by Meryl Sawyer
“He’ll get over it.”
He gazed at her for a moment in his direct way, and she knew he saw through the lie. Ryan held a grudge like an ayatollah, but she didn’t give a hoot. Let him stew.
“I went to see the executor of my uncle’s estate. It still isn’t settled, but I’m going to stay here until I find an apartment. We want you to continue taking care of Jasper.” He snapped his fingers and Jasper appeared out of the shadows. The Chinese crested gazed up at Adam as if he’d hung the moon.
Oh, well. The little dog was an international champion who’d made countless transatlantic flights. Obviously, the altitude had addled what brains the champ had once possessed. Jasper didn’t come when she called his name, but he responded to a snap of Adam’s fingers.
“What about the relatives who are supposed to take Jasper?”
“That’s me. I’m the only relative Uncle Calvin had.”
Whitney tried for a sympathetic smile, but it was difficult after last night. She again reminded herself of the incident with Ryan. Adam Hunter wasn’t as bad as she’d first believed, but a gentleman would apologize.
“You’ll be taking Jasper with you when you find an apartment.”
“It depends.” He studied the dog at his side for a moment. Jasper had no hair on his body except for his head and feet. Brown and white fur sprouted from his paws and shot out from his ears like a patch of crabgrass. Whitney had always considered the nearly hairless dogs to be a little goofy. Jasper had done nothing to change her mind.
“Depends,” she prompted.
“Some apartments don’t allow pets,” Adam replied, a hollow tone in his voice.
There were plenty that did, she thought. Obviously, Adam didn’t care enough about his uncle to give the orphaned dog a good home. It took him down another notch in her estimation.
“Jasper’s a champion. Maybe I can locate a breeder who would like to show him or use him as a stud.”
“He’s due to be bred in a few days. That breeder might want Jasper, but I promised my uncle that I would look after his dog.”
This did not make sense. How did he plan to take care of the dog if he rented an apartment that didn’t accept pets?
“I’ll feed Jasper in the morning,” he told Whitney, oblivious to her concern. “If you could walk him once during the day, it’ll help. Most nights I won’t be home until late. Give me your number and I’ll let you know if I’m not going to make it home in time to feed him dinner.”
Whitney walked over to the small nook that Miranda had set up as her office and took a business card out of the box that she’d had printed at Speedy Press. She turned to give it to Adam and discovered he’d moved into the center of the room without making a sound. The dogs were hovering around his feet, sniffing.
“This has my cell number and the number here. Try the cell first. I’m usually out taking care of animals.”
“Right.” He reached into the cluster of dogs and plucked out Jasper. He headed for the door, the little pill of a dog tucked under one arm, then stopped. “I’m sorry about last night. I overreacted.”
She couldn’t help herself. “Do you always try to rape intruders?”
“Rape?” He snorted. “Is that what you thought?”
“Pardon me if I’m wrong, but when a man tackles me, then has his hands all over my body…well, rape does come to mind.”
“I don’t usually find naked women prowling around in the dark in my house.”
“I wasn’t naked. I had on my jammies.”
“Jammies? Well, call me a dog, but my idea of jammies and yours are worlds apart. You were nearly nude.”
“Stop it! I’m tired of people blaming me—” The astonished look on his face stopped her short. She knew she hadn’t meant “people.” Ryan had been the one she had in mind. He’d always managed to find a way to make anything that went wrong seem like her fault. She expelled an exasperated breath. “Okay, it was a Victoria’s Secret nightgown.”
They stared at each other for a moment like gunslingers waiting to draw. Whitney reminded herself that she needed a place to live until Miranda returned. The man might have made an honest mistake. Smile. Show that you can forgive and forget.
At Whitney’s attempt at a smile, he said, “The house was robbed right after my uncle died. I thought you were a burglar.”
“Did they get much?” Whitney had been in the house several times before Miranda left and hadn’t noticed any signs of a robbery.
“They cut the burglar alarm wires and took my uncle’s computer but left a lot of valuable antiques. When I heard you downstairs, I assumed they’d returned.”
“I understand,” she said, trying to convince herself that she did. Remember, he’s not Ryan. Adam did help you this morning.
“I didn’t mean to paw you. I was…trying to confirm you were a woman. Most robbers are men.”
She nodded slowly, not mentioning the erection evident during “his pawing to confirm” maneuvers.
