by Nancy Warren
With a gasp, she blinked and turned away.
What was she doing? She’d been engaged for fifteen minutes and she was making eyes at one of her usual no-good types. She had to get a grip.
She walked quickly toward the department store, trying to ignore the awful itching that started deep in her belly where she could never scratch it.
She knew what this was. She understood it, recognized it, could control it.
She breathed slowly and while her mind told her to use the card she always carried in her wallet and make the emergency call, her feet didn’t falter on their way to the store.
By the time she got into the department store, her heart was doing a bump and grind in her chest and she felt like there were hot embers in the pit of her stomach.
When she entered the store, she immediately began to settle. This was her place. She loved shopping, loved everything about it. The smell of new goods, the colors exploding everywhere, the fresh fashions, trendy shoes, the purses, scarves—oh, those darling earrings—and the watches. So many watches.
Her mother could use a new watch. Her mother, who’d had so little all her life, and who was so happy that Stephanie was breaking her bad pattern and marrying a nice, steady man who didn’t drink or do drugs and had a steady job, who would be there for her.
Thinking of her mother’s delight in a new watch filled her with contentment. The green leather strap was nice. Snazzy. And the face was big, with easy-to-read numbers. But she knew her mother would want something more practical, a watch that would match many outfits.
She browsed through several, liked the one with the cream leather band the best, but maybe the gold and silver would be more versatile. Her elbow nudged a Timex so that it fell to the floor. She bent to retrieve it and when she rose again, she returned two watches to the display. The one with the cream leather band was safely in her bag.
The thrill that coursed through her was close to sexual, and the deep itch inside her began to dissipate. She headed over to the scarves and then had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. A casual glance over the Italian silk scarf she was inspecting showed that the scruffy biker guy from the escalator was checking her out.
He’d followed her.
Her breath caught. Now that he was closer, his impact on her was even stronger. His espresso eyes seemed to see all the way into her, where she didn’t want anyone seeing.
Had he noticed her slipping the watch into her bag? A badass like that—and he had badass written all over him—would think a little shoplifting was pretty juvie stuff, and it was. She lifted her chin at him. So what?
She drifted from scarves to earrings, from earrings to sunglasses. She slipped on a pair of huge, Jackie O dark glasses and as she pretended to check out her reflection, she checked out the guy. He was still there. Not following her exactly, but not leaving her vicinity either.
Now she felt the thrill of the chase, the danger of playing cat and mouse with a very large, feral, scruffy wildcat.
From the sunglasses, she moved to the makeup counter. He drifted to the men’s watches, always keeping her within sight.
She spritzed a little cologne on her wrist and was shocked at how cold it felt against her overheated skin. She browsed, vaguely wondering what pop singers, clothing designers, or novelists were supposed to know about blending scents.
A salesclerk asked if she needed help and with a polite smile, she shook her head and moved away. The Latino guy seemed absorbed in women’s purses. She was delighted to see that he was getting a lot more suspicious glances from the store clerks than she was.
There was something intoxicating about this unspoken game she and motorcycle guy were playing, but she did have to get to work. She hesitated. She was pretty sure he was more interested in hitting on her than on whether she’d paid for the items in her bag. But she wasn’t completely sure. For all she knew, he could be a new brand of store detective, one she’d never come across before.
She tried a tester of lip gloss, decided it was too pink, and reached into her bag for a tissue to wipe off the residue. When she left the counter, a watch with a cream leather band was wedged between two bottles of lavender bath oil.
She felt all the frustration of an addict denied her fix as she stalked out of the department store knowing that, on top of not getting her mother that watch, she was going to be late for work. She moved as fast as she could, feeling the heat burn within her. Her heels clacked on the ceramic tile as she hurried.
“Good decision,” a deep, lazy voice, with only the tiniest Spanish accent, said behind her.
Startled, she turned and found motorcycle boy at her heels. She didn’t bother playing innocent. She knew he wouldn’t fall for it and she didn’t feel like playing any more games. She scowled at him. “You wouldn’t know a good decision if it bit you in the ass.”
He chuckled, falling into step with her and making the pace seem slow and easy. His teeth were very white in his tanned face. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
She glanced at him. She couldn’t help herself. She had to know. “Are you a security guard?”
When he shook his head, that mess of hair swung. “No.”
“Then why were you following me?”
His gaze seared through her when their eyes met. “You know why.”
Her gaze dropped to the tiled floor. The heat between them was amazing. She’d never known anything like it. Yes, she knew why he’d followed her.
“I could give you a lift.”
Her body—her wretched, weak, always drawn to the man who was so bad for her body—wanted to crawl on the back of his motorcycle and let him take her anywhere. Everywhere. But the semblance of good sense she’d worked so hard to cultivate dragged her back from the brink.
“No thanks.”
“Okay.” He looked at her as though memorizing her features. “Take it easy.” And he headed down the very escalator she’d watched him ascend a quarter of an hour ago.
