message of apologyon his machine for him to listen to when he arrived home. She'd been too forward, and she'd made them both uncomfortable. They could start over.
Georgia reached for the phone and pressed the speed dial button.
Chapter 8
KEN'S BEDROOMwas as hot as a boiler room on the sun. The apartment manager had promised his building was next on the list for cooling system repairs, but the entire city was under siege. He threw his legs over the side of the waterbed, then felt his way to the window and propped it open with a book in a futile attempt to catch a breeze.
He hadn't yet slept. His mind kept replaying the events of the past twenty-four hours, which still seemed too fantastic to believe. The only conclusion he'd reached was that his behavior on the phone the previous night had been abominable. The worst part was that he didn't regret it as much as he should, partly because the woman intrigued him, partly because the woman infuriated him.
Ken ran his hand down over his face. But Georgia Adams's crankiness did not exonerate him. He dropped back onto his waterbed—just as the phone rang.
He shot back up, his heart pounding, then relaxed with a laugh. He'd looked up Robert Trainer's listings and discovered their numbers were one digit off from each other's. What were the chances she'd dial it wrong again? Besides, she'd said that Robbie Boy was out of town. It was probably the station dispatcher and, hell, he wasn't sleeping, so why not go on duty a few hours early?
Ken yanked up the phone on the third ring. "Hello?"
"Oh. Hi, it's... me."
He instantly recognized her voice, and his body stirred.
"I didn't expect you to be home," she said quickly. "I was going to leave you a message."
Ken bobbed up and down on his mattress. He could tell her she had the wrong number and hang up. She'd never know it was him. He could do the right thing, right now. The words hovered at the back of his dry throat.
"Wh-when did you get back in town?" she asked.
Or he could do thecompellingthing, right now.
Ken swallowed and held the phone away from his mouth. "Not long ago. I came back because... because I wasn't feeling well." He pushed down the rising guilt. He'd run a quick info sheet on Rob Trainer today and uncovered the bare essentials of the man's life—employment, address, background check. Did Georgia know everything about her boyfriend? Her own history was squeaky-clean, including volunteer work with the Red Cross.
"Are your allergies bothering you again?" she asked.
"Um, I guess." He manufactured a cough.
