She recovered fast. “I set it aside for you. Fits your personality, wouldn’t you say?” She held out the hat and patch.
After a moment’s hesitation, Derek took them. He slid the elastic around his head until the patch covered his left eye, then adjusted the hat. The rakish effect emphasized the strong lines of his face and the humorous quirk of his mouth.
He studied his reflection in a mirror mounted on the display. “Maybe I should wear it to the auction.”
“Your fan club will love it,” Marta agreed.
“Don’t have one.”
“Sure you do,” she invented. “Derek’s Damsels. Their website is full of throbbing hearts and smoochy noises.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” With a smile, he removed the getup. “Not quite my style. Pirates are supposed to be have dark hair. I’m sure it’s in the rule book.”
“There’s a rule book for pirates?”
“Hollywood pirates.” He returned the costume pieces.
While stowing them, Marta recalled her earlier curiosity. “Who’s that couple in the lobby?”
“Armand Saroyan and his wife. He’s my vet.” He browsed the display of chocolate bars.
“You have pets?” He’d never mentioned one.
“No.” Derek examined a caramel bar. “I occasionally pick up strays in need of assistance.”
Marta didn’t associate such a task with the community relations office. “Isn’t that Animal Control’s responsibility?”
“I do it on my own time.” Choosing two bars, he paid with a ten-dollar bill. “I’m not entirely superficial, you know.”
Marta went behind the register to make change. “I never thought you were!”
“Most people do.” Wryly, he added, “I guess I encourage them.”
“You do project that image.” Through his suave veneer, Marta occasionally glimpsed a deeper, troubled soul, which was partly what drew her to him. “Underneath, you’re complex.”
“Sounds as if you’ve performed an analysis.” He leaned against the counter. “Why so curious?”
Risky territory. “I’m interested in what makes people tick,” Marta generalized. “And I get the sense that something’s worrying you.”
He remained silent. To allow him space, she opened a small box of puzzles that had arrived that morning and busied herself affixing price tags.
“Okay, here’s the problem,” Derek announced at last. “Joel’s planning to flaunt his stuff tomorrow night. Not exactly a stripper act, but close. He’s inspired the other guys into competing for the highest bid.”
“Beefcake isn’t your style.” Derek didn’t have to work at being sexy, although Marta would duct-tape her mouth shut before she’d say so.
“Exactly. So—” He halted.
Marta quit fussing with the merchandise. “Derek.”
“Yes?”
“Finish your sentence.”
“Which sentence?” His forehead furrowed.
“The one in which you ask my advice,” she explained. “I gather your pride demands that you win this little contest.”
“Sure, I’d like to,” he responded with an edge of irritation. “I don’t see what that has to do with pride.”
“Talk nice to me or I’ll throw you out on your ear,” she threatened.
A killer dent appeared in one cheek. “You’re a powerhouse when you let rip, Marta. You ought to show that side of yourself more often.”
She’d actually impressed him. Was that the key to winning a man’s heart—talking tough? The tactic had worked for Connie, who’d bossed Hale for years into fixing her plumbing and hauling groceries. Of course, he’d gladly complied because he was secretly in love with her, an advantage she didn’t have with Derek.
If he preferred assertiveness, she’d provide it. “Okay, I’m showing it now. If you’d like me to groom you for tomorrow night, say so.”
Derek regarded her approvingly. “I hadn’t figured out that that’s what I wanted, but you’re on target. I need advice on how to knock a roomful of women off their chairs without sacrificing my dignity.”
If a female friend had sought her counsel, Marta knew how she’d reply. She resolved to treat Derek the same way. “You have to choose the right image. I’d better drop by your place and sort through your closet.”
“Okay,” he replied. “What time are you free?”
He’d agreed! Marta could hardly believe it. “I get off at six.”
“Let’s say, my place around seven.” He scribbled the address on the back of a business card. Marta recognized the location as a condo development on the west side of town.
