Forbidden Stranger

by Marilyn Pappano

  Then she led him into the bedroom. Dancer, who’d been trotting along, brushed past and leaped onto the bed, settling into a depression that was roughly her shape. “Awful, isn’t it?”

  That was a polite description. For starters, the room was dark. Even after she’d turned on all three lamps, it remained dim. She’d stripped the doors and trim, and the nearest wall was down to bare Sheetrock, with clumps of adhesive and occasional scrape marks showing that neither the paper nor the wall had given up easily.

  The paper remaining on the other walls may have once been flowers on a tan background, but years had aged the paper and the tan was now a nasty shade of brown and the flowers looking half-past dead.

  “I went through brown, white, black and a really interesting shade of turquoise paint to get to bare wood,” she commented. “There was a turquoise area rug, too. It was definitely the ugliest thing in the house.”

  “And you’re putting wallpaper back up in here?”

  “I’m thinking about it. There are places where the paper refuses to come off without damaging the drywall. New paper will cover that up. Paint means I repair or replace.”

  “Yeah, but wallpaper. Reminds me of my grandmothers’ and my aunts’ houses. You know, fussy, prim places.” He looked at her, leaning against an oak dresser that showed signs of age. The mirror behind her reflected the straight line of her back, the bend of her elbows, the curve of her fingers as they curled over the edge of the dresser on each side of her hips. And her hips…Thank God for hips.

  “Well, God forbid that I come off as a prim, fussy person. But repairing drywall does tip the scale in that direction.”

  “My brother, Russ, can show you how.”

  She waved him away. “I know how. I’ve stripped paper from every room in this house. It’s just tedious. So is mudding and taping new drywall. That’s why I’m leaning toward wallpaper.”

  “Pricey wallpaper.”

  “Hmm. Pale stripes with a wisteria border. I love wisteria. There was a huge vine growing in the oak beside our house when I was a kid and while they were in bloom they were the first thing I saw when I woke up.”

  Rick got the impression she didn’t have too many pleasant childhood memories to draw on. Growing up poor, then having her father’s devastating accident. He hoped the company Mr. Nelson had worked for had done right by him and his family, but it didn’t sound as if they had.

  Finally, he moved farther into the room, going to lean against the dresser at the opposite end. As he turned, he saw a faded photograph tucked into the corner between the mirror and its frame. He pulled it loose and studied it. A sunny day, a pretty woman, a nice-looking guy, the woman holding a Bible in the crook of her arm. On the other side of the man, holding his hand, was Amanda. There was no mistaking those copper curls. She wore a sundress printed with bright flowers, sandals with a matching flower centered on each one and a straw hat with a matching band and flower. Her hair, barely reaching her shoulders, corkscrewed out from under the hat every which way.

  “Look at that sweet face,” he teased. “How could they not want three or four just like you?”

  “Sweet faces can be deceiving. Look at your mother. She saw you and had two more and then found what she was in for.”

  “But she loves us all dearly.” For an instant, Amanda went still and Rick could have kicked himself. Why not just rub her face in the fact that her mother didn’t love her dearly?

  The moment passed and Amanda straightened, moving toward the door. “I’d invite you to stay for dinner, but all I have in the refrigerator is fat-free yogurt, carrots, celery and salad greens.”

  “You were planning on a rabbit dropping by?” He replaced the photo where he’d found it, then followed her out. “I’ve got something better in my car. I went home to see Mom today and she packed leftovers. Want to share?”

  “Sure.” But her tone was less than enthusiastic and her smile was faint, uncertain.

  Rick chose to ignore those signs. He went out to his car, retrieved the cooler from the trunk, then carried it into the kitchen. He began unpacking neatly arranged storage containers, reading out their contents. “Ham with a maple glaze, some sort of proscuitto and asparagus thing, potato salad, baked beans, pulled chicken with mustard sauce, tabouli, corn salsa, some of my aunt Jo’s bread-and-butter pickles, cornbread, dinner rolls, crab claws—shells already discarded—and dessert. Poppy seed cake, Grandma’s chocolate cake with caramel icing and oatmeal cookies.”

