She stopped in front of Nate and patted his arm. “How’s it going, stranger? You haven’t stopped by my office in ages.”
“Been workin’ against the clock the last coupla months. Only stopped today ‘cause I was runnin’ on fumes. By the way, pump 9 is knockin’ real bad.”
“I know. It’s on my list.” Along with a hundred other details to take care of. She tapped Nate’s polished plate and chuckled. “Sorry you didn’t like the special.”
“I couldn’t hurt Danny’s feelings now, could I? In fact, maybe I’d better have some of his peach cobbler.”
“Mmm. Aren’t you forgetting those size-forty pants you were going to fit into for Cindy’s wedding?” His daughter was getting married in three weeks. Short of liposuction, Nate was out of time.
His hopeful expression fell. “I stuck to my diet all morning. Didn’t stop for a doughnut or nothin’, you can ask Frank. He’s been tailin’ my mud flaps since San Antonio. Tell her I didn’t stop, will ya, Frank?” Nate elbowed the driver on his right, nearly knocking the smaller man off his stool.
Frank resettled his skinny rump and slanted his colleague a lethal glance. “Touch me again and Cindy’ll be wearing black to her wedding.”
“Ooh. Big talk from such a little man.”
“It ain’t the size of the dog that counts, buddy. It’s the fight
in
the dog—”
“Guys,” Mary Lou interrupted before the reference to size could turn sexual. And it would, as surely as men would be boys. “I’ll get you the cobbler, Nate, if you’ll promise to reserve a larger tux for the wedding while there’s still time. They may have to ship one in from another store location.”
Nate threw up his hands. “Forget the damn cobbler! Jeez, you’re worse than Barb. It’s not like I haven’t tried to lose weight. I have. It’s just that I’ve got this…condition.”
Mary Lou stared. Nate
never
lost his temper. “What do you mean, condition?”
Looking as if he wished he’d kept his mouth shut, Nate glanced from side to side, then leaned forward. Alarm shot through her.
“I saw a doctor in Dallas,” he confessed grimly. “There’s a problem with my stomach, Mary Lou.”
“Oh, Nate, no.”
“’Fraid so. Something called dunlop disease.”
“Dunlop disease?” She reached for his beefy forearm and squeezed. “It’s going to be okay, Nate. You’ll do what the doctor says and everything will be fine.”
Eyes cast down, he shook his head, his jowls swaying. “Ain’t nothin’ anyone can do. My belly done lopped over my belt, and that’s all there is to it.”
He raised mischievous hazel eyes an instant before he sputtered into laughter. Frank joined in.
Releasing Nate’s arm with a shove, Mary Lou felt her face heat. Gullible to the end, that’s what she was.
Still hooting, Nate pointed a stubby finger. “Got you good that time, honey, didn’t I, Frank?”
Frank met her narrowed gaze and wisely kept quiet.
Stabbing her pencil into her coiled hair, she stacked the men’s empty dishes with clattering force.
Nate sobered. “Aw hell, Mary Lou, I’m sorry for pulling your leg like that. This damn wedding is making me real mean. It’s all Barb nags me about day and night.” He rubbed at a water ring on the counter. “She expects me to be happy, ya know? But the truth is, I’ll miss Cindy somethin’ terrible.”
Mary Lou scooped up the pile of dishes. “Would you like that cobbler now?”
“Guess I’d better not.” He studied her closely and sighed. “Those cat eyes of yours are still hissing mad. I don’t blame you. I can’t expect you to understand what losing a daughter feels like.”
Her fingers slackened. Crockery hit the floor and shattered. Cursing, she lowered her knees to the black and white tiles and stared at the mess. She hadn’t dropped a dish in at least fifteen years.
“You okay?” Nate’s concerned voice drifted over her head.
“I’m fine,” she managed to croak.
“For a minute there, you turned white as a sheet. You see a ghost or somethin’?”
