A Different Blue(135)

supposed to end. I wished we'd never shared that damned kiss. Wilson hadn't been the same since.

I was standing in front of my apartment door, perusing my mail, when I heard Wilson's door open

and shut above me. I tensed, listening to his footsteps near the top of the stairs, and then

grimaced as I heard Pamela's voice asking him about the exhibit at The Sheffield on Saturday.

“I saw the tickets. Were you going to surprise me? Is it my Valentine's Day surprise?” Pamela

teased, and her flirtatious tone made me want to run up the stairs and hurl her over the

banister. She must not have sensed my murderous intent, because she kept right on talking.

“We can have dinner with my parents before. They'll be staying at the hotel through next week.

” I had forgotten about Pamela's connection to the hotel. Tiffa said the Sheffield family

wasn't the sole owner of the hotel any longer, but money talked, and the hotel still bore the

Sheffield name.

Pamela and Wilson reached the bottom of the stairs and I slunk back, hoping they wouldn't see

me. I should have gone into my apartment and closed the door. Now it was too late to do so

without alerting them of my presence. So I stood, frozen, watching Pamela loop her arms around

Wilson's neck and stand up on her toes to place a quick kiss on his lips. I looked away. I

should have watched, should have made myself acknowledge that she was the girl in his life. And

I was the neighbor. The project. The whim? I had no idea what I was to Wilson anymore.

“See you Saturday?” Pamela asked.

I didn't hear Wilson's answer, I was too busy unlocking my door. I decided I didn't care if they

knew I was there. I shut the door behind me. When I heard a soft knock several minutes later, I

considered ignoring it. It could only be Wilson, and he would only make me feel worse. But I was

just a girl. And the guy I liked stood on the other side of the door. So I opened it.

“Hi,” I said cheerfully, as if I was completely unaffected by what I had just seen. Wilson

didn't look like a man who had just enjoyed a goodnight kiss. He looked a little upset. And a

little stressed. I tried not to read anything into it.

“Hi,” he replied softly. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure. Mi casa es su casa . . . literally.” I turned and walked into my home, feeling him at

my back. “Did Camilla just leave?” I asked pointedly. When Wilson didn't answer I looked up at

him in question.

“Camilla?” he smirked, folding his arms. “You asked me if Camilla just left.”

“Is that what I said?” I frowned.

“Yes. You called Pamela Camilla.”

“Hmmm. Freudian slip,” I mumbled, a little embarrassed. It wasn't my fault. I had been

thinking of kisses, and lately kisses made me think of Camilla . . . and The Golden Girls.

The carving I had been working on the last time we talked sat on my kitchen table, and Wilson

halted beside it abruptly. He studied it intently, turning it this way and that, but I was

distracted, knowing that any mention of Camilla had to remind him of what had transpired between

us more than a month ago.

[page]“Tell me what you see when you look at this sculpture,” Wilson asked after a while, his

eyes roving down the sensual lines of the stained mahogany. His hand traced the contours

reverently.