“That kind of defeats my purpose.” He limped toward her and Daisy went eye to knee with his six-inch incision. Far from healed, the surgery site was still swollen, pink, and tight. With every flex of his knee, Daisy feared the skin would split open. Other than that, Max Kendall had handsome legs with just the right amount of muscular definition and an appropriate mesh of dark hairs. Neither girly nor gorilla, just good strong limbs. Or at least they would be once his knee healed.
“Not too pretty, is it?”
Daisy looked up. “I’m sure your particular brand of woman will find your scar immensely sexy. Especially if you come up with a really good story to go along with it.”
Daisy rolled over and faced the sofa back.
“Like what?”
Daisy lifted her head. “Like what . . . kind of story?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Say you got shot while working for the CIA.”
“Please. My particular brand of woman is not an idiot.”
Daisy lifted her brows at him.
“Contrary to what you want to believe.”
“Like I care,” she said, laying her head back down.
“So what kind of story would you believe?”
Daisy lifted her head again, only to discover that Max had taken a seat at the end of the bed, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. “I thought you were taking a shower.”
Max shrugged. “Are we in a hurry all of a sudden?”
Daisy gathered her sheets and sat up. “Well, judging by that T-shirt of yours—”
Max looked down at his T-shirt as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing.
“—I’d probably believe you got knifed in a bar fight over a woman in some south-of-the-border cantina.”
“Doesn’t make me sound very heroic.”
“Which is exactly why I’d believe it.”
“A few minutes ago, I was magnanimous. Now I’m chopped liver?”
“It could be sort of heroic, depending on whether the woman was married or not. So, was the woman married?”
“That’s debatable. But there was no knife. So what else might you believe?”
Daisy cocked her head at Max, who looked appealingly rumpled in his Señorita Largatija T-shirt with his uncombed hair and his morning stubble. “Okay, forget the bar. But keep the woman, only she wasn’t a lover. She was younger . . . the daughter of an old army—no, navy—buddy . . . who had gone down to . . . Acapulco . . . for spring break, but hadn’t returned. Your friend asked you to find her, because you know your way around Mexico . . .” Daisy paused. “You once ran a fishing charter there for the tourists. How am I doing so far?”
“I’m looking better and better.”
“So, did you find your friend’s daughter?”
“Ellen,” Max interjected. “That’s a good wholesome name for my friend’s daughter, right?”
“It’s your story. So . . . you found Ellen, but she had inadvertently gotten mixed up with one of the local drug lords, who had wined, dined, and romanced her into a quick marriage with a huge diamond ring, but soon after, she discovered who he was and where all the money came from and she tried to leave, and that’s when he got violent. So, long story short, you found Ellen at this guy’s villa, and you did save her, but not before you fought off a half dozen thugs and two really big Rottweilers, but one mauled your knee. In spite of that, you didn’t hurt the dogs because you’re an animal lover.”
After a moment, Max asked, “And you’d believe this story?”
“It’s possible.”
“Meaning?”
Daisy faltered, debating how much she wanted to help Max dupe his next blonde. “You wouldn’t actually use this story to get some unsuspecting woman into bed, would you?”
His laugh was immediate. Daisy realized how ridiculous her allegation was. Max Kendall’s particular brand of woman didn’t need lies to motivate her into his bed. His women were fun and adventurous and, unlike Daisy, didn’t have impossible expectations.
“I thought we were talking about you,” he said with a dying chuckle. “But if you think you’re helping the enemy . . .” With his good leg bearing the brunt of his weight, he rose from the bed. Grabbing the handles on his duffel bag, he slowly stepped toward the bathroom.
“If the lights were dim and the music soft and the wine expensive.”
Max turned at the door. “And?”
“And what?”
“I don’t believe for one second that you, Daisy, would be undermined by lights, music, and wine.”
“And . . . if I thought you were . . . special.”
“And what makes a man special?”