“I’ll be there.” She kept her tone casual. No big deal. Just a couple of friends hanging.
“Until then. And thanks.” With an easy wave, Derek ambled off.
Marta felt like a teenager who’d received a rock star’s autograph. Better yet, an invitation to the star’s private quarters.
This isn’t a date, you idiot. He asked you to help him bowl over women so he can score more points than his buddies. And to raise money for the center, she noted more charitably.
Well, she was up for that. Marta, the newly assertive best friend to Villazon’s killer hunk.
Not the role she would have chosen, but a definite step forward.
*
The alarm on Derek’s watch buzzed soon after he arrived home that evening. He hated the computerized device with its multiple alarm settings, although his friends considered it cool. To him, it served as an electronic jailer and a reminder of circumstances he’d rather forget.
The doctor had changed his dosage twice, seeking optimal results and as few side effects as possible. Currently, Derek had to swallow a pill three times a day. Mercifully, the initial nausea had passed and his symptoms hadn’t worsened.
They hadn’t entirely disappeared, either. Stiffness in his legs. A recurrent tremor in his hand. Fortunately, there’d been no repetition of an episode last year when, under stress due to a heavy load of investigations, Derek had endured severe shaking for several agonizing seconds. He’d been alone in his car—parked, thank heaven—and had recovered quickly. But after months spent ignoring small problems, that incident had forced him to seek medical attention.
A pinched nerve or deep muscle strain, he’d assumed. He’d gone for a checkup, expecting to be told he needed a week’s vacation or, at worst, surgery.
When a raft of tests had failed to yield definitive results, the primary-care physician had sent him to a neurologist. After a brief examination, the man had delivered the news. He’d spoken calmly and sympathetically, assuring Derek that he could lead a relatively normal life and that research offered hope.
Despite the kindness, the man might as well have smacked Derek with a baseball bat. The diagnosis had roared into his brain like a 747 landing with reverse thrusters, obliterating all other thoughts.
Parkinson’s disease.
Origin unknown. Might be genetic, or the result of exposure to environmental toxins, or something else as yet unidentified, the neurologist had said. The disease involved the deterioration of nerve cells that produced an essential brain chemical called dopamine. The short version: the loss had begun to affect Derek’s ability to control physical movement. Sooner or later, he was sure to deteriorate.
A life sentence with no cure. He’d never again be simply Derek Reed, a guy who skied and played soccer and, at a last-minute suggestion from a friend, felt free to throw a change of underwear into a pack and go camping.
He’d always have to be careful. Swallow the meds on schedule. Monitor his activities to prevent exhaustion or strain. Otherwise, the doctor had warned, the shaking or other acute symptoms might disable him for a long spell.
In his teens, Derek had felt invulnerable. After he became a police officer, the risks of his profession hadn’t daunted him. To remain fit and strong, he’d exercised with weights. He’d known he might fall during a confrontation with a criminal, but he’d never expected trea
son from within. The discovery enraged him.
He’d kept his condition secret from all but the department’s top management and meant to continue doing so. He refused to invite one iota of sympathy or, worse, pity.
As for his personal life, the diagnosis had initially sent Derek on a quest to live full out. His tendency to enjoy the moment while avoiding entanglements had emerged as a mission to confirm that he was still here and in charge of his fate.
That phase had ended abruptly after an embarrassing episode in which he’d failed to perform sexually, either as a result of the illness or as a side effect of the medication. Since then, Derek had avoided intimacy. He wasn’t abandoning sex; he just hadn’t figured out what to do about it yet.
This bachelor auction didn’t bother him because he intended to leave the winning lady untouched, except perhaps for a goodnight kiss. Neither he nor any of the other guys was for sale in that sense.
What did bother him, as he’d told Marta, was the prospect of occupying center stage during the bidding. He nursed a deeper fear than merely drawing a low bid; it was fear of stumbling, or trembling, or otherwise revealing his symptoms in a context where he couldn’t disguise them. To be unmasked in front of the world was the stuff of nightmares, even for a seasoned cop.
