Lovers and Strangers (11 page)

There was laughter and music and the slightly manic flirting that went on whenever unattached young men and women gathered. But no one was throwing water balloons or furniture off of the balconies. No one was puking his—or her—guts up in some potted plant. No one was practicing any of the more erotic positions of the
Kama Sutra
in plain sight. There was no pall of smoke, from tobacco or anything else, hovering over the gathering. There were no love beads or peace signs, no screaming psychedelic colors or strobe lights, no Nehru jackets, no tie-dye, no elephantine bell-bottom pants. And no one, as far as Jack could tell, was more than slightly high on anything more lethal than light beer or wine coolers.

If there was illegal drug use or wild sex going on, he decided, it wets happening behind closed doors. The free-for-all era of "sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll" was obviously as dead as the proverbial doornail. At least, at the Wilshire Arms, it was.

"Welcome to the politically correct nineties," Jack muttered, wondering if the slight tug of nostalgia he felt for the wilder days of his youth meant he was turning into an old fogy.

And, if that was the case, did the gut-tearing lust he felt when he looked at Faith McCray make him a dirty old man?

"Faith. Faith, honey, there you are." Sammie-Jo came hurrying up to them from the other side of the courtyard, the hem of her short tank dress leaving her long legs bare to midthigh. "Where on earth have you been all day?" she asked, reaching out to put her hand on Faith's arm. "I was beginning to think you'd gone and got yourself lost or something." The smile she gave Faith was full of friendly curiosity. The narrow-eyed look she aimed at Jack was loaded with all the suspicion of a Victorian chaperon. "You haven't been cleaning apartments all this time, have you?"

"No, of course not," Faith said, smiling at her friend's concern. Sammie-Jo had been worrying over her like a mother hen ever since she moved to Los Angeles. "Jack..." Faith looked up at him, her smile turning soft and sweet as she said his name. "Jack and I went to lunch."

Sammie-Jo's glance narrowed even more as she watched Jack Shannon return Faith's adoring smile with one of his own. It was just a shade too intimate and... wolfish to suit her. "Lunch?" she said archly, making a show of looking at her watch. "It's nearly seven o'clock."

"I guess we lost track of the time," Faith said, still gazing up at Jack as if he were Brad Pitt's better-looking brother.

"I'll just bet you did," Sammie-Jo muttered under her breath.

Faith turned her head to look at Sammie-Jo. "I'm sorry if you were worried about me," she said, "but I'm fine."

"For someone who's been hit between the eyes by a thunderbolt, maybe," Sammie-Jo mumbled.

"What?"

"Oh, don't mind me, honey. I was just talking to myself." She slipped her arm through Faith's. "Come join the party," she urged, giving it a little tug. "Brian Fossey in 3-E just got a gig in a two-part TV movie so we're all helping him celebrate his good fortune. Plus, he sprang for the wine."

"Jack?" Faith said, resisting the pull on her arm.

"You go on and join the party," he urged, giving her a little nod of encouragement. "I'm going to head on inside and see if I can get some work done."

"But-"

"This isn't my kind of party, Angel," he said in a bored voice. "You go with your friend and have a good time."

Sammie-Jo stood there for a minute, gazing after him as he turned and sauntered away, unable to believe what she'd just heard. After looking at Faith as if he wanted to gobble her up like a sweet Georgia peach, Jack Shannon had all but patted her on the head and told her to go play with her little friends.

Sammie-Jo snapped her jaw shut. "Well, what was
that
all about?" she said, turning to look at Faith.

Faith was standing there, staring after Jack Shannon as if he'd just broken her heart clean in two.

Sammie-Jo's eyes narrowed into fierce slits. "What'd he do to you this afternoon?" she demanded. "If he did anything to you, I swear, I'll—"

"He says he's too old for me."

"—cut off his-What?"

"He said he's too old for me," Faith repeated, still staring forlornly at his retreating form. "He says I'm as innocent as a baby and that he's old enough to be my father. I tried to tell him I wasn't but—"

"Was this before or after he seduced you?"

