It was a testing kiss, all too brief, achingly gentle. But enough to send a flood of longing through her so fierce she shuddered.
"Aw, hell," he muttered as though he had just made a terrible mistake. But before she had time to recoil in hurt, he had somehow propped his crutches against the car and was pulling her against him. His body exuded heat, and his mouth, though that of an experienced man now, was just as eager and persuasive as she remembered.
No! she thought, stiffening. Instantly, he pulled away, his grip easing, as though he'd sensed her flash of fear.
"I've been wanting to do that since last night," he muttered, his voice rough. "Now maybe I can concentrate on something else."
His words seared her, arousing pleasure and triumph and hunger. Strong, unruly emotions that frightened her. Emotions she refused to feel again.
She took a deep breath and waited for the oxygen to calm her. "Don't do that again," she ordered, her voice cold and calm, even though her heart was pounding in her throat and her skin felt hot.
"He really hurt you, didn't he? Tracy's dad?"
"Yes," she said calmly. "He did."
Averting her gaze, she opened the car door and slipped inside. By the time he'd gotten himself around the car and into his seat with his crutches stowed in the back, she'd regained her composure.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She took a long, cleansing breath. "Yes, of course. Why shouldn't I be?"
His mouth quirked. "Well, for one thing, you haven't buckled your seat belt. Oregon law, remember?" he said, reaching over his shoulder for his own belt.
Carly felt foolish and off center, two feelings she abhorred. "Thanks for the reminder."
"Always willing to assist a lady," he drawled as he started the Jag, then waited while she finished securing her belt before applying the gas.
He was a good driver, handling the manual controls deftly as though he'd never driven any other way. "Which way?" he asked when they reached the T at the end of her lane.
"Left to the center of campus, and then right at the statue of Artemus. That'll take you all the way into Bradenton Falls."
"Gotcha."
They hardly spoke on the drive into town. On the way she pointed out Marca's house and told him a little of Marca's history. He commented on the quiet and contrasted the darkened road to the omnipresent lights on most California highways.
"Take the second right," she said when they reached the main street. "It's the last building on the left, the one with the green awning in front."
Gallagher's on Pine had a reputation for offering man-size steaks Cajun style at a decent price. The parking lot was packed. Only two places were available, both posted with the distinctive blue sign. Scanlon slowed, then swung a fast right into the closer space.
"The guy at the DMV where I got the handicapped plates kept telling me how I'd lucked out," he said when he caught her quick glance. "No more circling for a place to park like all you ordinary folks."
"Lucky you," she said before she thought.
He grinned, but his eyes held an instant of pain. "Yeah, ain't that the truth."
While he got himself out of the car, Carly gave herself a short pep talk. About kisses, mainly. Drugging, dangerous kisses. Of course he'd come on to her. It was his pattern, wasn't it? The way he'd run his life. One big party, a string of one-night stands interspersed with TV interviews and talk show appearances. What was one more woman in one more town? Nothing, that's what. No more than a diversion. An antidote for boredom. A convenient receptacle for his sexual release. It was all so easy for him.
Or was it?
Glancing sideways, she saw that he'd pushed himself to his feet and was reaching behind the seat for his crutches. How could anything possibly be easy for him now? a tiny voice questioned.
The answer was obvious. It wasn't.
But that didn't mean he deserved to be forgiven for what he'd done, she told herself firmly as he came around to open her door. For the first time in seventeen years, however, the anger that she had always summoned so easily whenever she thought of that night in the desert refused to ignite.
Chapter 6
« ^ »
The scrape of silverware on china and the low hum of voices greeted them as they walked into the cozy restaurant. Placards from the various plays put on by the college over the years lined one paneled wall, while insignia from the fraternities and sororities lined another.
It was a lively crowd, and most of the tables were filled. Carly grabbed two menus from the stack near the door, explaining as she scanned the darkened interior, "Gallagher's is 'seat yourself' if you can find an empty space."
"Looks like that might be a problem," Mitch told her, pulling a folded handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe the sweat from his brow.