  Amanda was staring at the array of food. “Does she feed you like this all the time?”

  “It was some sort of family thing today. A cousin’s kid’s birthday. Everyone brought food. My family has great cooks.” Or, in a few instances, they hired great cooks.

  She set two of everything on the counter—plates, glasses, silverware, napkins—then filled the glasses with tea. Instead of trying to make do at the oak table not quite big enough for two, they loaded the plates and went to a wicker table on the back porch.

  They ate silently for a while, then she paused with a forkful of poppy seed cake in midair. “I can’t remember the last time I saw my mother.”

  He didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry? She’s an idiot? You’re better off without her?

  With a tight little smile and a tighter little shrug, she said, “I’m not saying that for sympathy or anything. I’ve accepted that she wants nothing to do with me as long as I’m dancing. But I just really can’t remember the last time I saw her. We talked for a few minutes on Mother’s Day. She said the flowers were pretty. I said good. We talked on her birthday and at Christmas and on Thanksgiving, but I can’t remember…” Her voice trailed off into the quiet evening and her gaze followed.

  Rick took one last bite of caramel-iced cake, then pushed the plate away. If he hadn’t already been full, he would have lost his appetite anyway. “Are you going to tell her when you change jobs?”

  Amanda glanced at him. “Sure.”

  “What if it makes a difference to her? What if she’s willing to acknowledge a daughter who’s a college instructor? If she wants to be Mom again.”

  “She probably will.”

  “Will you let her?”

  “Maybe. Probably. But we’ll never be close. She’ll always remember that I spent twelve years being a bad and shameful daughter, and I’ll never forget that for twelve years, she treated me like I wasn’t good enough or pure enough to be in her presence.” She mashed the rest of the cake together, then licked the cream cheese frosting from the fork. “But she’s my mother. It’s not much, but you work with what you’ve got.”

  Rick started shaking his head before she finished. “If my old man was still alive, I wouldn’t have a damn thing to do with him. He wasn’t there for us; why the hell should we be there for him?”

  “If that’s really how you feel, then that’s fine. I know my mother and I are never going to have a normal mother-daughter relationship. I’m not sure we ever did. She preferred Daddy and so did I. He was the bond that held us together. Once he was gone, it was really no surprise that she and I couldn’t stay together. But he loved her and I did, too, and if we can manage some type of mutually respectful friendship, out of respect to him, then I’d like that.”

  Rick’s laughter was dry. “Go ahead. Make me feel like a spiteful kid.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your feelings. Ask me again in six months and I might feel the same. Some people are just difficult. Your father was one of them. My mother is, too, and so is my aunt, her best friend. Dana has a lot of influence on what Mom does and thinks, and even if Mom is willing to have me back in her life, Dana might not be.”

  “It’ll be their loss. It’s been their loss.”

  She looked surprised, then smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

  “Let’s clean up here and go for a ride,” he suggested, wanting to lighten the mood. “We’ll put the top down and enjoy the pollution over Atlanta. Come on, we’ll even take Dancer with us.”

 
“Dancer gets carsick. When she goes to the vet, she has to sit in the front seat and she still pukes sometimes.”

  “Okay, we’ll leave Dancer tucked in for the evening. It’ll be just you and me.” Without waiting for a definite yes, he stood, gathered their dishes and went inside. She brought up the rear with their glasses and the tea pitcher. While he packed the food back into its containers, then into the cooler, she rinsed the dishes, loaded the dishwasher and set out a metal plate with Dancer’s supper. Before the dish touched the floor, the dog came racing in from the bedroom.

  Less than ten minutes after he’d made the suggestion, he was lowering the top on the Camaro, then sliding into the driver’s seat beside Amanda. She sat primly, feet together, hands folded. All she needed was to cross her arms over her chest for classic closed-off body posture.