Did a memory qualify? “No. I’m fine,” she repeated, as much for herself as for him.
Grace rushed up, sympathy in her cluck and glee in her eyes. “Would you like me to clean that up, Ms. Denton?”
Mary Lou sent her a wry look. “No, just give Nate and Frank their checks, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Feeling as fractured as the smashed earthenware on the floor, Mary Lou struggled for composure. She’d thought her past safely buried. Yet one innocent comment had unearthed her clawing guilt.
Is she married? Is she a mother? Is she happy?
Not knowing sliced her heart. She bled as much now as thirty, twenty, ten years ago. Time had only changed the questions.
“Here you go, Ms. Denton.”
Blinking, she smoothed back her hair with trembling fingers. Irene had placed a whisk, dustpan and paper bag within reach. Mary Lou slowly began gathering broken shards. Movement flowed unchecked
around her—a stream purling around the rock suddenly dropped in its midst. At some point Nate apologized again and left. Grace announced she was going on break.
Mary Lou’s awareness returned by degrees. She dumped the last dish fragments into the paper bag and sank back on her heels. For the tenth time in as many minutes the front door jangled open.
It was him.
She didn’t question how she knew, she just did. And that scared the hell out of her. Despite her earlier thoughts to the contrary, she’d let herself care too much about someone in her life. If she needed a reminder of the consequences, the past few agonizing minutes provided ample proof.
Very quietly she eased backward until her fanny hit storage drawers. From the other side of the counter, she would be invisible.
Bustling toward the kitchen, Irene paused in midstride, her startled gaze flicking from Mary Lou to someone at the counter. Someone tall. “H-hi there, Mr. Chandler. What can I get you?”
“A Diet Coke please. No, better make that two. I’ll take one to Ms. Denton in her office.” The deep cultured voice soaked through the surrounding Texas twangs like wine through beer nuts.
Mary Lou’s pulse accelerated. The moment for revealing herself came and went.
Irene, bless her heart, never faltered. “Just let me turn this order in and I’ll get your drinks right away.”
“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
Swell. Mary Lou swallowed hard and forced herself to think. Once John headed for her office with the drinks, she’d slip out the front door and think up
an excuse later. She was simply too shaken—too vulnerable—to face her monthly meeting with the owner of Columbus Truck Stop today.
Thank God the lunch crowd had thinned. Thank God for Irene’s quick wit. Thank God Grace was lingering outside with the new driver for Valley Produce.
“Not that I’m complaining,” John said conversationally. “But worshiping at my feet might be more effective without a counter between us.”
She stopped breathing.
“The game’s up, Ms. Denton.”
Thanks a lot, God.
There was no hope for dignity. Nothing left to do. She rose slowly, her popping joints a crowning addition to her complete and utter mortification.
“How’d you know I was there?” she asked miserably, unable to meet his eyes.
A beat of silence. “I just knew.”
Her gaze snapped up. She caught her breath and stared.
John Chandler’s eyes were the color of freshground coffee, his hair a distinguished salt-and-pepper gray. His European-cut suit complemented his lean body and outdoorsman’s tan. Recently divorced and spectacularly rich, he was a debutante’s dream, a society matron’s fantasy—a truck-stop manager’s delusion. A delusion five years her junior.
His attention shifted to Irene, who hurried forward carrying two fizzing Cokes.
“Ah, thank you, Irene.” His charming smile disappeared the instant he turned back to Mary Lou.
“Shall we go to your office now, Ms. Denton?”
She noted the interested stares of nearby truckers and silently groaned. This had to be a nightmare. “Yes, of course.”
Untying her apron, she tossed it into a hamper and slipped around the counter. She sensed his intense gaze while he followed her through the diner, the adjacent minimart, the unmarked door next to the beer cooler, the short hallway sprouting several rooms on each side. By the time she reached her small office she was ready to scream from the tension.
