“Hello, Minnie.”

There was a heartfelt sigh from the direction of Minnie’s door. “I’m so glad you’re home. I wasn’t sure you would make it in time.”

Eleanor frowned. “In time?”

Minnie took her hand, the elderly woman’s fingers slightly cold and soft as a baby’s. “These came for you.”

Eleanor ran her palm over the familiar shapes of three thick books.

“The art department from the university sent them. They said that you’d agreed to evaluate them for their art history classes.”

“You should have refused their proposal, Eleanor.” Maude’s voice chimed in from the depths of their apartment. “You’re looking much too tired lately.”

“I’m fine, Maude,” Eleanor insisted, raising her voice to be heard. But even as she uttered the words, she resisted the urge to sigh. She had agreed to do this for the university, but it had been so long since the request had been made, she’d forgotten all about the arrangement. If the truth were known, she’d been sure that they would never call. Since her father was a dean at the same university, she’d suspected that the offer was made through good-natured arm twisting and not from any real need.

“A reader will be coming at seven,” Minnie continued, “and it’s almost that now.”

Maude added, “You’ll have to hurry, dear, if you want time to run a comb through your hair.”

“A reader?” Eleanor echoed, wondering how all of these arrangements had been made without her input.

“Yes. Evidently there’s some rush. Something about purchase orders and grants and funding. I really didn’t listen too much to that part. But I did write down that a volunteer reader would be here at seven.” She patted Eleanor’s hand. “I met your reader earlier today. We had a cup of tea together and chatted for a few minutes.”

Eleanor scowled in irritation. She’d been assigned several volunteer readers from the university over the past few months. After dealing with the young students, she’d come to the conclusion that she preferred to choose her own assistants. Some of the kids sent her way could barely read themselves, others had annoying voices or distracting habits. A reader was much like a car. It needed to be test-driven before becoming a permanent part of one’s life.

But Minnie wasn’t to blame for the situation, so there was no sense in Eleanor venting her irritation.

“Thank you for your help, Minnie,” she managed to say. “If you’ll just stack the books on my arm.”

The collection of art history texts weighed nearly ten pounds, but Eleanor was able to make the climb to the third-floor landing without too much difficulty.

Because the four-story brownstone had been altered from its original one-family dwelling into a two-apartment complex, Minnie and Maude had the first two floors for their own use, and Eleanor had the top two.

Twisting the knob, Eleanor entered the living room and dumped the books and her purse on the couch by the door. Although she was not a vain woman, she wished she had more time before the reader was expected. One of the volunteers she’d used a few months ago had commented on the “dustiness” of Eleanor’s furnishings. Until that encounter, Eleanor hadn’t paid much attention to her living quarters. She kept her belongings neat out of necessity, but dusting wasn’t her strong suit.

Her fingers ran lightly over the chair rail along the wall as she hurried into her bedroom, brushed her hair, twisted it into a French knot and secured it with an ornate clip her mother had given her years ago. Then she threw off the sweater and maternity jeans she’d worn to work, exchanging them for a lighter cotton dress. Minnie and Maude liked their apartment to be warm—almost tropical. Even with her own thermostat off, Eleanor’s rooms tended to get quite hot.

She was making her way to the bathroom to attempt a bit of blush and eye shadow when the doorbell rang.

“Blast it all,” she muttered under her breath. Why hadn’t the university at least called to see if this evening would be convenient for such an activity? The last thing Eleanor wanted that night was hours of listening to some gum-popping, barely out-of-high-school teenager stumbling her way through an art history tome.

The doorbell rang again, then was followed by a sharp rap on the panels.

“Coming,” she called out impatiently. If first impressions were worth anything, Eleanor was ready to send the woman packing. After all, this was Eleanor’s home. She shouldn’t be summoned to the door as if she were some sort of inconvenience to this girl’s valuable time.

Piqued, Eleanor threw the door open. “Listen, I realize that you’re new at this, but if the two of us are going to work together, there are a few ground rules you’ll need to follow.”

“Fine.”

The voice wasn’t that of a woman. It was very dark, very low.

And very male.

Eleanor’s irritation fizzled out, and she felt her cheeks grow hot when she realized that her visitor was a man. One with a voice that was rich as molasses.