Daisy hesitated at the fork in her road. She could give Max an honest answer or . . . “Well, for one thing, he’s very forgiving—”
His eyes crinkled as his grin returned.
“—And he would never use all the hot water just to prove some ridiculous point.”
“I guess I’m not the only one who has trouble giving a straight answer. See you when the water runs cold.” The bathroom door clicked shut.
“And he makes me smile,” Daisy murmured, smiling.
Chapter Thirteen
“More coffee, sir?”
Max nodded and the waitress freshened his cup. The roasted aroma lingered before fading into the inviting breakfast redolence of the busy restaurant.
Max met the eyes of the young woman—probably working summers between college semesters—and acknowledged her service with a half smile. He returned to his magazine as she left his table. Finishing a page, he sipped from his coffee, then went back to his article. Ten minutes later he’d drunk half his cup and finished his third article from the magazine he’d bought on his way to the dining room. Setting the publication aside, he read the menu and set that aside, then he looked toward the entrance, again. A dozen people waited, but no Daisy Moon.
He’d been there forty-five minutes, alone for thirty minutes longer than he was supposed to be.
The waitress returned. “Do you expect your party soon, sir?”
“I wouldn’t really describe her as a party.”
“We have a number of people waiting,” the waitress continued, either not grasping Max’s joke or not thinking it funny. “Perhaps you’d like to order.”
“Perhaps I would, but I think I won’t.”
Her dark brows tipped together.
“Why don’t we give my party another fifteen minutes.”
The waitress attempted a smile, although she was obviously unhappy with the wait. Not that Max felt otherwise, but it was, after all, his and Daisy’s last meal together and he wanted to send her home on a full stomach.
Bored with his magazine, he checked out the other diners. Mostly middle-aged couples, a few families with children, and a few groups of twenty-somethings. He suspected that most passengers were eating in the less expensive cafeteria, where he would’ve been had it not been for this plastic leg of his. Not that money was the issue; Max didn’t need the frills of a restaurant, especially for breakfast. Those orange twists and parsley sprigs cost money, and who eats the garnish? Then there was the added 15 percent to get your meal from the kitchen to the table and coffee from the carafe into your cup. But, in his present situation, it was a relief not to tax his leg by standing in line and getting his own coffee. Nice, but nonetheless, frivolous.
And speaking of frivolous, there she was, being led by the hostess straight toward him. Max smiled. She smiled back. Right before she finger-combed her silky blond strands from her bronzed face—a healthy glow in contrast to the white in her snug blue-and-white striped top with its sailor collar. Her white hip-hugging capris exposed tanned calves, slender ankles, and pampered feet strapped into sandals with a wedged heel.
Nautical with a hint of naughty. Exactly Max Kendall’s particular brand of woman. Judging by the discreetly turning heads, he wasn’t alone in his attraction.
The hostess seated the blonde at a nearby table that had
a RESERVED sign. He scanned the restaurant for her escort from last night. When he couldn’t find the gentleman, his eyes drifted back to the woman, who was now talking to a very attentive waiter. Unexpectedly, they both glanced his way.
Max took this as his cue. He rose and started toward the blonde. And that’s when he saw her. Being led by the hostess straight toward him. He raised a brow at her lousy timing. She smiled, right before she brushed an errant cherry spiral from her porcelain cheek. She wore nothing to spark his fantasies—faded jeans and a light green sweater set. Just an everyday woman . . . except for that froth of curls, those kryptonite eyes, and a mind that cut him no slack.
He glanced at the blonde, then did a double take as she slowly applied cherry-red lipstick. When she looked straight at him and pursed her succulent lips, it took all his willpower to drag himself back to the table in time for Daisy’s arrival.
“Sorry I’m late.” Daisy took the chair to the left of Max’s. “Were you leaving?”
“Just getting the kinks out.” He sat down. “I’ve been here awhile.”
Daisy quickly opened her menu. She corralled her curls to one shoulder and Max caught the glint of gold dangling from her ear. The petite chandelier twinkled and winked at him and drew his attention to her sleek jaw and the soft vulnerability of her neck. Then her auburn curls fell against her skin like a curtain closing.