That brought Faith's gaze back to Sammie-Jo. "He didn't seduce me," she said indignantly. "He wouldn't."

"Well, maybe he hasn't," Sammie-Jo said grudgingly. "But he wants to. Bad."

"Oh." Faith's face lit up with something like hope. "Do you really think so?"

Sammie-Jo shook her head in amazement. "Don't you have any sense of self-preservation at all? The man is absolutely right, you know. He's way too old for you. In experience, if not actual years," she added, flicking an assessing—and appreciative—glance at the long, lean body of the man in question. "And you're as innocent as a little curly-headed lamb."

"Why does everybody keep telling me how innocent I am? Ever I since I moved to Los Angeles, people have been telling me how innocent I am. I'm not innocent. I'm not a simpleminded child, either," she added fiercely. "I'm a grown woman."

"But inexperienced," Sammie-Jo said, thinking that the poor girl couldn't have been—wouldn't have dared to be—anything else with that father of hers. She shook her head, silencing Faith as she started to object. "It isn't anything to be ashamed of, honey. We all started out that way. It's just that I think you'd be better off cutting your teeth on someone a little less tough than Jack Shannon." She let her gaze wander over to the other side of the courtyard for a split second. "I admit, he's a tempting devil but—" she shifted her gaze back to Faith's face "—he's way out of your league. You should leave him to someone who's better equipped to handle him."

"Like Jill Mickelson?" Faith said, looking past Sammie-Jo's shoulder to where Jack still lingered at the party he'd said he wasn't staying for, talking to the voluptuous blonde from 2-B.

"Yes," Sammie-Jo said. "Like Jill Mickelson. Now, come on and meet some of the guys." She tucked her arm more securely into the crook of Faith's, pulling her along as she spoke.

"But my clothes," Faith objected, using the only excuse she could think of. "I'm not dressed for a party."

"Oh, pooh on your clothes. You're more dressed up than half the people here. And you look great in my jeans." She turned her head and tilted it back, doing a quick assessment of the fit. "Better than I do, in fact. So quit stalling and come on." She yanked gently on Faith's arm to get her moving. "Dennis Kincaid in 3-B asked me about you the other day." She grinned wickedly. "And he's as juicy and tender as they come."

* * *

"What is it with these kids?" Jack said, frowning down at the woman who stood beside him. "Don't they have any music of their own to listen to?"

Jill Mickelson smiled. The sound of The Grass Roots' 1968 hit "Midnight Confessions" filled the air. "Just be glad golden oldies are in with this crowd," she said, wondering at his annoyance. "Otherwise, we could be having our eardrums shattered by Pearl Jam's latest hits."

"God forbid."

"Exactly." She looked down, running her fingertip around the rim of her plastic wineglass. "I haven't seen you around lately."

"I've been busy." Jack took a sip of his beer. "Working."

"Too busy to stop by and say hello once in a while?"

"Jill..." he began hesitantly. God, he didn't need this. Not now. "I thought we agreed there wasn't enough there." His voice was as gentle as he could make it. "For either of us. You said it was nice but it wasn't worth listening to another lame Jack 'n' Jill joke, remember?" he added, trying for a little levity.

"Never mind." She waved her free hand in a negating gesture in front of her. "You're right. We did. Forget I mentioned it." She took a quick sip of her wine. "It's just that, sometimes, it gets kind of..." She sighed and shrugged.

"Lonely," he supplied.

"Yes. Lonely," she said and sighed again. "I wanted a freer, less inhibited lifestyle when I moved here from Boston but sometimes I find myself wondering if moving into the Wilshire Arms was such a good idea." She let her gaze scan the happy, laughing group of people. "Most of them are so young." She shook her head. "Tonight they make me feel positively ancient."

Jack snorted in agreement. "Tell me about it," he muttered, his gaze following hers out into the crowd.

"I notice Irina doesn't seem to have any problems relating to the younger generation," Jill remarked, and then realized she'd lost his attention. She looked up into his face, and then back at the crowd, trying to see what—or who—had caught his attention so thoroughly.