"Hmm, there's a booth, near the back."
She led, conscious of the startled looks that came their way. Several faculty members spoke or waved as they passed, and Carly saw the sudden glint of recognition in the eyes of others.
By the time they reached the booth and she'd slipped into the red vinyl seat, she knew that Mitch Scanlon's presence in Bradenton would be the subject of many conversations over morning coffee, both in town and on campus.
Mitch had to work at it, but he managed to get himself seated opposite her with a minimum of fuss. "Interesting place," he said, stowing his crutches under the table. "Smells spicy, like this little bar and grill I used to like in New Orleans."
"That's probably because the owner, Mick Gallagher, is from Louisiana."
He lifted one eyebrow. "Sounds more Boston than New Orleans."
"Mick's mother was Cajun and not quite five feet tall, but a real disciplinarian. He told me once that she used to swat him and his brothers with a frying pan when they didn't behave."
Glancing up, she saw a strange, almost haunted, look cross Mitch's face before he grinned her way. "Must have been interesting growing up in that household."
"Yes. I'm always fascinated by big families."
He absorbed that thoughtfully. "How'd he end up here?"
"His wife is an Oregon native. She was a navy nurse, which is how they met. Mick was working shore patrol, got beaned by a beer bottle, and swears he fell in love with her the minute she told him to stop moaning and take his 'stitching up' like a man. When Mick retired, she talked him into giving Oregon a year. They've been here six."
Carly unfolded the oversize cloth napkin and carefully spread it over her thighs. Though the booth was tucked into a dark corner, she couldn't fail to notice the curious looks coming their way.
Gallagher's blue eyes held a hint of that same curiosity as he barreled over to take their order. A giant of a man, with an unruly thatch of dark red hair and a booming laugh, he and his wife, Doreen, had six kids, all grown now, and four foster children of varying ages and physical disabilities, two of whom were currently attending Bradenton on full scholarships. Only Carly and the financial aid officer knew that she personally was paying the bills.
"Soup de jour is barley rice, only between you and me, I wouldn't recommend it," Mick informed them in his gravel-voiced version of a whisper. "Stuff's bad for the digestion, but the missus makes me put it on the menu. Claims it helps keep a person's arteries unclogged, or some such."
"Last year it was oat bran," Carly informed Mitch somberly before tuning to study the list of specials on the chalkboard over the bar.
"Dorrie damn near had me putting it in the whiskey," Mick groused.
Carly grinned. "Be honest, Mick. Dorrie's not quite that bad."
"Well, almost." Grinning self-consciously, the big Irishman pulled a pad from the pocket of his spotlessly clean white apron with one hand while retrieving a pencil from behind his right ear with the other.
"What can I bring you?"
"Blackened T-bone, rare, thickest one you got, and a double order of French fries," Carly said with a hint of defiance in her voice.
Gallagher regarded her approvingly. "Dorrie wan
ted to rip out the deep fryer, too, but I put my foot down," he grumbled as he scribbled on his pad.
Chuckling appreciatively, Mitch ordered the same and a glass of burgundy.
"Good choice, Mr. Scanlon, and by the way, welcome to Gallagher's. Me and my boys have been fans for years."
So much for anonymity, Carly thought with a silent groan as Gallagher cocked an eyebrow her way. "You want the usual to drink?"
She nodded. "Double lime."
"Comin' right up." Gallagher lumbered to the bar, returning immediately with the drinks before disappearing into the kitchen with their dinner order.
Mitch tasted the wine and found it surprisingly smooth. "Come here often?" he asked, watching her stir her mineral water. She seemed as much at home in this no frills place as she did in the manor house on the hill. It was a knack he'd noticed in others who were secure in themselves and their birthright. Mongrel bastards like him would never have that inner serenity, no matter how successful they became.
"Not often, no." She lifted the glass to her lips and sipped. Watching, he felt desire take hold and swell. "The last time we were celebrating Tracy's birthday. Since the year she turned four, I've allowed her to pick the place where she wanted to have her party. This year she picked Gallagher's because of the band."
