Wild Child

by Suzanne Forster

  “I’ve got some things to do.”

  “Blake!” She sounded worried. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “I know exactly what I’m doing,” he said, more to himself than to her. And for the first time in two days, he did. Linda had reminded him of something that had happened on the dock. A question Cat D’Angelo had asked in her soft, desperate voice. What do you want from me?

  He hadn’t answered her then. Now he could because he knew exactly what he wanted from her. It wasn’t a burning desire, it was a burning certainty.

  “Lemme try it again!” Bumper squealed as he tucked his prized German agate marble, a gift from Cat, into the crook of his index finger and flicked it with his thumb. His “aggie” missed the circle altogether and clinked against a Ginger Bear “glassie” in the stockpile that Cat had accumulated.

  He beamed up at Cat. “Howuzzat?” he asked.

  “You’re getting close. Bumper, mighty close.”

  Cat turned and winked at Johnny, who was sitting on the steps of the center, watching them both with the amused superiority of a teenager who’d long ago forsaken marbles, aggies or otherwise, for the more manly pursuits.

  “You must never discount the game of marbles,” Cat told Bumper soberly. “It’s a metaphor for life.”

  “Megafore?”

  “Close, Bumper,” Johnny said, “myyyyytee close.”

  Cat shot Johnny a look. “It’s a figure of speech,” she told Bumper. “For instance, if we said Johnny Drescher’s a hockey puck, that would be a metaphor.”

  Bumper pointed at the teenager and howled. “He is a hockey puck!”

  “Oh, yeah,” Johnny countered good-naturedly, “well, put this in your metaphor pipe and smoke it. Cat D’Angelo walks like a turkey swims.” He pointed at Cat’s black-and-blue toe, which had turned out to be sprained rather than broken.

  “That’s a simile, Johnny . . . sort of.”

  “Whatever.” Johnny sprawled against the steps, grinning, while Bumper dissolved in gales of laughter.

  Cat’s little English lesson prompted a great many more metaphors and similes before she could get the two boys calmed down and back to the business of marbles. In fact, she was so busy refereeing the free-for-all, she didn’t see the blue Corvette that pulled up across the street and parked.

  “Johnny Drescher’s a dirty germ!” Bumper squealed, rolling and clutching his sides.

  The youngster was obviously getting punchy, Cat realized, wishing she’d never started the “metaphor” game. She held up one of her own aggies as an enticement. “One more shot, okay, Bumper? Just one more? How ’bout it?”

  They all glanced up as Blake Wheeler strode down the driveway toward them, his hair wind-tossed and golden, his coat thrown carelessly over his shoulders. He certainly had mastered the casual look, Cat thought. He looked almost poetically disheveled.

  “Who’s he?” Bumper asked.

  “Mr. Wheeler is the district attorney,” Cat said.

  “Wheeler’s a hockey puck!” Bumper exploded.

  Even Cat chuckled at that one as she struggled to her feet.

  “Interesting mouth on that kid,” Blake said, coming up to them. He glanced from Bumper’s giggling antics to Cat. “What are you training here, gag writers?”

  “Can I help you?” Cat kept her voice cool and professional. Besides the fact that he looked a bit stressed—and she had something to prove—there were two formative young minds watching.

  “Let’s talk. Cat,” he said, wasting no words. “I mean actually talk this time.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m tutoring these boys.” And I’d rather rollerskate down Main Street naked on the Fourth of July than be alone with you again!

  “Tutoring them in marbles?”

  “Marbles are a megafore for life,” Bumper said.

  Blake snuck him a smile and turned back to Cat. “You can’t take five minutes?” he asked her, raking a hand through his tousled hair.

  Cat shook her head and realized she was enjoying this. Cameron Bay’s DA looked positively antsy.

  “Five minutes,” he pressed. “It’s important.”

  “Shoot for it,” Johnny Drescher broke in. He sauntered over to them and scooped up a marble. “If Cat can hit this with an eye-drop,” he said, addressing the challenge to Blake, “you clear out. If she can’t, you got five minutes to talk.”