John entered behind her and all the oxygen left her lungs. As discreetly as possible, she placed her desk between them and settled in her high-back chair.
His eyes flashed. “Feel safer now?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she bluffed, forced to dilute her advantage by craning her neck. “Please, have a seat.”
He placed the drinks on her desk, sat in the guest chair and crossed his leg with an elegance that should’ve looked sissy, but made her feel fluttery inside.
“Come on now, don’t play dumb. We both know you’re anything but. My portfolio manager says I should clone you to shore up my other weak investments.”
The compliment surprised and warmed her. She’d worked very hard to turn around a failing business and warrant this man’s faith in her.
“Why are you hiding behind four feet of wood? What’s wrong, Mary Lou?”
She wanted more than his faith, that’s what was wrong. “I think we should stick to surnames, don’t you?”
His surprisingly dark eyebrows lifted and fell. “Funny. Last month you called me John in this very office. If you insist on formality in front of the staff that’s one thing, but after two years of working together—”
“We don’t work
together.
I work for you. No, that’s not right, either. I work for your portfolio. I’m a weak investment, remember?”
His mouth quirked. “I’d hardly call you weak. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. Quite unusual for a beautiful woman, in my experience.”
Hot pleasure spilled through her veins. It was the first time he’d stepped from a traditional employer’s role, other than to brag about his college-age daughter. She reminded herself sternly he was out of her league.
“Do you take such a personal interest in all of your investments, Mr. Chandler?”
“It depends on the potential for return, Ms. Denton.”
She licked suddenly dry lips. “And what kind of return do you expect from me?”
“I
expect
nothing. I speculate that patience with you would be well rewarded in the long run.”
Oh, God. “What if you’re overestimating my abilities?”
“I don’t believe I am. I’ve given it a lot of thought.”
Her heart was thumping like diesel-pump 9. “You have?”
For an instant his eyes blazed. “Oh, yes, I have.” He lowered his lashes and tweaked the crease in his
pants. “Perhaps we should discuss this more fully over dinner tonight.”
She wanted to say yes more than anything she’d wanted in a very long time. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“You’ve got to eat, don’t you? When was the last time you had dinner in a nice restaurant?”
She smiled briefly. “I think I’m insulted.”
“Don’t be. I know how hard you work, that’s all I meant.”
What else did he know about her? “Mr. Chandler…John,” she conceded, amazed at the fierce triumph that crossed his face. “Thank you for the invitation, but I really don’t believe in mixing business and pleasure.”
His eyes widened innocently. “Did you think we would have fun? That this would be a date?” He wagged his head and hand. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’d like to discuss the quarterly profit-and-loss report if you don’t mind. And there’s an interesting treatise about the effect of religious cults on the price of oil and gas I’d like you to look at. You can take a peek over dessert if you’re a fast reader.”
By this time she was chuckling. He made her fears seem ridiculous. Still…
“You can pick the spot. What do you feel like eating? Chinese? Italian? You name it, you’ve got it.”
His boyish eagerness was irresistible. With a rush of defiance, she caved in. “Any place is fine with me—as long as it doesn’t smell like grease!”
C
ATHERINE MEASURED
coffee, poured water and started the automatic brewer in her father’s spotless white kitchen. Her new tenants had moved into the garage apartment the day before. Joe was due at nine o’clock for his “orientation” session. She’d no sooner returned from her morning swim about eight than she’d heard his Bronco back out of the driveway. Round trip, the drive to Allie’s softball camp at the Y shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes.
Father and daughter were very close from what Catherine had observed. Still, something about their relationship had nagged at her in the hours after she’d shown them the apartment. It wasn’t just that Allie called her father by his first name, although that indicated a disturbing equality between the two. No, there’d been something else. An interaction she’d recognized and responded to on a deeply personal level.
Then last night an image had crystallized in Catherine’s mind: Allie’s face, pleading with Joe to stay for the month.