Daisy glanced at him. “So what are you getting?”
“What I always get. Two eggs over easy with sausage and toast.”
This time, her eyes lingered. “But there are some interesting things on the menu. The lemon soufflé pancakes, for instance. And crab cakes Benedict.”
“Sometimes I order bacon instead of sausage.”
“Don’t you ever want something different?”
“I’ve been known to make waffles the morning after.”
“Impressive.”
“I know what I like. I know what will satisfy me. It’s only food, not the Holy Grail.”
“Only food?” Daisy looked shocked. “That’s like saying it’s only air. It’s food, Max. It’s what sustains us. It’s life, it’s—”
“Look,” he interrupted, dipping his chin at her. “I’m hungry. Will you please just choose something?”
A momentary pause, then Daisy went back to the menu. Max watched as she considered the selections. A scrunch of her brow at that one, a pucker of lips at the next one . . . He could practically read her thoughts. And he didn’t read a single thought that included him . . . well, in any friendly sort of way. Unlike the blonde, who had very friendly thoughts. In fact, Daisy always seemed to be donning armor. Like this morning when he’d joked about throwing bricks. What was that about? And the way she gathered her sheet around her like she needed protection. And speaking of sheets . . . Just how many bubbles off plumb was Daisy Moon?
At least she wasn’t boring. Annoying, irritating, frustrating, yes. Boring, no.
Nonchalantly, Max looked in the direction of the blonde. The gentleman from last night had joined her. As Max watched the blonde dote on her whatever, he decided that while Daisy had idiosyncrasies—the dog food niggled at him—she was undoubtedly loyal, probably to a fault.
“Do you know her?”
Max snapped his attention to Daisy. “What?”
“I said, do you know her? Or are you just planning to know her?”
“Who?”
“Please, Max. Give me a little credit.”
Max gave her the most sincerely perplexed expression he could muster—head cocked, brows fused, eyes radiating puppy-like innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” And the hurt in his voice complemented the halo above his head.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake—or should I say for Saint Peter’s sake? I saw you watching her last night. And you’re doing it again now. As you so clearly pointed out this morning, our arrangement is strictly business—I need a ride and you need a cabin. You’re free to make any side deals you want with whomever you want. And apparently you want her.” Keeping both her composure and her dignity, Daisy stood. “I’ll leave so you can finagle her away from her . . . whatever.”
Max reached for her arm. “Please, Daisy, sit down.” From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the waitress come near their table, then stop and make an about-face. At this rate, he was never getting fed. “It’s not what you think.”
“If I want lies from a man, I have an ex who tells them in spades.”
“But you’ve got it all wrong.”
Although Max didn’t have an alternative scenario—yet—this was no time to upset Daisy, not when he was so close to getting her cabin. Regardless of how open-minded Daisy claimed to be, his being distracted by another woman probably pushed the envelope. But Max was a sucker for an easy blonde, while Daisy was the most difficult red—
His thoughts came to a screeching halt, then backed up. Did Daisy say she needs a ride?
After hemming and hawing, Daisy finally sat down. “So tell me. What do I have wrong?”
Max gave her the same innocently perplexed expression as before, only this time it was genuine. “What did you just say? I need a cabin and you need a what?”
“Quit stalling,” Daisy said, poised to spring from her chair.
“I’m not—”
She started to rise.
“I wasn’t looking at her,” Max said in a hushed tone. “I was looking at him.”
The anger melted from her face. “OhmyGod. Are you gay?”
Max jerked back. “No!”
“Well, why in the world would you be looking at him and not her?”
“I was looking at them both,” Max huffed, mentally congratulating himself for his quick thinking. “He’s the state representative from Seward. But that is definitely not his wife.”
Daisy narrowed her eyes. “Really?”
“No. I’m making it up.”
“That I believe.”
