He regarded her through dark, somber eyes. "I thought you were ... somebody else."
Addison gathered more of her things and dropped them into her purse. "It must have been a dead giveaway when I shouted out my name." She felt sane, almost normal now that he was a safe distance away. With a little luck she might even be able to convince herself nothing had happened between them.
He stooped to pick up the gold tube of lipstick and handed it to her. "I guess that means you're not open for an apology."
Addison studied his face and looked deep for something redeeming, something that would explain her reaction to him, but she came up short. "Not on your life." She snatched the tube from him, vowing to call the Better Business Bureau as soon as she got back to the shop. "I ought to have you arrested." She shoved the lipstick into her purse and pulled the drawstrings tight.
"Since when is arousing a woman a crime?"
Her cheeks flamed. It appalled her that she had reacted to him in some base, animal way. "You're having dangerous illusions." She fled for the door.
"Am I?" He didn't follow.
"I guess it would take an illusion to keep that ego of yours so inflated." She reached the door, remembered belatedly that it was locked, and slammed her palm against it. "Open it!"
He strode to the door, gave it a good yank, and held it open for her. "Sorry. It sticks."
Feeling like a fool, Addison sent him a final, scathing look over her shoulder and bolted. She tried valiantly to avoid the man in the wheelchair, but she was moving too fast. The collision stopped her cold. His glasses flew into his lap. The armrest rammed painfully into her thigh. She cursed.
"Are you all right?" The man steadied her with one hand and grappled for his glasses with the other.
The smell of cigarettes and budget aftershave drifted to her as she extracted herself from the wheelchair. She looked at him, noticing immediately that his features were disturbingly similar to those of the man inside. Hard, direct eyes that weren't quite friendly. Jack Talbot, Addison thought. Her heart sank when she realized the hem of her skirt had somehow become ensnared in the chair's wheel.
"I'm just peachy," she snapped and yanked at the material.
"Let me help you." Awkwardly, he grasped the fabric of her skirt and tried to untangle it from the locking mechanism.
Addison looked up to see Randall Talbot leaning against the door frame, taking in the entire scene as if it had been choreographed for the sole purpose of his entertainment.
"Need some help?" he asked affably.
Grinding her teeth in anger, she took matters into her own hands. With an ungraceful yank, she jerked the material free, tearing her skirt. "Go to hell," she said and limped toward the safety of the sidewalk.
*
"Ah another happy customer,” Jack said as he rolled the wheelchair into the office.
Despite the headache and the lingering effects of Addison Fox, Randall managed to smile. "Morning, Jack." He wondered if he should tell his brother how badly he'd screwed up his nine o'clock appointment.
Jack wheeled past him. "Did Felicia show?"
Randall winced, deciding it would be best not to complicate an already complicated situation. Things were tense at best between him and his brother. No reason to make matters worse. "No," he said.
"Or were you too drunk to answer the door?"
Not in the mood for a lecture, Randall started for the coffeemaker.
"You could have drunk yourself to death in Washington," Jack said. "Why the hell did you bother corning back here to do it?"
"I couldn't cut the mustard back in D.C., remember?" Randall didn't like the bitterness in his voice. He hadn't wanted to be bitter about walking out on his career. He hadn't intended to disappoint himself. To his dismay, he'd managed to accomplish both.
Expertly maneuvering the chair, Jack closed the door behind him and headed for the thermostat. "I suppose any man who enjoys tramping over dead bodies is one sick son of a bitch anyway."
Randall shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He'd never imagined himself as a candidate for post traumatic stress disorder. He hated it that the illness had taken him down so hard and fast without so much as a warning. He hated even more the vulnerability he felt knowing he might not ever be able to resume a career he'd invested twelve years of his life in.
Shoving the feelings aside, he watched his brother struggle to reach the thermostat. "You got anything for a headache?" he asked, feeling as though days had passed since he'd picked up that bottle of whiskey.
"You'd be surprised how far a little self-discipline goes."