The girl’s expression had been resigned, as if she’d experienced disappointment many times in her young life. She’d obviously expected her father to say no and reverse the plans they’d discussed. Yet she hadn’t been able to mask her trace of hopefulness.
Catherine paused now in the act of sponging stray coffee grounds from the counter. How well she understood the adoration, the sick disappointment, the renewed hope. In her case, she’d never been able to meet her father’s expectations. The adoration/disappointment cycle had continued until hope had finally died. The same would happen to Allie unless Joe’s pattern of behavior changed.
Glancing over her shoulder at the wall clock, Catherine winced and massaged her tender neck muscles. Curiosity didn’t always kill the cat. Sometimes it just injured.
Her tenants’ many trips up and down the apartment stairs yesterday had been clearly visible from her office window—if she twisted her head just so. When Joe had spun around unexpectedly and headed for her back kitchen door, she’d nearly sprained her ankle scrambling away from the closed miniblinds.
Foolish, really. He couldn’t possibly have seen her, despite the knowing glance he’d directed at her window.
She’d taken her sweet time answering his knock. Then wished she could slam the door on his cocky smirk. Instead, she’d invited him inside to wait while she retrieved the apartment keys he requested from her office.
Inhaling deeply, Catherine closed her eyes at the heavenly aroma of baking cinnamon rolls. The man couldn’t say her kitchen smelled like a hospital today. When Joe arrived for his lesson, every salivary gland in his mouth would activate. Just the ticket for establishing a cooperative mood. She hoped.
Humming under her breath, she set the smokedglass breakfast table and centered an arrangement of
her father’s look-but-don’t-touch hybrid tea roses. The ones Carl had scolded her for picking just last night. A shrill buzz startled the frown from her face. The cinnamon rolls!
Five minutes later she fanned all twelve on a china serving platter and drizzled them with icing. Another glance at the clock sent her rushing to the refrigerator for a glass pitcher of orange juice. Setting it on the table, she stepped back and cocked her head. There. The stage was set. Where was the leading man?
Casting a hopeful look out the window above the sink, she sighed. No Bronco in sight. Perhaps he’d stopped for gas or a newspaper.
She refolded the linen napkins and angled them this way and that. Pulled an only marginally perfect rose from the vase and tossed it in the trash. Dashed into the bathroom and freshened her lipstick.
Time passed. Wandering to her office, she opened the miniblinds and settled behind her mahogany desk where she had an unobstructed view of the driveway. What could be keeping him? She forced herself to relax and decided to pay bills. When the last envelope was sealed, she sprang up and returned to the kitchen.
Could he have been in an accident? Surely he would’ve called her by now if he could, knowing she’d expected him an hour and a half ago.
At the sound of a vehicle pulling into the driveway, she stopped pacing and ran to the window. A blue Bronco, thank God. Smoothing her black tunic T-shirt over matching leggings, she took a deep breath and reminded herself she was a professional, trained to listen before jumping to conclusions.
A large shadow blocked the kitchen door’s frosted window. Three loud knocks rattled the frame. Flinging
the door open, she noted the conspicuous absence of blood, bruises or bandages.
“You’re late,” she said, unable to keep the hard edge from her tone.
Joe looked startled, then wary. Flipping off his Astros cap, he shoved back his shaggy dark hair, resettled his cap and tugged down the bill. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Morning? Morning was one and a half hours ago, the time we agreed to start your session.” She eyed his disreputable army green tank top and gym shorts, the bits of damp grass clinging to his calves and sneakers. “Obviously something more important came up.”
Following her gaze downward, he toed off his shoes and stamped large, startlingly white bare feet. “Allie’s coach asked me to give a few pointers to the kids. Guess I lost track of time.”
His boyish shrug and crooked smile were undeniably appealing—and far too practiced to her discerning eye. Catherine had no doubt they’d served him well over the years.