She stopped and breathed, holding on to the faint smell of leather and danger that clung to him. Then she dug out her wallet with hands that weren’t quite steady. She was already late for work; one more minute wouldn’t make a difference. And this was a call that might save her, once more, from ruining her life.
She clutched the business card to her even though she’d memorized the number long ago. And then she made the call.
Rafael Escobar didn’t like puzzles. Puzzles could get a man killed. That chica with the wide eyes and the great walk was a puzzle. As was his behavior. What had made him follow her into the store like that?
He felt like smacking himself upside the head. He knew why he’d followed her even as he didn’t want to know. He’d picked up the distress signals coming off her like cries from a sinking ship. When he’d caught her eyeing him on the escalator, he’d first noticed her brightness, the colorful clothes, the sexy attitude.
Her eyes were the eyes of a dreamer and when he looked into them he saw sex. It was crazy, but he’d felt instant chemistry, a powerful mix of heat and lust that could burn a man to cinders. But then he’d seen the mayday flares shooting out of them.
When would he ever learn? Wounded birds weren’t for him. He’d had enough—enough of doves with broken wings. He couldn’t fix them all and every time he failed, a little piece of him died.
He could tell himself to act differently next time. He still saw a wounded bird and he wanted to run to the rescue. He hadn’t fallen for one in a long time. Why this one? Why now?
Stupido.
His helmet brushed his thigh as he walked out into the blazing sunshine of the shopping center parking lot, squinting while he dug out his sunglasses. Once his eyes were shaded, he could see his buddy waiting, none too patiently, by a truck so clean it suggested its owner didn’t have enough to do, which in Rafe’s opinion was exactly the problem.
Because he could see impatience in the man’s every line, he slowed his pace, taking the time to admire a truly ex
cellent BMW Motorrad K 1200 R. He pictured himself flying down the highway, leaning into curves. In a flash he pictured that sweet-eyed woman, still wearing her skirt, because what the hell, in a fantasy nobody had to wear biking leathers. She was in her skirt, her long legs tucked around his, the dragon tattoo he’d noted on her ankle flashing green in the sun.
Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he kept walking to where Matt Tanner was standing, leaning against his too-clean truck, arms crossed over his chest. “Well?”
“I didn’t see any English chick.”
“She was talking to the long-haired gal with a small tattoo on her ankle.”
Rafe nodded. “Her, I saw. But she was alone.”
“In the food court?”
“No. I followed her into a department store. She never hooked up with any English woman.” She’d also shoplifted, which he kept to himself for reasons he didn’t entirely understand. She’d thought better of it, so she hadn’t in fact stolen anything, which made him feel okay about his silence.
“Hmm.”
“What’s up with the British chick? You know something you should be sharing with an old buddy who is still on the force?”
Matt shook his head. “No. Nothing like that. She’s my tenant, new to the States, and has a bad habit of getting involved in things that aren’t her business.”
Rafe recalled the aborted shoplifting attempt and felt a frown pull his mouth in tight. “You’re sure we’re not talking illegal activities here?”
“Not unless being nosy, interfering, and bossy is illegal.”
He snorted. “Should be.”
Because of his training and the kind of work he did, Rafe’s eyes were never still. Even as he hung out in the parking lot, his gaze was sweeping the vicinity for possible trouble. His eyes narrowed behind the glasses.
There she was, his latest wounded dove, emerging from a mall exit to the east of where he and Matt stood. She walked quickly, as though she was late for something. She’d seemed like she was in a big hurry when he left her, so how had she come out of the mall so much later than he had? Had she hit another store the minute his back was turned?
He wasn’t even on duty, and petty shoplifting wasn’t exactly his area, but it irked the hell out of him to think that she’d gone and done such a stupid thing right after he’d confronted her.
“I gotta go,” he said.
If Tanner was surprised at the abrupt departure, he didn’t let on. “Yeah. See you later. And thanks.”
“No problem,” he said over his shoulder. He was already on the move.
Rafe followed the woman on foot. He liked the way she walked in her heels, with that sway to her hips. Her hair swung from side to side, a long, rippling curtain. She might be a petty shoplifter, but it didn’t erase the fact that he had a serious weakness for long hair. Hell, from the second their gazes had connected, he’d been hooked.
She walked into a bank without a clue she’d been followed. He didn’t enter, but took up a position on the street corner where he could see inside. To his surprise, she walked through the employees-only doorway and into the back.
Sure enough, within five minutes, she was back out front and settling herself into one of the tellers’ chairs.
He wondered, with an uneasy feeling in his gut, what a thief was doing working in a bank.
Chapter 6
Deborah Beaumont didn’t have time for sex. Not this morning. She had case files to review before she saw her patients today and she had to pick up her new eyeglasses. However, Jordan Errington, her partner in work and life, was running his hand up and down her front in his usual signal and she realized it had been a long time since they’d made love.