The pill went down like a lump of coal. Derek waited long enough to let his empty stomach absorb it, then microwaved a frozen dinner. Afterward, he toured the lower floor of his condo in a search of compromising material, tucking away an article on Parkinson’s research that he’d printed from the Internet.
He wished now that he hadn’t bought a two-story unit, but five years ago he’d fallen in love with the view of surrounding hills. The stairs didn’t pose a serious obstacle so far, though, and he could install a chairlift if his condition worsened.
When it worsened. Maybe not for fifteen or twenty years, the doctor had said. But barring a medical breakthrough, the disease would run its inexorable course.
Derek returned his focus to the surroundings. The decorator had furnished the place in neutral colors and utilitarian materials, as requested. Hardwood floors, clean lines—easy to maintain and uncluttered.
Funny thing about women. Five minutes after he got involved with one, she tried to personalize the place, scattering fashion magazines, buying candles, that sort of thing. Why couldn’t they understand that he liked empty space?
Since he had a few minutes to spare, Derek flipped through an agenda for the next city council meeting, searching for items that concerned the police. He and the chief always attended the sessions as a precaution, since even if nothing appeared on the agenda, you never could tell what issue an audience member might raise.
He stayed alert to the flow of traffic outside, listening for the rumble of a car pulling into the condo lot. Marta had arrived at the rehearsal dinner in an aging and rather noisy compact on which she claimed to have replaced all the major parts. “That makes it practically new,” she’d kidded.
Into Derek’s thoughts flashed an image of her stepmother strutting through the reception wearing thousands of dollars in jewelry. Hard to picture a father behaving so callously toward his only child.
Despite what she’d endured, Marta maintained an upbeat attitude. Visiting with her provided Derek with welcome relief from his dark moods.
The doorbell startled him. How had he missed the thrum of her car?
Marta waited on the porch, holding a large red shopping bag that bore the name Connie’s Curios. The porch light brought out the brightness in her face.
“Hi!” She sounded breathless. “Lemme in. My arm’s falling off.”
Derek moved aside. In a deep-pink blouse and jeans that emphasized her curves, she softened the sharp edges of the decor merely by entering.
“What’ve you got there?” He relieved her of the bag and peered inside. The crown of a hat peeked through tissue paper.
“Props.” Marta dropped her purse to the floor. “I wasn’t sure what we’d find in your wardrobe, so I borrowed a selection from Connie’s shop. She has more stock than I do.”
“I’ll reimburse any cost,” he promised.
“You only need to pay for what you keep. The rest goes back.” She indicated the kitchen, divided from the main room by an eat-in peninsula. “Okay if I pour myself a glass of water? I walked from her shop rather than drove. It’s only a couple of blocks and I figured the condo development might be chintzy about guest parking.”
That explained why he hadn’t heard her arrival. “Go right ahead.”
He should have offered her a drink, Derek realized, but she’d already breezed past him, boosted herself against the rim of the counter and fetched a glass from overhead. He hadn’t noticed before how high the cabinets were.
“There’s bottled water in the fridge.” Belatedly, he started in her wake. “Let me get that for you.”
She filled her glass from the tap. “I’m not fussy.” She took a deep gulp.
“Your rehab paid off,” he told her. “The walk here doesn’t seem to have fazed you.”
She set the glass in the sink. “I had to be in shape to return to school. Have you visited the Cal State Fullerton campus lately? It’s huge.”
“I graduated from Long Beach.” That was another of several California State University campuses in the greater Los Angeles area. “You have how many semesters left?”
“Technically only three. Since I can’t carry a full load, it’ll take years,” she admitted. “Then a year of education classes, plus student teaching. By the time I earn my credentials, I’ll be ancient. Say, about your age.”
He chuckled, accustomed to the friendly jibes. A few weeks ago, when a woman had tried to pick him up in full view of the hospital gift shop, Marta had waited until the lady left and then cracked, “I’ll bet you remind the poor dear of her beloved grandfather.”
