Lovers and Strangers (8 page)

He had no right, thinking what he was thinking about her. He hardly knew the girl. And girl she was, he thought stubbornly, despite her twenty-four years. He'd never met a woman more unawakened, more truly innocent than she appeared to be. That much innocence was almost a liability, especially in a snake pit like Los Angeles. There were sleazebags and con artists on every street corner. She could be taken in and taken over before she even knew what had happened to her.

Look at the way she had come into his apartment, completely open, completely trusting, without giving so much as a thought to the harm he could do her. Then, no, he thought, smiling to himself as he remembered, she'd hesitated for a moment before accepting his invitation. But only a moment.

She shouldn't have come in at all.

She shouldn't have looked at him the way she had.

She shouldn't be here now.

The girl, he decided abruptly, needed a good talking to about the facts of life in the big city. She needed a few lessons in survival. She needed a keeper.

Jack swore, the word coming out as a strangled sound somewhere between a snort of cynical amusement and a low growl. "Not you, Jack," he said to himself. It was more a warning than anything else. "Not you."

"I'm sorry." Faith looked up from her task, her expression hopeful. "Did you say something to me?"

Jack rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, wondering just what in the hell was the matter with him. He'd never been attracted to innocence before, even such attractively packaged innocence. "Just thinking out loud," he said gruffly, hoping to forestall any conversation between them. He wanted her to finish what she was doing and go. And the less contact between them while she did it, the better.

Faith put her sponge down and came around the end of the counter that divided the kitchen from the dining room, irresistibly drawn by even the slightest indication that he might be willing to talk. He hadn't said a word to her all afternoon that wasn't directly related to the job she was doing, but she'd felt him watching her while she worked. She'd wanted to respond to his interest, to let him know she was watching him, too. But she didn't know how. Sammie-Jo's brief lesson hadn't covered attracting the males of the species, only discouraging them. And she'd never had a chance to learn the finer points of flirtation on her own. Nor even, really, any of the basics. Usually, she wouldn't even have had the courage to try, but this wasn't usually.

This was the new Faith, she reminded herself. She'd begun a new life. And she wasn't going to let the old fears and the old rules stop her from living it to the fullest. Jack Shannon fascinated her and she wasn't going to be a hypocrite and pretend otherwise.

He was, as Sammie-Jo had so eloquently put it, the perfect tough-guy hero. But there was more to him than that, Faith thought. Much more. She'd seen it for just a moment the other day when he'd invited her in for coffee. There was another man under that tough-guy facade, a tortured man hiding the sadness in his eyes behind a careless manner and a cynical sneer. Faith wanted to think that was all that drew her to him—that hidden sadness that somehow made them kindred spirits—but her conscience wouldn't let her get away with such a whopper.

He was beautiful, too.

On the outside.

Where she'd always been told she wasn't supposed to notice.

But she had noticed. She couldn't
help
but notice.

Jack Shannon's body was tall and lean and strong, the muscles moving under the soft fabric of his T-shirt and faded jeans as lean and supple as those of a sleek and powerful cat. His face was lean, too, with squint lines around the eyes and deep grooves in either cheek. His jaw was chiseled. His chin was square. His brows were straight, heavy slashes above his eyes. His hair, as dark as the coffee he drank too much of, was long enough to curl softly against the nape of his neck. The shape of his mouth was masculine and well-defined, yet tender, too, like a child's in repose. And he had the long-fingered, elegant hands of a concert pianist.

How could she not be fascinated?

"Is your article giving you trouble?" she asked him, remembering some long-ago bit of girl lore that had to do with getting a man to talk about himself.

Jack looked up at that, surprised. "What makes you think I'm working on an article?"

Faith smiled at him, pleased that her ploy had worked. "Sammie-Jo said you were a reporter. So I just assumed that's what you were writing." She paused expectantly, waiting for him to toss the conversational ball back her way. "Is it?" she asked, when he didn't.

Jack scowled down at the nearly blank paper in his typewriter to avoid looking at her. That shy little smile of hers was as irresistible as sunshine peeking through the clouds. "Is it what?"

"What you're writing. Is it an article for one of the newspapers?"

"No," he said curtly.

Faith felt her cheeks heat. "Oh," she said in a small voice. Obviously, he didn't want to talk to her. Obviously, she was bothering him. Would she never learn? Embarrassed, she picked up her sponge and began scrubbing the counter. Hard.

Oh, hell,
Jack thought, suddenly feeling like a prize heel.
Now look what you've done, you jackass.
There'd been no need to crush her like that. No need to stomp all over her self-esteem. There were gentler ways to squash her interest in him. "Look, I'm sorry," he said to her bent head. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I can get a little cranky when the work's not going right."

"That's okay." Faith's gaze was glued to the counter. "I understand. I shouldn't have interrupted you."

"You didn't interrupt me. I'd have to have been making progress for you to interrupt me. And, believe me, I wasn't." He massaged the back of his neck with one hand, trying to think of something to say that would make her look up and smile at him again. "What I need is a break." He stood, pushing the chair back with his legs. "How about some lunch?"

Faith risked a quick glance at him. "Lunch?" she said skeptically. It was nearly four o'clock. Who ate lunch at four o'clock in the afternoon?

"I had my breakfast around noon," Jack said, easily reading her look. "I know sloth is supposed to be one of the seven deadly sins but... what do you say?" He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Join me for lunch? Or have you eaten already?" he added when she hesitated.

"No, I haven't had lunch yet," she admitted. Or breakfast. She'd been too nervous to eat.

"Well, then?"

She put her sponge down and began stripping off her rubber gloves. If he wanted lunch, she'd give him lunch. The housework could wait. "I really haven't had a good look in your cupboards but I think you have the makings for tuna sandwiches. Would that be okay? Or would you rather have peanut butter and jelly? Or soup? I think I saw a can of chicken noodle."