“Are those cinnamon rolls I smell?” He sniffed the air and peered over her shoulder. The grin he flashed this time reflected genuine delight. “Hey, would you look at that table! This is great. I didn’t eat breakfast before I left.” Starting forward, he pulled up short when she moved to block the doorway.
“I don’t recall inviting you in.”
“Oh, yeah.” He ducked his head endearingly. “Sorry.”
Somehow she managed to hold both her ground and his expectant dark gaze without wavering.
“May I come in?” he asked finally, his voice a bit strained.
“No.”
His eyes rounded. “No?”
“No.”
He thrust out his unshaven jaw and straightened to his full height. She wondered if he always fell back on intimidation when his attempts to charm failed.
“We had an appointment,” he reminded her grimly.
“That’s right, we did. You missed it. Maybe I could’ve rearranged my schedule if you’d called about your delay. But as it is, I’ve got other things to do now.”
He braced a palm high on the door frame, his biceps swelling. “I didn’t
miss
the appointment. I was late. What’s the big deal?”
His body curved loverlike above her—powerful, dominating, smelling of new-mown grass and musky male. Her skin prickled. Only years of self-discipline enabled her to focus on his question.
“Being late shows you’re not committed to winning the bet, and that affects three lives. Mine, yours—and Allie’s. She’s a very big deal, in my opinion.”
He stepped back suddenly and turned around, staring toward the rosebushes lining the cedar fence. A mockingbird’s full-throated song rose and fell.
“I already apologized,” he muttered. “What the hell more do you want?”
She released her pent-up breath. If it had been just her future at stake she might’ve eased up. But memory of Allie’s pleading face drove Catherine on. “Turn around, Joe.”
He grew very still.
“Please.”
Shaking his head, he turned, a sorely tried man humoring the little woman.
“You didn’t lose track of time, Joe. For some reason, you wanted to be late.” The emotion in his eyes flickered so fast she almost missed it. “You were afraid,” she stated with a flash of insight.
He paled beneath his tan. “That’s crazy.”
“No. It’s a rational, valid feeling.”
“I’m not—I wasn’t afraid. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why not?”
He propped his knuckles on lean hips and snorted, as if to say,
Look at me.
She did. He stood with the easy masculine arrogance of a superb athlete, his size and physical strength undeniably impressive.
“So what are you saying?” she challenged. “That a big strong guy like you can’t be afraid? Or at least, that you shouldn’t be?” From his expression, that was exactly what he thought. She huffed softly. “Give yourself a break, macho man. Experiencing a
feeling
of weakness doesn’t make you weak. People are afraid all the time. It’s how we humans
react
to fear that makes us strong or weak.”
A light glimmered and faded in his eyes, returning as a cynical gleam. He executed a mocking bow. “Thank you, Dr. Hamilton, for clearing that up for me. I feel so much more in touch now with my feminine self. Or is it my inner child breaking free?”
“My money’s on the brat,” she said wryly. “And I’m not a practicing counselor. Yet.”
He bowed again, this time with grudging respect, and studied her a long moment. “You’re really not going to start my lessons today, are you?”
She already had, but fortunately he was oblivious. “I told you, I have other things to do. Life doesn’t revolve around your whims or convenience, no matter how much you’d like to think so.”
Supremely indifferent, he squinted up at the sun. “Beautiful day.” He slanted her a casual look. “Think I’ll drive to Galveston and check out the beach action. I can work on my tan and still make it back to the Y before softball camp is over.”
She shrugged. “Maybe. If you don’t lose track of time, that is.” Bending over, she plucked his sneakers from the flagstone patio and dangled them out from two fingertips. “The sand gets pretty hot. Wouldn’t want you to burn your feet.”
He stepped forward and snatched the shoes from her hand, his glittering stare promising retribution. She waited until he’d turned and was halfway across the patio before calling, “Oh, Joe?”
He stopped, his back muscles bunched with tension.
“We start tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp. No shoes, no proper shirt—no service. A shower wouldn’t hurt, either.”