Mitch glanced around. In one corner of the room a couple of long-haired rockers were setting up their equipment. "She must like metal."
"I'm afraid so." The soft smile flirting with her lips spread into a rueful grin. "I had a headache for a week afterward. Fortunately, the music isn't generally quite that earsplitting." She watched a couple of students walking past arm in arm before returning to the rapt study of her drink. "Tracy got a little carried away making requests, and in her opinion, the louder and more jarring, the better."
Mitch grinned. "She must have liked growing up here. Since she's not going away to college, I mean."
"Actually, we lived in Providence until she was nine. I was on the faculty at Brown."
Mitch took another sip and decided it fit—upper-class school, upper-class lady.
"And then you moved back here?"
She nodded, and the overhead light was trapped for an instant in her hair, turning it a lush velvet brown. "To become Dean of Women. My father had had a series of small strokes and let it be known that he expected me to return."
Mitch shifted, tried to get comfortable. "Did you always do what your father expected of you?"
"No, not always," she said in a curiously flat voice that spiked his interest. He waited, but it was clear from the sudden compression of her lips that she intended to say nothing more.
"I've always wondered what it would be like to live in a small town," he said, leaning back. Because he had secrets of his own too painful to share, he respected her need to keep hers. "As a kid I used to read stories about Norman Rockwell communities where people left their doors unlocked and the keys in their cars." His mouth slanted. "It never seemed real to me. Where I grew up, there were a saloon and a couple of working girls on every corner."
Carly acknowledged that with a brief smile. She knew the bare bones of Scanlon's impoverished childhood, but not the details. "Things have changed in the last few years, but basically Bradenton's exactly like one of those Rockwell paintings. At Christmas the youth choir from the Community Church goes caroling door to door, and every Easter, local civic groups take turns hiding eggs for the kids in Centennial Park."
"What, no drive-by shootings or gang warfare?"
"Not yet, but we do have far too many cases of spousal and child abuse. And, of course, problems relating to alcohol and drug use."
"By the students?"
She drew a breath. "Even though we hit pretty heavy on the problems caused by substance abuse during freshman orientation, we invariably have that about twenty percent who don't listen."
"How about you, Dr. Alderson? Were you one of those twenty percent when you were a coed?"
Though she knew he was teasing, Carly felt her blood turn cold. "I've only been drunk once in my life," she said evenly. "It wasn't a pleasant experience."
"It rarely is." Mitch took another sip and thought about the first time he'd gotten drunk. He'd been six and thirsty. The kitchen tap had been broken, so he'd done what he'd seen his mother do countless times and downed an entire can of beer. Deathly sick for two days, he'd sworn he would never drink beer again. But he had, too many times to count. The last time had been the worst.
He moved restlessly, suddenly uncomfortable at the memory of that week in the desert, and let his fingers toy with the stem of his wineglass.
"This is just a guess, but I have a hunch your last coach, Parisi, didn't work real hard at enforcing training rules."
Carly was taken by surprise. "Why do you say that?" she asked, leaning forward slightly to hear his answer over the rising noise level. The movement of her breasts beneath the black linen drew his gaze for an instant, sending a subtle shiver of awareness skittering through her.
"Higher than average absentee rate for Monday practice. My guess is a third of the team was hung over."
She sat back, watching his eyes. They stayed level on hers, with only a hint of a smile lurking in their golden depths. "What about you, Mr. Scanlon? If you were coach, would you enforce the training rules?"
"Absolutely." His mouth slanted. "You look surprised."
"I am surprised. From all I've heard about the great Mitch Scanlon, following rules seems out of character for you."
"I've broken my share, and every time, the team paid the price. Turned out I hated losing more than I liked going my own way."
Settling back in his seat, he let his gaze wander. As far as he could see, every table was taken, and several couples were hovering hopefully in the small foyer. By the time Gallagher came out of the kitchen with their order in hand, the band was starting to tune up. Mitch hoped there were no young people in the crowd tonight with Tracy's taste in music.