  “I’m restoring the car myself,” he said as he pulled away from the curb. “I’m about to start on the exterior.”

  “You don’t like primer gray paint?”

  “She’s gonna be red when I’m done. With black leather interior.”

  “Sounds flashy.”

  “I like flashy.”

  “Most boys do.” Digging into her purse, she pulled out a thick band and twisted her hair into a ponytail, wrapping the band over and around three times, catching the ends the third time to keep them from blowing. Then she leaned her head back and lifted her gaze to the night sky.

  He did exactly what he’d suggested: drove aimlessly along the surface streets until they came to the on-ramp for northbound I-85. Once on the freeway, he kicked up the speed to five miles over the limit. It created too much wind to talk, but he didn’t care. He was driving down the highway on a cool Georgia night with a beautiful woman who made him hot. Who needed talk?

  He did—rather, a good talking-to. He was taking a big risk spending time with her, getting involved with her. He could compromise his case. He could compromise his and Julia’s safety. If Amanda turned out to be part of Rosey’s illegal operations, he could lose his job. And yet instead of turning around and heading straight back to her house, he exited the interstate onto a two-lane highway. Instead of then hightailing back to his apartment, he followed the road into a heavily wooded area and turned onto a gravel road.

  No Fishing After 7:00 p.m. the sign at the open gate read, but he ignored it and followed the climbing road to its end, then cut the engine.

  They were at the top of the hill, an old mill pond just below them, the city of Atlanta and its suburbs spread beyond that. During the day it was just houses, cars, buildings and people for as far as you could see, but at night, with millions of lights twinkling, it was impressive.

  “Is this one of your fishing holes?”

  “Yeah. Though I prefer the river back home.”

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  He dragged his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe to kiss you.”

  “You could have done that at my house.”

  That was a jolt to his system. Of course, he’d known he could persuade her, but to hear her admit that she was willing…“But if we’d done it at your house, it wouldn’t have ended with one kiss.”

  “No,” she agreed, her voice a sweet murmur.

  “And I’m not sure I can handle anything more right now.”

  She nodded. “You have priorities.”

  “So do you.”

  She nodded again. “And you need time to get used to not being with Julia.”

  Not hardly. But he wasn’t about to tell her that he’d never been with Julia, because she would want to know why they’d pretended and he couldn’t tell her. Or she would think he’d just been using Julia until someone else came along and that wasn’t true, either. So he sat there, biting his tongue, and let her think he was recovering. Let her think it was too soon for him when he’d already forgotten every woman before Amanda and was past the point of wanting her until it hurt.

  “I’ve never been involved with anyone at the club,” she said. “Not in twelve years.”

  “Quite a record.” Neither had he, though his stint could be measured in weeks rather than years. No fraternization was supposedly the rule everywhere, but everyone ignored it when the urge hit. Everyone but Amanda. She’d disappointed a hell of a lot of guys in twelve years.

  “But there’s no rush.” She twisted her head to look at him. “If we feel this way now, odds are we’ll still feel this way in a few months, right? If you don’t hook up with someone in the meantime.”

  Since the mere sight of her could make him feel this way, he figured it was safe to say that wasn’t about to change. His hooking up with someone else wasn’t likely, either. The problem was, he didn’t know if this case would be resolved within a few months. He already had nearly three months of undercover work in on it. It could end tomorrow or six months from tomorrow. There was no way to predict it.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “In a few months…”

  “When I’m settled in my new job and you’ve done whatever it is you need to do.” She smiled, looking so beautiful and sounding so adult and sensible, when he was feeling frustrated and juvenile.

  Then, in a movement so swift and smooth that he never saw it coming, she unhooked her seat belt, leaned across the console, cupped his face in her palms and kissed him. Hard. Hungry.

  Her kiss was like her dances—instinctive, teasing, provocative, sensual, sexy, liquid, hot. And innocent. And sweet. She took his breath, raised his temperature, made him hard, made him hurt—for sex, for her, for more. All with one kiss and her slender, gentle hands cupping his face.