  Cat was about to remind Johnny of his manners, but Blake didn’t seem to mind in the least. He rubbed his chin with the look of a shrewd, if faintly desperate, strategist, and considered Johnny’s marble. “ ‘Eye-drop’?”

  Johnny placed his marble on the ground and drew a line in front of it. “She stands here and drops her aggie from five feet minimum.”

  Blake snorted and shook his head. “Never gonna happen.”

  Cat blanched. He thought she couldn’t hit an eyedrop at five feet? “Wait a minute, wait a minute!” she said, refusing to be drawn into the competitive male posturing. “This is not the way adults solve a dispute.”

  “Yeah? How do adults solve a dispute?” Johnny asked.

  Aware of Johnny’s skepticism and Bumper’s innocent gaze, Cat was determined to demonstrate the spirit of cooperation in action. “Mr. Wheeler and I will compromise. We’ll talk. For two and a half minutes.” Her smile said, see, even the most antagonistic adults can find common ground. “How does that sound, Mr. Wheeler?”

  He smiled back at her, a shade too amused. “Works for me.”

  She resisted the urge to smack him one as she realized he’d gotten exactly what he wanted. “Johnny,” she said, “why don’t you walk Bumper home? Would you do that?”

  The boys wandered off, Bumper’s voice trailing back. “Aw shoot,” he said to the older boy, “I thought they were going to have a fight, didn’t you, Johnny?”

  At least Blake had the decency to wait until the kids were out of earshot before he made reference to the marble on the ground. “Couldn’t hit it with a bowling ball,” he said.

  Cat bristled. “At five feet? In my sleep.”

  A moment later, her deadeye reputation at stake, she positioned herself over the target. With her biggest marble, a Bumboozer, poised like a bomb between her thumb and forefinger, she closed one eye and took a steadying breath. She was zeroing in on the target like submarine sonar when her injured toe protested. Pain shot through her foot. Wincing, she released the Bumboozer. Too soon!

  She squeezed her eyes shut and moaned.

  Blake’s howl of surprise jolted her. When she opened her eyes, the target marble was spinning madly down the driveway. She’d struck gold!

  “How’d you do that?” he demanded.

  Barely able to conceal her triumph, she smiled at him and shrugged, a woman to be reckoned with. “Let’s talk,” she said. “You’ve got two and a half minutes, and the clock is ticking.”

  They ended up in the backyard of the center where a small orchard of apple trees was in blossom and hummingbirds hovered breathlessly at feeders.

  “What was so important?” she asked him.

  “Two days ago, on the dock—”

  Cat turned away, her chest suddenly tight. “I’d rather not talk about that.”

  “You asked me a question,” he said, “and I didn’t answer it. I want to now.” He exhaled and the hesitation took on a sudden, stunning intimacy. “You asked me what I wanted from you.”

  Cat may have wanted an answer then, but she most definitely did not want one now. “I take the question back.”

  “Cat, we’re not playing marbles now.” He reached out and smoothed an errant wisp of her hair into place. “Let me tell you what I want.”

  Cat braced herself as though for a blow.

  “The annual Chamber of Commerce picnic? It’s this Sunday. Will you go with me?”

  “Picnic . . . ?” She whirled and gaped at him, astonished.

  Seven

  “HMMM...” CAT PRES
SED her lips together, deliberating as she scrutinized her outfit in the mirror. The dotted Swiss sundress was one of her favorites, but it was probably too dressy for a picnic with horseshoes and watermelon wedges and troops of marauding ants.

  She began rummaging through her closet again and came out with seersucker shorts and a matching halter top that had a fifties, Betty Grableish look. This might work, she thought, reaching behind her to unzip the sundress. She stopped as her fingers touched the zipper and sighed tautly, almost laughing. She had no idea why she’d been trying on clothes all morning as though she were actually going to the picnic. She most definitely wasn’t.

  She’d called Blake’s office the day after he’d asked her and left a message with his secretary that she couldn’t make it. After deliberating all night, she’d finally decided that she just couldn’t “date” Blake Wheeler. There was too much unresolved between them—professional issues, personal feelings.

