He rubbed his thumb down her neck and quietly, so it sounded like he was speaking to himself, he said, “You’re so pretty when you don’t move…when I can get a good look at you.”
“Oh,” she said, his compliment and the thumb thing robbing her of vocabulary.
“Usually, you’re a whirling dervish.” His thumbs traced her jaw line, somehow easing the last bit of tension out of her legs. “Immobile, you are gorgeous…so I kissed you.”
She forced herself to focus on protecting Senator Johnson. “Although I appreciate the compliments, my sense is your passion of the moment was more about a big story than about me. Even as I’m thinking about closing my file on Cliff Barker, you’re itching to start an Internet search on him.”
Immediately, his hands slid to her shoulders. Good, she’d shifted his attention to Barker. But she also felt a palpable loss of his attention, his warmth. She realized her house at night was as cold as a refrigerator, the only heat coming from the man standing in front of her.
She wasn’t attracted to Roman, she decided. True, his warmth had appeal, but only in contrast to her empty home. Why, as soon as she furnished her house, cozying it up, she wouldn’t need Roman anymore. Stepping away from him, she turned to make the coffee. “Why don’t you watch how I do it so you can make the next pot? I’ll bet you haven’t eaten, either, so I’ll make some sandwiches. Ham okay?”
When he didn’t answer, she turned to see him staring at her, clearly poised to say or do more. Roman took the coffeepot from her, rinsed it, filled it, and dumped water in the reservoir. Shoving the pot in place with a click, he said, “I wheedled some information out of the General about Frank.”
She sighed as she ground the coffee, surprised by the turn of conversation. How would her father describe Frank? Surely the General would be discreet.
Lining up the ham, cheese, bread and mayo behind two plates, she fought for calm. The idea of Roman digging into her past got her blood boiling. “And now you’ve formed an opinion of Frank, all neatly archetyped the way you’ve pegged me.”
She could sense his presence behind her, close enough so she felt his heat while she worked on the cold granite countertop. Consciously moving away from the comfort he offered, she pulled up close to the granite and slapped thick rounds of ham and cheddar cheese on slices of wheat bread.
When Roman took a long time to answer, she assumed her words had hit a nerve. Good. Praying he wouldn’t dare comment on her relationship with Frank, she turned to the refrigerator for lettuce. She kept her eyes on Roman’s chest, her forward motion enough to let him know he needed to move away from the refrigerator door.
He stepped aside. “I don’t make rash judgments, Jazz.”
Jan raised an eyebrow at his nickname for her but didn’t comment, instead ducking her head and opening the vegetable bin.
To her back he said, “You forget it’s my job to thoroughly research a subject before I write my script. I’m the last person who’d jump to conclusions about Frank. If he’s been your roommate for twelve years, I’m sure he’s a nice guy. Some of my best friends are lobbyists.”
She washed the lettuce, shook off the water and ignored his sarcasm. “‘Roommate’ is my dad’s word choice.”
“You’re not wearing a ring.”
“Longtime partner and friend. That’s Frank. But he’s staying in Seattle.” She walked to her bedroom and let the dog out. “Guard your ankles, Roman,” she warned. When Elwood stayed close to her as she returned to the kitchen, she said, “Good dog. No biting.” Elwood looked up at her, seeming to question her judgment. She noticed his mug was brown with dirt. “You are one dirty, stinky guy. Tomorrow, you get a bath and I figure out how to brush your teeth. Get ready.”
Once she’d leashed Elwood and settled him in his bed by the couch, she anchored the loop of the leash to the sofa leg. “Not that we don’t trust you, Short Stuff,” she said.
While she washed her hands in the kitchen sink, Jan glanced in the direction of the spare bedroom where Roman’s blow-up bed lay forlornly on the floor. Green. She’d buy dark green bed tables to match the green armoire in the spare bedroom. Slim lamps with ebony bases.
