Murphy's Law

With her free hand, Murphy patted her brother's baby-smooth cheek. “A handsome third wheel, but a third wheel all the same.” She inclined her head toward the door and smiled hopefully. “Do you mind?”

“Not if you promise to introduce me to the infamous thief extraordinaire at some point.”

“I will.” Her smile broadened, and she nodded. “Just not today, okay?”

“But you will introduce me eventually?” He eyed her skeptically, one thick, dark brow cocked. “Promise?”

r /> With her index finger, Murphy made a quick X over her chest—well, over Moonshine, technically, since the cat was snuggled against it. As she did so, she noticed her fingers were shaking. God, she was a wreck! “Cross my heart, pinky swear, blah, blah, blah.”

“That's all well and good, Murph, but do you swear on a stack of—”

“Thomas Maxwell McKenna…”

“All right, already! I'm going!”

True to his word, Tom went. But only after kissing his sister on the forehead and warning Murphy—in aggravating detail—what to do should the “bank robber” try to “kidnap” her again.

By the time he was descending the stairs from Murphy's third floor apartment, they were both laughing.

THE LAST TIME Garrett had seen her, Murphy had been wearing a pair of jeans and an unflattering, baggy sweater. Her hair had been a wild, wind-tossed mess, and she'd had dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep and hours of driving.

This time, she was determined to make a better impression. The question was, how much better of an impression did she want to make?

A popular rock song blared from the speakers of the stereo in her living room. Odd, but this was one of the few times in her life when loud music wasn't having a calming effect on her. Wow, must be nervous!

“What on earth am I doing?” she muttered under her breath. Nibbling her lower lip, she surveyed the mess that had, not an hour ago, been her extraordinarily tidy, albeit small, bedroom.

The tastefully decorated room now looked like a bomb had gone off in it. Clothes were strewn everywhere. Discarded shoes, pantyhose, and underwear littered the floor like scattered snowdrifts. The dressing table—which she'd bought at a flea market and stripped and refinished herself—was cluttered with a variety of makeup and perfumes; all had been unused as yet, since she wasn't sure which ones she wanted to apply, if any. Artfully applying makeup had never been her forte.

The first dress she'd tried on, a pale coral shirtdress complete with a matching fabric belt, lay in a wrinkled heap atop the wicker peacock chair tucked in the corner next to the window. A pair of olive pants and a white silk blouse were balled up on the hardwood floor beside it. From under the lacy white dust-ruffle edging the bottom of her bed, she spied the hem of a pair of black slacks, and the arm of the black and gold knit sweater Dana had given her for her birthday two months ago.

The crisp eyelet bedspread could barely be seen for all the clothes recklessly dispersed atop it. A variety of jeans, blouses, sweaters, skirts, dresses…and the only jumper Murphy owned—bought on impulse, never worn.

On top of the pile was Moonshine. The cat had picked her favorite sunshine yellow satin blouse upon which to curl up and go to sleep.

“This is ridiculous,” she grumbled, stepping in front of what she considered her prized possession; an eighteenth century cheval mirror that she'd rescued from a yard sale. Like the dresser, she'd taken pride in stripping and staining the beautiful cherrywood.

Murphy frowned at her reflection. She wore a full, black cotton skirt, the hem of which ended mid-shin, nylons, and a pair of old-fashioned black ankle boots. Her shirt was white linen, with tiny, seed-pearl buttons lining the back. The collar was high and flat, reaching half way up her neck, and the yoke was traced with delicate white lace. The sleeves were full, the pearl-buttoned cuffs long, stretching from her wrist to a few inches below her elbow. Matching bands of lace edged each cuff. In an effort to do something with her hair, she'd snatched the sides back with two tortoiseshell combs.

The effect was…

“Dowdy,” Murphy decreed, then wrinkled her nose and stuck her tongue out at her reflection. “You look dowdy. Like an old fashioned"—she snickered—"school teacher.” A pair of oversized glasses, she thought, would be a perfect compliment to this outfit. Pity she didn't own any.

No doubt about it, she was going to have to change.

That decided, she glanced over the shoulder of her reflection, and through the mirror assessed the clothes strewn haphazardly on her bed. Jeans and a sweater? Not fashionable, but comfortable. Besides, it wasn't as though Garrett had never seen her dressed that way.

She was halfway to the bed when the doorbell rang.

Even with the music blasting, she heard the faint jingle. That might have been because she'd been breathlessly waiting for it.

Moonshine, on the other hand, hadn't been. The unexpected noise had the cat on his feet and catapulting off the bed in a blink. His back claws used her favorite blue sweater for momentum; the sweater tumbled to the polished, hardwood floor.

Murphy's heartbeat hammered in her ears.

Garrett Thayer was here. And he was thirty minutes early.

Oh, God.