“I guess this is one of those times when a uniform would come in handy, eh?” Max might very well have dislocated a shoulder from patting himself on the back until he saw the pained expression on Daisy’s face and realized the low blow he’d struck. Suddenly there it was, in the pit of his stomach, a small knot of guilt. All because he couldn’t admit he was looking at the blonde. No. Because he couldn’t stop looking at the blonde. No. Because he wanted the blonde. And Daisy’s cabin.
This was why he never involved himself with a complicated woman!
“Daisy . . . ,” Max began, not sure what to say but willing to say almost anything to get rid of this foreign feeling.
“Y’ know what, Max? You’re absolutely right. First, your personal life is none of my business—any more than what you eat for breakfast is. And I had no right to imply you were lying. After all, why would you lie to me—it’s not like you’re trying to get me into bed.” She paused, then softly added, “I guess I’m a little sensitive about blondes.” The corners of her mouth almost lifted in a smile. Almost. “But I shouldn’t take my frustrations out on you. And from this moment on”—thumping the table with her right index finger—“I’m going to stop being defensive and critical and . . . and analytical and . . . opinionated. Instead I’m going to be—
“Bland and boring?” Max realized too late he’d spoken his thoughts.
Daisy perked, then looked at him sideways. “I thought you liked bland and boring.”
“I like easy. And that you are not. You’re critical and opinionated and a little odd—”
“If this is about the sheets—”
“The sheets, the lettuce, the dog food—” Damn, Max silently swore, regretting he’d brought up the subject.
“The dog food?”
But since he had... “I saw the can of dog food yesterday, on the bed stand . . . next to the jar of baby food.”
“Ohhhh. I can explain.”
“Unless you’re hiding a dog somewhere, I don’t want to know.”
“It’s not a dog, it’s a—”
&nbs
p; His hand shot up. “Sometimes it’s better not to know too much about a person.”
“Max, you’re being ridiculous. I have a perfectly legitimate reason—”
“Look, Daisy, I’m sure you can make anything taste good, but I don’t want to know about it. We’re just two ships passing. And there’s a lawsuit between us, remember? It’s better if we keep it . . . superficial. So, please, don’t tell me about the dog food.”
Daisy stared at Max. Max stared at Daisy. Then, without a word, Daisy returned her attention to the menu.
Not only was the knot still there, it had grown, like a ball of string you kept adding to. He took a breath, feeling very nearly desperate. “I think you’re . . . interesting.”
She lifted her eyes from the menu.
“Annoying, yes, critical, opinionated, and odd, but interesting. You can’t change who you are. Which was what I was trying to say before we got off on the dog food.”
Her green eyes softened but still harbored something indiscernible, while the corners of her mouth lifted slightly. “I have a turtle. A western box turtle. Her name is Elizabeth. Which is why I have the dog food and the baby food and why I was begging your lettuce and tomatoes. So I’m not as odd as you think.”
Max stared. “You have a turtle? And you named her . . .”
“Elizabeth.”
“And you brought her with you?”
“I’ve had her since I was twelve,” she answered defensively.
He slowly shook his head. “Daisy, you are as odd as I think.”
“What’s so odd about having a turtle?”
“Name one other adult who has a turtle.” He didn’t know what pets, if any, the women passing through his bed had. In fact, until he visited Tina’s condo, he hadn’t known she had a cat.
“Jiminy Christmas, Elizabeth’s a turtle, not a platypus. So what if I don’t know anyone else who has a turtle? It’s not like you have to take care of her. Why is this a big deal?”
Because it was one more piece of the Daisy Moon puzzle he didn’t want to have. Because he’d unwittingly flashed on Daisy as a twelve-year-old—with scraped knees and pigtails. And the notion that, for twenty-plus years, this woman next to him had been hauling around a turtle, was somehow endearing, if not inspiring. Loyalty like that didn’t come around that often. All of which made Max feel like racing to the nearest exit . . . or marrying her on the spot.
Spooning Daisy Page 11