  Gwen had argued with her, but finally, when it was clear that Cat couldn’t be budged, Gwen had conceded with a suggestion that Cat ought to put in an appearance at the picnic even if she didn’t go with Blake. “It’s your chance to reintroduce yourself,” she’d insisted. “You’re going to have to let the town know you’re back eventually, dear. You can’t hang out here at the center forever.”

  But Cat wasn’t any more ready for reintroductions than she was for dates. She wasn’t going, with Blake or otherwise. Her phone message to his secretary ought to have put the issue out of her mind, but it hadn’t. Quite the opposite, she’d caught herself daydreaming about the picnic frequently, even planning for it.

  The shorts outfit, once she had it on, looked stunning. The flared cut of the shorts lengthened her already long legs and smoothed the lines of her midriff, while the halter top accentuated the soft curves that swelled above it. She even let her hair down and shook it full and thick with her hands. When she was done, the mirror gave her a solid nine. “Whew,” she said, breathing the next word that came to mind, “sexy.”

  She turned away to take the outfit off, then glanced over her shoulder at the mirror and caught her own wry smile. “You’re going to the damn picnic, aren’t you, D’Angelo?”

  The annual Chamber of Commerce picnic was an event that brought the citizenry out en masse. With the exceptions of the Snowflake Charity Ball at Christmas and the Art Foundation dinner, it was the most festive occasion of the year.

  Cat knew the day was going to be something of an emotional ordeal as soon as she caught a whiff of Bessie’s Broasted Chicken. Bessie’s was a local cafe that provided the food, and the rich, spicy aroma of their spit-broiled chicken filled her nostrils as she pulled her convertible into the parking lot of Mariner’s Park.

  A smile touched her lips as she walked through the evergreens to the picnic area. She could hear the clinks of tossed horseshoes in the near distance, and the laughter of the players. It had been her dad’s favorite game. In those days the Wheeler mill had sponsored the picnic and the highlights had included log-rolling contests on the bay, tree-topping, and ax-throwing. A kind of sadness tugged at Cat as she thought about how much she’d loved the picnic as a child. She’d counted days the whole year.

  Bessie’s had supplied all the food in those days, too, and now, as Cat approached the “mess tent,” she was tantalized by the delicious smells. Whole chickens turned over huge barbecue pits and crocks of potato salad cooled in ice chests. Beer and soda pop flowed from spigots, and coffee simmered in stainless steel urns. Aromas mixed and mingled—corn on the cob, wild blackberry pie, and barrels of briny dill pickles. The sights and smells were heavenly, and for Cat, pure nostalgia.

  She found herself looking for Blake as she wandered through the picnic grounds. Mariner’s was the most beautiful park in Cameron Bay. Its rolling green belts were dotted with rustic picnic tables, and beyond the picnic area a steamy waterfall fed into a cascading white-water river. There were swarms of people everywhere, some in obvious family groupings, some paired with friends or sweethearts, but she saw no sign of a tall, impossibly handsome DA with roughly the appearance of a sun god.

  A baseball game was going strong in the park’s diamond as she approached. Cameron Bay and its sister city across the sound were vying for some kind of championship, according to a sign posted on the announcer’s booth. The fans were so boisterous, Cat decided to hang around for a while and watch.

  A roar went up as the next batter came to the plate. He pulled off his cap and shook his golden hair free, and Cat saw immediately the reason for all the commotion. Blake Wheeler acknowledged the crowd’s screams with a quick wave before combing back the sexy tumble of hair with his hands and replacing the cap. His features went taut with concentration as he picked out a bat and readied himself for the task at hand.

  Cat watched with avid fascination and some surprise. This was a side of Blake she hadn’t known existed. She’d never thought of him as a team player. Must be good for the political image, she decided, and then tweaked herself for being cynical. He looked sincere enough. In fact, he looked downright single-minded.

  He tested his bat with a couple of swings while the crowd went wild. They obviously loved him, and Cat could see why. He was something to behold out there on the field. She was struck by his physical presence, and though she’d never been one to dwell on the details of male anatomy, she was dwelling now. His hands she’d noticed before. Good hands, big. But his shoulders were something, too, wide and powerful, muscles rippling through gray cotton jersey as he test-swung the bat. Given the nature of his work, Cat had always credited him with analytical savvy, but she’d never thought of him in terms of physical prowess. She would from now on, undoubtedly.