While images of her new bedroom free-flowed in her mind, words came tumbling out of her mouth. “I’m thinking of living here. With Elwood, who needs a yard. Close to my dad. For all his bluster, he’s lonesome, a man I hardly know.” The idea of giving up on Seattle surprised her, but the relief she felt melted tension out of her shoulders. She looked across the counter at the almost empty living room, using her knife, laden with mayonnaise, as her pointer. “All the furniture in the Seattle condo is Frank’s. Antiques, mostly,” she said. “I’ll go for comfy modern in this house. Warm colors, easy care stuff. Maybe I will ask Bella to help me.”
Jan delivered her last words to the sandwiches, still open-faced. When Roman set a mustard bottle in front of her, she smiled her thanks. Squirting a circle of mustard on her sandwich, she pointed to his. “More than that?”
“Double, if you please. I like the zing,” he said as he moved in, his hands cupping her shoulders.
Elwood grumbled, reminding Jan what she’d learned about the man. Roman had admitted to his own ruthlessness at getting to the bottom of things. She’d seen him in action. Elwood didn’t trust him, nor did her father. His smoothness came with green-eyed lust.
Frank was safe.
Roman was dangerous.
She should probably settle for someone in between.
She flipped the sandwiches together and whirled around the kitchen, cleaning up. “Go to your room, Roman. I’m not worthy of a documentary, so stop scrutinizing my life. Enough already with the softening tactics persuading me to stay close to the Barker story. Go ahead and spend your energy on Barker, though I’ll bet you don’t find a thing. After that, analyze Senator Johnson. For once, take the long view. Be fair to him.”
Roman looked miffed when he took his sandwich from her. “Of course I will. But remember, I’m not the one who called him ‘Johnson the Lobbyist.’ And lots of folks scratched their heads over the Navy base he got built in Everett at a time when the government was closing bases right and left. I don’t make up this stuff, Jazz.”
She pursed her lips. “All I ask is for you to spend as much time studying the good that he did for the state and the country, which includes lobbying and the Navy base.”
As he strode to the bedroom, he threw back, “I’ll be fair. You know I will.”
Watching him walk away, she was puzzled by his effect on her. Hard as she’d tried to control the conversation, she’d lost it. He’d brought up the topics of Frank, Senator Johnson, and the kiss, all surprises to her.
She’d wanted to pull his attention away from the Senator by enticing him with Cliff Barker’s secrets, but she wasn’t sure she’d accomplished her goal.
Tess Barker’s pained expression returned to haunt Jan. The woman had looked inept when she’d thrust her knife at Jan, but if Tess had had a gun in her hand, pulling its trigger would take no skill at all. By holding onto the Barker job she might distract Roman from the Senator Johnson script but Tess would continue to think of Jan and the General as threats.
She remembered the bushes moving in the back yard. Had she seen a shadow, too?
Chapter Nine
In Jan’s spare bedroom, deathly quiet and free of distractions, Roman screamed through Internet articles and biographies on Senator Harold M. Johnson. Shirtless and barefoot, dressed only in jeans, he let the warm night air blow through the patio door to keep him alert. He enjoyed scripting the juicy controversies about the Senator, raging since his death in 1983; even more, Roman drew energy from the fact that Jan was trying to stall him on the project.
The issue over where to place Johnson’s bust was a complex debate, a vital part of Roman’s documentary. He planned how his cameraman would show the room the bust occupied now as well as its new proposed location on the grounds outside the Johnson Institute. He’d outlined how emoti
onal the debate had become over the positioning of this particular statue.
Jan was right. By digging into dozens of old newspaper archives, Roman had learned that Johnson’s bust was relegated to a tiny room in the building because of 70’s politics. In those days, students and faculty alike had argued that too many dead white men’s busts dotted the campus. “Where are the statues of black leaders and women?” they’d complained. Now that the campus was graced with statues of men and women representing many races, Johnson’s bust had a chance to see the light of day.
Yet some still wanted Johnson out of sight because of his politics. The Senator’s support of internment camps in World War II and his hawkish attitude on international affairs offended many.
Don’t stereotype or label, Roman. Define “hawk,” for Johnson, specifically.
Roman grimaced, recognizing his grandfather’s familiar voice pushing through his subconscious. A look around the room verified for Roman he was alone. Still, he smiled at the idea his dead grandfather would forever be commenting on his work.