She didn’t spare herself, either. He hadn’t forgotten how, after congratulating him on his promotion to sergeant a couple of years ago, she’d indicated her scars and remarked, “I earned my stripes, too.”
“Must be hard to put in the hours studying,” he said. “You have a busy schedule.” Work, volunteering and, although she’d never mentioned a boyfriend, a woman as effervescent as Marta must snare plenty of dates, too.
“I love it. I can hardly wait to stand in front of a classroom. I’d give up sleeping if that would help me graduate sooner.”
Or you could shame that father of yours into spending half the money on you that he wastes on his wife’s finery. Then you could study full-time. Derek withheld the comment. He was the last person to lecture anyone about dealing with family, considering his prickly relationship with his parents.
Before he registered her intention, Marta grabbed the shopping bag and started up the stairs. “Let’s poke into that closet and see what we can do,” she announced as she climbed.
When he straightened the condo, Derek had forgotten she’d planned to dig through his clothes. He strained to recall if he’d left any incriminating evidence in sight upstairs.
Probably. He did a lot of reading related to his condition. Yet, short of yanking Marta off the stairs, he had no way to stop her.
She’d already reached the second-floor landing. Sucking in a deep breath, he followed.
Chapter Three
Marta’s friends accused her—admiringly—of having a lot of nerve. She’d possessed the brass to co-found a homework center even though she hadn’t finished college, and she’d taken the initiative to stock the gift shop with new merchandise based on her personal taste. Overall, she’d racked up enough successes to impress Connie.
Barreling up to a man’s bedroom, especially Derek’s bedroom, without waiting for permission took guts, but inhaling his masculine scent had filled her with yearning from the moment she entered the condo. Either she treated him with her usual lighthearted bluster or he might start to intimidate her.
Should she reveal so much as a hint of her feelings, Marta would never
dare to face him again. In the short run, acting pushy took less fortitude.
Which is why she arrived alone at the top of the stairs. From the landing, she peered out a window that overlooked the center of the complex, which had beautiful landscaping, a pool and a clubhouse. Marta doubted she’d ever be able to afford anything this plush, but homeownership in pricey Southern California wasn’t what mattered most. A person had to keep her priorities straight. Otherwise she might abandon the difficult path leading to the career she desired.
Behind her, Derek strolled up the stairs in leisurely fashion. Since he seemed relaxed about her intrusion, Marta kept going. Thank goodness for the chance to collect her wits and recover from the impact of seeing the man in a black T-shirt and snug-fitting denims.
Traversing the hallway, she glanced into two bedrooms, one containing a desk and file cabinet, the other appointed with exercise equipment. Buying such a large place might have been simply a wise financial investment—or it might signal a nesting instinct.
Derek with a baby in his arms. Giving horsey rides to a toddler. Dancing an anniversary waltz with his wife. She’d be tall and slender, an elegant woman like he usually dated.
I’ll be fine with it. I’ve got my own plans.
As for children, one of Marta’s greatest fears after awakening in the hospital had been that her injuries might preclude childbearing. Mercifully, they did not. Although she doubted she’d ever meet another man as exciting as Derek, she didn’t need to marry a fantasy. Someone dependable, kind and loving would suit her fine.
At the end of the hall, she found the master bedroom furnished with the same simplicity as the living room: a hardwood floor, a king-size bed and a Scandinavian-style bureau. No trace of feminine slippers or lingerie lying about. Did that indicate he wasn’t involved with anyone, or simply that he was tidy?
Embarrassed by the direction of her thoughts, Marta glanced at the sprinkling of magazines atop an end table. Medical journals, she noted with interest. She’d read a lot of those during her rehab. She flipped open the top journal and scanned the table of contents. Avian influenza…Parkinson’s disease…new approaches to trauma. Presumably, that related to the abuse-prevention program. Good for Derek, searching for ways to help others.
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