“Anyway, you’re perfectly capable of defending yourself,” he told her with the suggestion of a smile.
“I am?”
He cocked his head to one side and pointed to the livid red scratch at the base of his neck. It had been hidden by the collar of his shirt. He then showed her the large bandage on his forearm. “You bit me and drew blood.”
She stared at the flesh-colored bandage, clearly remembering the metallic taste of blood. The edges around the bandage were purplish-blue. Evidently a deep bruise surrounded the bite. “You had me outweighed. All I could do was bite.”
“And scream,” he added with an attempt at a chuckle. “I’m sure the devil heard you all the way down in hell.”
She wasn’t about to apologize for defending herself, but the adorable way he had of tilting his head slightly while he was talking muted her anger. The whole incident had been a mistake. Not taking it too seriously or making more out of it than necessary seemed to be the best course.
Whitney looked up into his blue eyes—about to say something—then forgot what it was. An electrical current arced between them, and her breathing became uneven. She had the disturbing feeling that Adam was about to kiss her. For a moment, she was almost dizzy with anticipation.
“When my uncle had the fatal heart attack, a woman called 911. Was that you?”
Her brain scrambled to get a grip on the question. All she could think about was what it would be like to be held in his powerful arms. “Me? No. I wasn’t living here. My cousin, Miranda Marshall, had this cottage until two days ago.”
“Did she mention calling the paramedics?”
Whitney shook her head, still trying to keep her emotions from showing. “No. Miranda told me about it, but she wasn’t home. She stayed with her boyfriend at night. They’re off in Fiji now on a honeymoon.”
He reached out and lightly touched her cheek with one finger. Their eyes held and she forced herself to remain steady even though a swarm of butterflies was fluttering through her tummy.
“Sorry about last night. Friends?”
She mustered the strength to nod, but it was difficult. Heat seemed to suffuse her entire body.
He left without another word. For a long moment she stood there, then remembered to lock the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TYLER GUIDED HOLLY out of Croce’s. Even though it was half past two and the club had announced the last call over thirty minutes ago, people were still hanging around. The club was dedicated to the memory of the creator of “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” Jim Croce. It was located in one of the renovated Victorian-style commercial buildings in the historic Gaslamp Quarter. There were hundreds of clubs, restaurants and galleries in the area. Croce’s had been among the first to open in the seventies when the city began pumping life back into the decaying area. It was still one of the most popular clubs.
“Adam came into the office today,” Tyler said as they walked back to his condo along streets lit by authentic gas lamps.
“Really?�
� Holly responded, in a tone he couldn’t quite read. “How is he?”
Someone who didn’t know Holly might not realize she had been crazy about Adam Hunter. Tyler had always assumed he was Adam’s best friend, but Adam hadn’t confided his reason for splitting with Holly.
Tyler had waited two agonizingly long months after Adam had left for Iraq before asking Holly out. He’d taken it slow and easy, giving her plenty of space to get over Adam. Tyler’s strategy had worked. Holly was practically living with him now. She kept a small walk-up on Coronado Island near her boutique, but she spent most nights at the condo Tyler had purchased in the Marina District that bordered the Gaslamp Quarter.
“Adam seems okay physically, but he’s…different.”
“Different?”
Now Holly sounded interested. He glanced at her, but the wavering shadows from the gas lamps and her long brown hair concealed her face. Maybe it was just his imagination. Anyone would be concerned about a friend who’d nearly been killed.
“Adam’s quieter. Doesn’t joke anymore.” Tyler thought about the way Adam had behaved during lunch. “He’s pretty intense.”
“Are you going to be able to work with him?” she asked.
Now her concern seemed to be for him, and Tyler kept his smile to himself. “Good question. Adam’s still hot to go into corporate security.”
Holly didn’t comment. They walked in silence to the end of the block, where the historical area merged with the Marina District. Here eye-catching skyscrapers and luxurious condos captured the view of the bay. The area had a number of hotels, but it was also the trendy place to live downtown.
Tyler had sunk all the money he’d made from HiTech Security into his new place. After years on the police force, when he’d been barely able to make his monthly rent payment, it felt awesome to have a brand-new home overlooking the harbor. He’d let Holly decorate it, and she’d done an amazing job.