"Hey." He reached out and put his hand on her arm, stopping her as she reached for the handle of the refrigerator. "I didn't mean for you to make it for me."

"Oh, that's all right," she said breathlessly, her gaze on his hand. His long, elegant fingers were dark against the paleness of her arm. "I don't mind." She lifted her lashes and looked at him. "Really."

Jack pulled his hand back and stuffed it into his pocket to keep from grabbing her and kissing her senseless. Did she have any idea of what she invited with that sweet, steady look? Any idea at all? "I thought we could go out."

"Out?"

"To a restaurant?"
Where there are lots and lots of people around.

"Oh." A restaurant, she thought, a little thrill of excitement thrumming through her as she considered it. She'd never gone to a restaurant with a man before. Never been on a date. Not that this was a date, exactly. Still... "I'm not dressed for going out," she said, gesturing at her jeans and sneakers as proof of her statement.

"This is Los Angeles, Angel." Jack couldn't help it; he let his gaze flicker down the length of her body. "You're dressed just fine."

"But-"

"But nothing. Just take off your apron and let's go. I've been cooped up in this apartment all day and I'm starving." He turned and headed for the front door with every expectation that she would follow him.

And, after a brief moment's hesitation, she did. Whipping off her apron, she tossed it onto the kitchen counter and sprinted after him.

It was a typical Southern California summer day outside. The sky was piercingly blue, the temperature hovered in the mid-eighties, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was a perfect day for strolling hand in hand with your girl. Jack fought the urge to link his fingers with Faith's as they pushed through the wrought iron gate that guarded the Wilshire Arms' courtyard and started up Wilshire Boulevard toward Westwood.

Still, he couldn't resist the temptation to watch her out of the corner of his eye as they made their way down the street. The sidewalks weren't as crowded and colorful as they would have been on a weekend but there was enough diversity among their fellow pedestrians to make a sheltered Southerner's eyes widen.

"I'll bet you haven't been to Venice Beach yet, have you?" Jack said, delighted—and amazed, given her strict religious upbringing—with her unprejudiced reactions to everything she saw. She drank it all in like a thirsty sponge, appearing neither to condemn nor to judge but merely to absorb.

Faith shook her head in answer to his question. "Sammie-Jo said we'd go as soon as she has a weekend off." She drew her fascinated gaze away from a same sex couple wearing studded leather and nose rings to look at him. "She says weekends are the best time to see it because that's when all the crazies are there." Her smile was bright with anticipation. "I can hardly wait."

"She's right," Jack agreed, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to say he'd take her there himself, whenever she wanted to go. "So," he said, forcibly reminding himself of the reason they were together. Food. And a serious talk about the inadvisability of any... relationship between them. "What would you like to eat? Italian? Chinese? Mexican? Indian? Middle Eastern? Thai? Vietnamese?" His brow rose questioningly. "Feel free to stop me if anything sounds good."

"It all sounds good."

"Then what sounds best? What kind of food do you like?"

"Well, as far as ethnic food goes, there were three pizza parlors back in Pine Hollow. And one Mexican restaurant. And I liked them just fine when I got to go. But I've never tasted any of the other kinds of food you mentioned." Her tone was unconsciously wistful. "So you choose. Whatever you want will be fine with me," she said, and meant it.

Jack decided to approach it another way. "Is there anything you don't like? Any food you absolutely
won't
eat?"

Faith sent him a rueful, sideways smile. "Not so far." She patted her hip. "Unfortunately."

Jack smiled back before he could stop himself. "All right, then. We'll have dim sum."

"That sounds wonderful," she agreed instantly. "What is it?"

"It's sort of a Chinese smorgasbord. You know what a smorgasbord is, don't you?" he teased.

Faith rolled her eyes like a twelve-year-old who'd found an adult's question totally lame.

It was all Jack could do not to cup her face in his hands and kiss the silly expression away. He took a quick half step to the side, away from temptation. "Dim sum is the Chinese equivalent of a smorgasbord," he told her in a deliberately professorial voice, trying to quash the sudden playfulness between them before it edged over into outright flirting. He hadn't asked her to lunch so he could flirt with her. "It's mostly finger foods like fried shrimp toast, wontons, spring rolls, different kinds of small meatballs and all kinds of steamed dumplings from pork to shrimp to sweetened bean paste, but sometimes there are little cups of soup and stir-fried dishes," he added, encouraged to elaborate by the expression of rapt attention on her face. "It depends on what the cooks have made that day. The waiters bring it out on carts with everything in separate servings on small plates. You just point to what you want when the cart goes by and it's yours. When you're finished they count up all the little plates on your table and tell you what you owe."

"Oh, stop," Faith said, and held up her hand. "You're making me drool all over myself." The smile she turned on him was dazzling. There was no holding back, no shy little sunbeam peeking out from behind the clouds. It was pure, unadulterated sunshine, beaming down on everyone within her orbit.

When a too-cool-for-words Hollywood type with a slicked-back ponytail, Italian suit and cellular phone, stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her, Jack glared at him and reached for Faith's hand. "This way," he said, threading his fingers through hers as he led her down the street toward the tiny restaurant he'd selected.

Faith was in heaven.

This is me,
she thought, scarcely able to believe it,
Faith McCray from Pine Hollow, Georgia, walking down Westwood Boulevard in Los Angeles in the middle of a working day, holding hands with a man. A gorgeous man.
No one was looking at her crosswise. No one seemed to think it was strange or shameful. No one even noticed. And, most unbelievably of all, when the day was over and she went back to Sammie-Jo's apartment, no one would be waiting to chastise her for behaving like a wanton Jezebel.

Faith vowed she would try, very hard, not to chastise
herself.