Find out why he supported the internment camps, came a feminine voice. Jan’s? He rubbed his eyes, then surveyed the room again. Empty.
Fine. Now he had two critics in his head. One dead, the other sleeping in the next room.
He mushed on. By two in the morning with his script on Johnson drafted and an Internet search on Cliff Barker underway, Roman realized the critics on his shoulders were a minor problem compared to a looming dilemma. The thing was, while he worked, he drank coffee to keep himself awake. Yet every time he refilled his coffee, he had to walk near Jan’s sleeping form.
On his first couple of passes, he didn’t look at her, trying to be polite. The third time he tiptoed to the coffeepot, he heard her soft, even breathing and figured she was deeply asleep.
He had the urge to wake her up and ask questions about both Johnson and Cliff Barker. What was in her folder that he might be able to use? Who was speaking at Barker’s memorial? Who wasn’t invited?
Eyeing the folder sitting on her desk, he wished he had the nerve to filch it. But he’d wait until morning to ask not only to see it, but also to encourage her to keep Madeline Barker as a client. If he stayed on Jan’s good side, he might get closer to the Barker story than if he worked on his own.
No, if he wanted to impress Jan Solvang, he had to show her he had manners. He wouldn’t touch the folder until she gave it to him. Funny how he’d made up his mind it was wrong to read the contents of the Barker folder but it was okay to watch her while she slept.
Why not look at her? What harm could come of it? He’d told Jan her stillness turned him on so she’d expect him to look at her in repose, wouldn’t she? Frankly, he was amazed she could fall asleep on the sofa knowing he’d probably peek at her sleeping body each time he refilled his cup or took a leak.
Look all you want, she must be saying. After all, you’ve seen me faint.
Hell, she’d chosen to sleep on a couch for six months instead of buying a bed. She’d left the light on in the kitchen, as well. Apparently she had no worries about being on display.
He took a sip of the coffee he’d poured from a fresh batch, ignoring her sleeping form, wrestling with his conscience. It wasn’t his fault that her stillness turned him on. Nor was it hers. Dammit, he’d look at her and get his fill.
He about-faced to observe her, the kitchen counter a barrier between them. A chaperone.
Wishing the shutters were open so he could pretend he was looking out the window, he took another sip of his coffee, feigning contemplativeness. He felt foolish, like a randy teenager trying to sneak looks up girls’ skirts by standing under the high school bleachers.
Get it over with. Take a good look at her and march back to work. One gaze. Enough to carry him through the next couple hours of work.
Determined, he stepped around the counter and stared at her.
Damn.
She slept like a sprawling angel in shiny blue pajamas, her sheet draped haphazardly over her torso, legs and feet unbound, so slim and tanned against the white sheet. Mouth closed and a hint of a smile on her face, she slept as if she kept a secret he needed to discover. He’d only seen a handful of women asleep, but clearly Jan was a top ten model of a woman in repose.
Yup, he liked his women tranquil.
****
No breakfast, no shower, no make-up.
Jan bolted out her front door and breathed in the morning air, giddy with a feeling of freedom. Today she wouldn’t hassle with dragging Elwood around the golf course; she’d walk on her own, leaving the dog in the yard and Roman in her spare bedroom. The guy was probably sound asleep after pulling a late-nighter. When she’d looked at her clock at 2 a.m., his bedroom light was still on, the murder of Senator Johnson’s reputation moving apace.
No ruminating about Roman allowed. She’d enjoy the morning walk unfettered.
She trotted up Cypress Crest Parkway, let herself out the main gate and headed for the quiet, shaded coolness of El Campo Road. With so little traffic, the street was ideal for a brisk walk; a perfect place to clear her brain. Towering Eucalyptus trees lined El Campo, long-limbed spectators rendered mute by the still air. Good. Jan wanted no noise this sunny day; the harangues from inside her head were loud enough, thank you very much.
You’re a chicken if you drop Barker.
But Dad doesn’t want to have anything to do with the family. Why not cancel the contract?
Because the threat of Tess Barker reminds you of the guy who stalked you in Seattle, even if they aren’t the same.