  She stopped and he groaned in protest, reaching for her. Delicately she pushed his hands away, sank back into her seat and fastened the belt. He was dying, damn it, and she was sitting there looking so…

  Not smug or complacent. Like she was dying, too. Her features were strained, her breathing faster than usual, shallower, and she raised one unsteady hand to touch her mouth.

  This was best, he reminded himself as he started the engine. He was on the job. She didn’t have a clue what he really did for a living, who he really was.

  It was definitely best for the case, he told himself as he drove back to her house, the silence heavy between them. What if he got intimate with her and then had to arrest her?

  Got intimate? the voice in his head sneered. They might not have had sex, but they’d been intimate. Everything about her, about being with her, was intimate.

  It was probably best for her, too, he insisted to himself as he pulled into her driveway. She was starting a new life. Respectability was important to her. What were the odds she’d want a bartender at her old strip club being part of it? And if the case was wrapped up by then and he could be honest with her about his GBI job, what were the odds she’d want to continue something begun with a guy who’d lied to her from day one?

  She sat there a moment, not looking at him, which he could tell even though he wasn’t looking at her. The car engine rumbled like not-too-distant thunder and Dancer’s barks sounded muted through the closed-up house. After a time, she moved to get out. “You should take your cooler.”

  No, he shouldn’t. He should drive away like a bat out of hell the instant she’d cleared the car. But he shut off the engine and climbed out. He might be a fool, but he wasn’t leaving Grandma’s caramel-iced chocolate cake behind.

  He held the screen door while she unlocked the door. She opened it carefully, ready for Dancer to come galloping out, but there was no sign of the mutt. “Uh-oh.”

  His first instinct was to reach for the pistol holstered in the small of his back, but then she took a step inside and he saw the reason for her comment. A few bits of maple-glazed ham. Some spears of asparagus, though the proscuitto that had wrapped around them was gone. A pile of tabouli, another pile of bread-and-butter pickles, both deemed inedible, apparently. A puddle of mustard-based barbecue sauce, but no chicken.

  “Dancer?” Amanda called. Picking her way through the mess, she
went straight to her bedroom, throwing back the covers, kneeling so she could see under the bed. “You’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you?”

  Her entire body quivering, the dog crept out a few inches at a time. The hair around her mouth was matted with barbecue sauce, maple glaze and caramel icing; her belly was distended.

  “Come on,” Amanda said. “You go out, then I’ll clean you up.”

  Relieved to not be in trouble, the dog waddled behind her to the back door. There was more mess in the kitchen, where he had stupidly left the cooler sitting on the floor, latched then, unlatched now. “How did she—”

  “She’s a smart girl. She’s trying to learn how to open doorknobs. I think she’ll have it figured out before long.” Unruffled, Amanda pulled off a length of paper towel and picked up a spray bottle of cleaner. “I’ll replace your mother’s storage dishes, but I can’t do anything about the food. I’m not that good a cook.”

  “Don’t worry. Mom will always cook more and those dishes were the throwaway kind anyway. I’ll help you clean.”

  “No. Thank you.” Her smile flashed, quickly there, quickly gone, not reaching her eyes. “Just go on home, would you?”

  He didn’t want to. He wanted to help pick up the food and the bits of plastic that were all that remained of his mother’s dinner. He wanted to mop the wood floor and help clean Dancer’s fur. He wanted to stay.

  And that was why he had to leave. “Yeah. That’s probably best.”

  He walked out before he could change his mind.

  Or lose it.

  Monday evening Rick took the night off.

  Tuesday, half an hour after opening, Harry sent him to fill in at one of Rosey’s other clubs.

  Wednesday, Amanda was kept so busy with customers that she hardly had a chance to look at him, much less speak to him.

  By Thursday she was missing him and by Friday she decided to do something about it. If he were any other man, she wouldn’t worry how to approach him. She would be seductive, would make him a sensual offer that his body couldn’t refuse.