  As he knocked the dirt from his cleats and positioned himself at the plate, Cat heard female wolf whistles. She smiled at their enthusiasm and at that moment probably even shared it. Giving in to an irresistible impulse, she let her eyes brush over the length of him—and regretted it instantly. He was built big everywhere it counted, and where it didn’t count, he was narrow and breathtakingly solid. Jersey pants encased his thighs, and from where Cat was standing, she could see they were hugging the rest of him as well. Of course the crowd loved him. His sex appeal was blinding, and yet he seemed to symbolize everything good and strong and rugged about the sport. That is the magic of Blake Wheeler, she decided. He gave them boy-next-door and lusty male sexuality all wrapped up in one package.

  The bat-testing ritual over, Blake nodded to the pitcher and bent forward, poised to smash one out of the park. The slight shifting of his hips was a reflex, but it nearly wrecked Cat’s heart. Not a bump and grind exactly, but the movement was wildly sensual nonetheless. She found herself fixated, waiting for him to do it again.

  The crack of his bat brought her back to the game. She was just in time to see him blast the ball into left field. It was a powerful line drive that scorched the short stop’s glove as he flung himself at the ball and missed it.

  Blake surged toward first base, rigid muscles now fluidly in motion. He rounded the bag, his face taut as he gauged his chances, made a decision, and sprinted for second. He dove just as the second baseman leapt in the air to catch the ball.

  Blake disappeared in a cloud of flying dust, and the crowd went nuts. The baseman overextended, a split-second miscalculation that caused the ball to ricochet off the heel of his glove. He hit the ground off-balance, flailing and cursing.

  Blake materialized out of the dust storm, sprinting for third. The crowd roared. The scrambling second baseman got his hands on the ball and jack-knifed it to third.

  As the third baseman ran out for the throw, his eyes fixed on the ball, he made the fatal error of veering into the path of an oncoming tornado. Blake hit the man like a semi without brakes. The collision was bone crunching. Both men went down.

  Cat heard herself gasp with the crowd.

  She ran to the Cyclone fence and called Blake’s name, unable to see him as the other players crowded around. Cat cl
ung to the steel chain links, waiting for the sound of sirens as the security guards mobilized to keep the spectators off the field.

  Finally the cluster parted, and she could see that

  Blake was standing. He was roughed up and his jersey was torn, but he seemed to be in one piece as he dusted himself off and grinned. He obviously hadn’t heard her calling him over the noise of the crowd. She was almost as grateful for that as for the fact that he wasn’t hurt. The third baseman appeared then, shaken, but still intact. The onlookers whistled and howled and generally created pandemonium.

  A moment later, the game announcer risked his life when he gave the crowd the bad news. Blake had been thrown out at third. The booing, hissing, and foot-stomping that resulted was thunderous. Blake did his best to calm the furor, but the mood was explosive. Finally he grabbed the coach’s bullhorn and climbed the Cyclone fence, calling out to the stands, “We can still win! Hang ’em high!”

  It was the team’s battle cry, and it worked. The noise leveled off momentarily, then the cheer went up: “Hang ’em high!”

  Cat yelled right along with them. The fervor had caught her, stirring her blood until she felt as rowdy and electrified as the crowd. “Hang ’em high!” she shouted, jumping up and down, her voice cracking. That’s when it hit her what she was doing.

  Much to her relief no one seemed to have spotted her, including the wounded warrior who was hanging on the fence less than ten feet away. He was the antithesis of the ruthless courtroom lawyer she remembered. He looked dog tired, was sheened with sweat, and a huge smudge of dirt decorated his jaw.

  If I didn’t know who he was, she thought, smiling ruefully, I’d be in love.

  He noticed her as he jumped down to the ground. He didn’t say anything. He just stared at her as though he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. That was when she saw that his lip was bleeding, just a little. His lower lip. She could discern a tiny, jagged rent in its fullness and a slash of crimson that made her throat tighten.

  She touched her own lips automatically, and her neck went hot as fire. What was she doing?