His free hand clenched and unclenched once. Without acknowledging her in any other way, he continued on toward the apartment stairs.
Catherine closed the kitchen door and slowly walked to the table. Lifting the pitcher of orange juice from a puddle of condensation, she poured herself a glass, pinched off a piece of brittle white icing from
a cinnamon roll and popped it into her mouth. The sugary confection melted on contact.
She’d more than likely just robbed herself of a private counseling practice, Catherine realized, staring into a whorl of rose petals. Yet concern for Allie had left her no choice. Her goading remarks had been catalysts for change, necessary risks. Well, most of them, anyway. She probably should’ve resisted that last dig about the shower.
If Joe accepted the concept that his “self” and his feelings were two separate entities—and Catherine thought she’d seen a breakthrough—they could move on to exploring deeper issues. Like what motivated his fear. And why his daughter expected him to disappoint her. And of course, how a blue-collar jock could transform into a member of the beau monde in twenty-eight days.
She had no idea if Joe would even show up tomorrow after the tough stand she’d taken. Everything hinged on whether or not the seed she’d planted today would germinate. Or whether he was rooted too deep in never-never land to ever grow up.
J
OE COMBED BACK
his wet hair, turned away from the mirror and spread his arms wide. “So what d’ya think? Will she let me in the door this morning?”
Juliet blinked once from her perch on the toilet tank and let out an approving meow.
“She speaks.” Grinning, Joe sank to one knee and clasped a hand over his heart. “‘O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head, as is a wingèd messenger of heaven unto the white-upturned wond’ring eyes of
mortals…that fell—that
fall
back to…to…’ et cetera, et cetera.”
He rose, sucked in a breath and hitched up his jeans. “Yep. Playing Romeo got me more dates in high school than playing ball. Betcha didn’t know I was so talented.”
Juliet stretched her elegant black paws and yawned, her tongue pink and curled.
“Everyone’s a critic,” Joe mumbled, turning back to the mirror. He rubbed a speck of dried shaving cream from his chin, smoothed his cowlick, met his own anxious eyes—and snorted.
Unbelievable. That self-righteous stick of a woman had him worried about passing muster. Him. A guy who hadn’t been rejected since Lindy McGehee decked him for looking up her dress while she skipped rope.
Shoving his blue cambric shirttail into his jeans, he stalked into the kitchen and jerked open the refrigerator door. Juliet streaked up and wove a sensual figure eight through his legs.
“The doctor could take a lesson from you,” Joe said, knowing it was a lie.
He’d admired Catherine’s graceful way of moving from the first. In all honesty, he didn’t think she looked like a stick, either. Her tall slim body had intriguing hints of softness. And there was the rub, or rather, lack of it. Because while he’d been fighting a surprising urge to make her purr, she’d been finding him offensive.
Her crack about his taking a shower still stung.
Juliet meowed impatiently.
“All right, all right. Don’t get snippy. There’s something in here with your name on it.” He
wouldn’t even have to sneak it behind Allie’s back, since he’d already driven her to the Y.
Pulling a plastic container from the refrigerator, he popped open the lid. Juliet instantly collapsed on his cowboy boots. He looked down into rapt green eyes.
“Does Romeo know you’re this easy?”
She rolled to her back in a decadent sprawl.
Munching on a cold fish stick, Joe almost felt sorry for the big tomcat he’d let outside earlier. He dropped a second stick into Juliet’s bowl and watched the cat spring up, all trace of sultriness gone now that she’d gotten what she wanted.
“Women,” he muttered, closing the refrigerator door and washing his hands.
He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to nine. His stomach lurched. This was worse than confronting his dad after a three-error little League game. At least Big Joe’s reaction had been predictable. Joe would gladly trade hours of practice without supper for whatever awaited him this morning. Everyone knew facing unpleasantness wasn’t his style. Yet no one had
ever
accused him of being afraid.