So, she obliged, raising her shoulders so he could slip the cotton nightgown off her body, making encouraging sounds when he rubbed her breasts and when his hand slid south, parting her thighs for him. After he’d caressed her a little bit, enough that she did have a mild buzz on, he asked, “Are you ready?”
He always asked. It was sweet and thoughtful, but sometimes she wished he’d just get on with it.
“Yes,” she whispered. When he entered her, she began to move in tandem with him.
She stroked his back while she wondered whether the Petersons would have done their homework this week. If yet again they hadn’t bothered, she was going to have to suggest a different therapist. Some people didn’t seem to realize that a successful marriage required effort.
When she sensed from Jordan’s quickened movements and harsh breathing that he was approaching climax, she gave a theatrical shudder and a soft cry. He immediately followed with his own shudder and grunting sigh. Normally, of course, she wasn’t an advocate of faking orgasm, but she didn’t have the time or the enthusiasm right now. Nor did she want to discuss her feelings, which was definitely the downside of being romantically involved with a fellow therapist.
Not that they’d had time to discuss much of anything lately, with their busy practice and their book coming out. When Jordan gave her a kiss on the cheek and rolled off her, he headed for the main bathroom in her townhouse, leaving her the ensuite. She dashed into the shower, trying to make up the minutes of her day that she’d sacrificed to keeping her own relationship running smoothly.
She and Jordan kept separate homes and even though they worked side by side, rarely drove in to their downtown office together. She had her glasses to pick up, his appointments might end at a different time from hers, so, even though they were linked personally and professionally, they both respected each other’s independence. One day she suspected they’d move in together, but for now, this system worked.
The first thing she did once she reached the office was to slip on her new reading glasses and gaze lovingly at the copy of her book Perfect Communication, Perfect Love the way she’d view her own child.
The guidebook she’d co-authored with Jordan was the culmination of years of work as a counselor. She tried, in her practice and in her life, to find the order in life’s chaos. Systems that made sense.
Deborah craved order the way a different woman might crave food. She didn’t need her degrees in psychology to tell her that growing up in chaos had undermined her sense of security in self and family and so she had compensated by creating rules and guidelines. It would have been one woman’s coping mechanism if she hadn’t found those same rules successful in helping her patients cope with their problems. Especially in the area of interpersonal communications.
And in the midst of helping her patients make sense of their lives and relationships, she’d met Jordan. Sweet, reliable Jordan, whom she’d met while teaching the Transtheoretical Model of Change to other therapists. She had noticed him right away. His hair was reddish-brown and he had an intellectual face and the calmest blue eyes she’d ever seen. No turbulence tossed in their depths; looking at him was like gazing at a glassy lake, calm and clear. She somehow knew, just from a glimpse at him, that he was one of those people born with the secret of living calmly in a chaotic world.
They were a perfect match. The order she strove so consistently to maintain in her own life was effortless in his. She felt their perfection first in working together, when she’d hired him, and then as a couple when they’d moved slowly but inevitably into intimacy.
A feeling of calm stole over her every time she looked at the book with their two names on the jacket.
Everything was fine. Her system worked.
She noticed a fingerprint on the dust jacket of her book and, using the dusting cloth she kept in her bottom drawer, she carefully rubbed the surface back to a perfect gloss.
Her intercom buzzed. She checked her schedule. “The Petersons are here,” Carly said.
“Thank you.” They were right on time. She appreciated punctuality in clients.
She rose and crossed the soft blue carpet, chosen for its soothing color, and opened the door. Henrik Peterson sat stiffly, his body facing away from his wife’s, thumbs busy with his cell phone. Janine Peterson s
at beside her husband reading a magazine.
“Janine and Henrik,” she called, “please come in.”
They walked into her office, not even glancing at each other. Henrik stood back and waited for his wife to enter first, but he did it without making eye contact.
Deborah wasn’t getting a good feeling about this. They settled themselves in the seating area she’d designed to look like a living room. Gentle lighting, neutral colored armchairs. A glass and marble table.
She sank into a chair across from them with her notebook and smiled.
Mrs. Peterson smiled back at her. Henrik wore the expression of a man who had to be somewhere ten minutes ago and didn’t have time for this.
“How did we do this week?” She glanced between them. “Henrik? Would you begin?”
He stared at the glass table. “Not good.”
Silence.
“You remember your assignment from last week?”
He shifted irritably. “Yeah, yeah. Write down something about Janine that bugs me.” He shrugged. “There are so many things I didn’t know where to start.”
Making a note to talk later about why he belittled his wife, she said, “Let’s see what you wrote on your worksheet.”
She’d designed the binder system herself. The folder kept pages neat and uncreased and she had instructions and questions that could be modified for each particular client. Task sheets with nice, long areas for self-expression.
“I didn’t have time to fill out the form.”
If he thought a divorce wasn’t going to be a big waste of his precious time, he was fooling himself, but of course she didn’t allow her frustration to show. “All right. Perhaps next week you’ll have a little more time.”