A threat is a threat. My life was in danger, for God’s sake.
Tess isn’t going to hurt you and you know it. She was begging for help in stopping the memorial. Anyone could see that.
Roman did.
But you’ve decided not to trust him.
He wants the story.
Don’t you?
Feeling lightheaded, Jan stopped next to Cypress Crest’s sixteenth green. She bent over and took in deep breaths, thinking her fast pace, the lack of food in her system and the conundrums in her brain created an unhealthy cocktail.
The sound of a motor interrupted her self-flagellation.
Stand up so you don’t look like a wuss.
She raised her head slowly, eyeing a black motorcycle coming her way, engine screaming.
So much for quietude.
She watched the noisy thing come her way, wishing she’d chosen to walk on the other side of the road. But no, Jan followed the rule of walking toward the traffic. That meant the motorcycle would come barreling past her, close enough to make her ears ache.
The vehicle slowed in the distance, seeming to honor her concerns. The rider was dressed in black, his identity obscured by a full helmet and face protection.
Must be lost. Looking for Highway One, probably. She considered ways to steer him in the right direction. At the same time she glanced to her right and left, judging where she might run if she were in danger. No luck. The empty golf course, holes sixteen and seventeen, fenced from the public, ranged on her right. On her left, a wide fescue-bound border led up to fenced-in, inaccessible homes.
I’m alone here.
She shivered in the shadows of the big Eucalyptus trees while she waited for the motorcyclist’s next move.
Give me traffic. I want cars, other walkers. Anybody.
Jan fast-walked toward the all-black rider, chin up and purposeful even while she scanned the ground for a stick to wield or a rock to throw. Each footfall sent a shockwave to her skull and her brain buzzed with anxiety. The pain in her knee reminded her she was in no shape to run.
A stalker. Tess. Now this.
The rider revved his motor but kept one foot on the road.
She contemplated stepping off the road, but that would mean she’d have to pick her way through heavy fescue.
Another rev of the motor. A threat?
Jan kept walking, now fifty yards away from him.
A third
rev-up and he came at her, straight at her.
She gasped, put her hand to her heart and got ready to jump.
****
Jan woke abruptly from a dead sleep. “Damn!” she said, raising her head from the cushion to note the time and to survey the room. “I dozed.” When events of the early morning hit her like a shotgun blast, she reclined on the couch, already spent. She touched the bump near her eyebrow and drew her index finger over her scraped cheek. On her lap sat the plastic bag of ice she’d held to her forehead off and on for the last hour. An image of the black rider and his motorcycle screaming toward her made her pull in a breath, but it was the faint dream, another crying episode, that worried her the most. This time, she’d listened hard to the pitch of the voices, and heard children sobbing, not adults.
Shivering, she threw her robe over her T-shirt and shorts and thought about how much she needed hot coffee.
Go. Get it.
Roman had left some in the thermos for her last night. Perfect. She went about making a new pot, nuked the cup she’d scavenged and headed to the patio to be warmed by the sun as well as the hot coffee.
The sound of the cell phone ringing from its charger on the kitchen counter had her turning on her heel and lunging for it.
Who would call her this early?
Frank. She noted the incoming phone number. Yes. Frank.
“Morning,” he said.
“Same. You at work?”
“Yup, starting. You?”
“Slept in a little. In my robe, heading for the patio. First sip of coffee.”
“It’ll take a full cup before you write your to-do list for the day,” he said, his voice kind.
She remembered what she’d told Roman yesterday about her plans to stay in California. How would she tell Frank? And when? Forget confiding with him about the motorcycle thing. Ever.
Roman emerged from the spare bedroom, jeans on, shirtless and barefoot, looking sleepy-eyed and rumpled, a wrinkle from the pillow etched on his cheek like a pirate’s scar. Dangerous. He glanced at her, then did a double-take when he saw her face. He was at her side in a second, pushing her hair back gently to view her injuries, so focused and so concerned, that he didn’t seem to care who she was talking to. And the warmth he exuded…she had the urge to snuggle next to him while she finished her call.
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