"Here you go, folks. Still sizzlin' and guaranteed to curl your toes or your money back." The burly Irishman braced the huge tray on the edge of the table and proceeded to deal out plates with the deftness of a Vegas cardsharper.
"What else can I get you?" he asked when the tray was empty.
"Catsup and another mineral water would work fine for me," Carly said, already cutting into her steak.
"Rare enough for you?" Gallagher asked when blood oozed onto the plate.
"Perfect," Carly all but cooed. "You get my vote for chef of the year."
Gallagher grinned. "I'll tell Dorrie you said so."
Mitch followed her example and took a bite. It was just hot enough to tease his tongue and spicy enough to bring tears to his eyes. He told himself it was just as good as sex and almost believed it. He finished first and pushed his plate away.
"Mr. Scanlon?" The kid who seemed to appear from nowhere was about ten, with a Charlie Brown awkwardness about him, and big blue eyes filled with hero-worship. The Raiders T-shirt he was wearing was two sizes too big and faded nearly to gray.
"How's it going, son?"
The boy fumbled with the napkin in his hand. "Uh, my dad, he said not to bother you when you were eating."
"I appreciate that."
"Yeah, well, since you're done now, I mean, is it okay … can I have your autograph?"
Mitch smiled. "It would be my pleasure."
"Killer!"
Grinning from ear to ear, the boy handed over the napkin. "It's clean. I borrowed it from an empty table."
"You didn't happen to borrow a pen, too, did you?"
Looking stricken, the boy shot a fast glance over his shoulder. "Uh, maybe, my dad—"
"I have a pen," Carly said, leaning forward to place it next to the crumpled napkin.
"Thanks." Picking up the pen, Mitch wondered how many autographs he'd signed over the years. Hundreds? Thousands? A lot, anyway. Somehow, though, he'd never gotten over the thrill of being asked.
"What's your name,
son?"
"Kenny."
"Good name for a quarterback." The spark in the boy's eyes told him he'd guessed right. Grinning, Mitch scrawled a personalized message and signed his name. "Here you go, Ken."
The boy took it as though it were gold. "Uh, could you do another one for my brother Jimmy? He's real sick and can't get out anymore."
"Sounds rough. What's wrong with him?"
A sad look passed over the boy's face. "He has cancer. It's in his back now, and he can't sit up anymore, so my mom stayed home with him, but I know he'd be real upset if I came home with just an autograph for me and not one for him."
"I think you're right." Mitch started to ask Gallagher for another napkin, then thought better of it. Leaning forward, he hooked his wallet from his back pocket and extracted a grubby scrap of yellow notebook paper.
Carly saw his face change and wondered what was written on that much-handled piece of paper. Tempted to lean forward to peek, she took a sip of water instead and watched Scanlon turn it over and scrawl his name.
"Got this when I was about your age. I like to think this brought me luck when I needed it. Maybe it'll help your brother."
"Whose name is on the back?" Ken asked, turning it over, but before Scanlon could answer, the boy's head shot up. "Did Johnny Unitas really sign this?"
"He really did."
"Wow!" Ken stared at the faded signature with awe. "Jimmy's gonna split a gut when he sees this."
"You tell him to hang in there, okay?"
"I sure will." The boy's face changed, and his eyes fell. "And I'm real sorry you got crippled like it showed on TV."
"Yeah, so am I." He reached up to ruffle the boy's hair. "Keep rooting for the Raiders, okay?"
"You bet." Still grinning, the boy carried his prizes back to the table, where he showed both to his father, jabbering excitedly. The man's head came up, and his smile was shaky as he gave Mitch a thumbs-up.
Carly felt her throat tighten. "That was very generous of you," she murmured when Scanlon returned her pen.
He moved his shoulders. "Seems wrong somehow that they pay guys like me big bucks to play a kid's game, and scientists who really do some good have to beg for money." His mouth took on a mocking twist. "And before you say it, yeah, I took the money."
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