There were two lovely young women and three equally lovely young men standing in a loosely formed circle near the makeshift buffet table. Someone else might have thought he was staring at Sammie-Jo Sheppard—she was the more obviously attractive and vivacious of the two—but he'd had ample time in the last month or so to make a move on Sammie-Jo, if he'd been interested in her. It had to be the other one, the slender young woman with the big eyes and the shy smile, who put that hungry, yearning look into his eyes.

"I wouldn't have thought she was your type," Jill said, trying to keep the jealousy out of her voice.

"Who?" Jack quickly turned his head to look down at her. "Irina?" he said, trying to bluff his way out of it.

"Sammie-Jo's little friend. Faith, I think her name is." Jill paused, giving him a chance to deny it. "She's a little young for you, isn't she?" she said, when he didn't.

"She's
way
too young for me," he said wearily. "And she isn't even remotely my type," he added, trying to make himself believe it.

But his gaze was already drifting back toward her as he spoke, inexorably drawn by whatever it was that called to him so strongly. He barely noticed when Jill Mickelson left his side.

* * *

I should be having the time of my life,
Faith thought.
Here I am, at a real party, with dancing and music, and three handsome, charming guys my own age who actually seem to enjoy talking to me.
No one was telling her what she could or couldn't do. No one was making her feel guilty about having a little harmless fun. No one was threatening dire consequences if she dared to disgrace the family again. She should have been in seventh heaven.

She was miserable.

Because the only handsome, charming man she was interested in talking to had been more interested in talking to another woman. A beautiful woman. A woman closer to his own age. A woman with experience. And style. And verve. And—

"Can I get you a drink, Faith?" one of the young men asked. "A glass of wine?"

Faith hesitated for a moment. She'd tasted wine just once before, at a church social when her cousin Martin had smuggled in a bottle and dared her to try it. The taste had been awful, and the fear that her father might smell that one sip on her breath negated any guilty pleasure she might have felt. But her father wasn't here now. And Jill Mickelson had been drinking wine.

Faith smiled up at the young man who'd asked her the question, consciously trying to copy one of Sammie-Jo's flirtatious expressions. "Yes, please, Dennis," she said, determined to gain some of that experience everybody seemed to think she was lacking. "I'd like that."

* * *

From his position under the shadow of the balcony, his shoulder propped against the wall, Jack watched her accept the plastic cup of wine from the clean-cut, muscle-bound kid who'd handed it to her. He watched as she took a cautious sip, smiling a little when she grimaced at the taste. Cheap boxed wine wasn't, he thought, the best introduction to the wine maker's art. But she smiled at the young man who stood hovering over her, obviously assuring him it was fine, and took another determined sip. The young man laughed, charmed—as who wouldn't be, Jack thought sourly—by her innocent sweetness.

The group stood talking, laughing and drinking their wine for a while longer, their words indistinguishable through the blare of rock music. Jack recognized Foghat's "Slow Ride" and The Rolling Stones' mindless "Satisfaction" and tried to tell himself he was lingering for the music and the memories it evoked, but that was a lie. Whatever pleasant memories he had of that time in his life had been overshadowed and soured by Eric's death. And if it was really the music he was interested in, he could hear it from his apartment. At decibels less likely to make his head throb.

Faith didn't need a watchdog. And he didn't need to be hovering around her like some pervert casing a playground.

He was just about to turn and go inside, leaving them to it, when the music segued into "Under The Boardwalk," a mid-sixties time by The Drifters. It was a pleasant, catchy song with recognizable lyrics and a slow calypso beat. Faith's new admirer leaned over and whispered in her ear.

She looked up, startled, and shook her head.

The young man leaned closer and spoke again, adding what Jack was sure he thought was an enticing smile as he reached out to rim a fingertip down her arm from shoulder to elbow.

A muscle jerked in Jack's jaw but he made himself stay where he was. Faith didn't need rescuing, he told himself. She might not even
want
rescuing. The man was young and attractive, if a little narrow between the eyes. Faith might very well be flattered by his attention.