It was sleek and modern, furnished in stainless steel and beige leather several shades darker than the walls. It was masculine yet had enough touches of softness for a woman to be comfortable. After all, he planned to live here once he and Holly were married. Later, when they had children, he supposed they would buy a home in the suburbs. Their kids would need space to play. By then HiTech would be going great guns—even more stable and successful than it already was—and he would be able to afford anyplace Holly wanted.
“Did you explain to Adam that it’s too expensive to go into corporate security?” Holly asked.
“Yeah. We talked about it.” Their discussion over lunch had been strained. Tyler wasn’t sure if it was the direction the company had taken or Adam himself that had made their conversation tense. “Adam’s going to check into it and see exactly what it’ll take.”
“Then he’ll realize, the way you did, that HiTech will be more profitable providing guard services.”
“Probably,” Tyler said, although he didn’t necessarily agree. “Adam’s pretty hung up about his uncle’s death.”
“I didn’t think they were close.”
Adam must have told her, Tyler decided, the back of his neck tightening. “They weren’t really close, but—”
“Adam feels responsible. That’s the kind of guy he is.”
“I guess.”
Like most women, Holly had a lot of emotional insight. Adam had probably cut off his relationship with her in case he was killed in Iraq. Holly must have figured this out. When he’d been with Adam today, Tyler had glossed over his relationship with Holly. A year and a half ago, he’d e-mailed Adam that he was seeing Holly. He’d never mentioned her again even though he e-mailed Adam on a weekly basis. Today, he might have made a mistake by not letting Adam know how much Holly meant to him. He wondered if Adam would contact her.
The phone on his hip vibrated, and he stopped. At this hour it could only be the watch commander at his guard service. “Yeah?”
“It’s Butch. We’ve got a no-show at Ocean Heights and the backup isn’t answering his phone.”
“Christ!” Ocean Heights was a ritzy subdevelopment and one of his most lucrative accounts. Their board insisted on a twenty-four-hour guard at their gate. After midnight residents could have used a remote control to open the gate, the way residents in many other gated communities did—but no, Ocean Heights needed a “gate ambassador” all night long.
Weeknights it was easy to have college kids man the gate because they liked to study when things were slow, but on the weekend, they suddenly became “ill.” Problem was he didn’t have enough backups. If someone didn’t show, he was in trouble.
He was forced to tell Butch, “I’ll take it.” He flipped the phone shut and turned to Holly. “I’ve gotta go, babe. One of the guards didn’t come in, and we can’t leave the gate at Ocean Heights uncovered.”
“Can’t you hire more backup guys?”
She sounded a little peeved. He couldn’t blame her. This was the third Saturday night that he’d skipped out on her. “It’s hard to find guys willing to be on standby all weekend, not knowing if they’re going to get called.”
“What if you paid them to wait around?”
Sometimes Holly was way too insightful. To make more money, Tyler kept guys on standby, but didn’t pay them unless they worked. “I may have to do that or go to a sub-par list.”
“What’s that?”
“Hire guys who can’t pass a background check.” If a man had an arrest record for even a minor crime like petty theft or a DUI, he couldn’t pass the check. Gated communities were suspicious of anyone with any type of a criminal record. “Wait at my place until I get off.”
Holly shook her head. “I’m going home. The boutique’s big sale starts tomorrow.”
“Okay.” He’d be dead tired anyway. The shift wouldn’t be over until seven. He’d need to crash for a few hours, then head into the office. “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon and see how the sale is going.”
She was silent while he walked her to her Passat. Sometimes it was hard to tell what Holly was thinking. She wasn’t as open with him as his previous girlfriends. The slight air of mystery added to her appeal.
She drove off, and he stood there for a moment, thinking. He hadn’t asked Holly to marry him, but they discussed the future as if they intended to spend it together. Now Tyler had the vague feeling that he knew too little about Holly’s actual plans.
He drove to Ocean Heights and called Butch on his cell phone. Butch was a beefy Irishman who would develop a Sumo stomach if he didn’t spend his days in the gym.
“I’m sick of this shit,” Tyler told him.
“I hear you, man.”
“Know of any guys who might be a little shaky on a background check but are actually okay to work standby for us? I’ll pay them to be on call.”
Butch said he would check at his gym. Tyler hung up and drove around the bend to the mammoth wrought-iron gate at the entrance to Ocean Heights. Beyond the guard kiosk that would have been home to several families in a third world country were brand-new Tuscan-style mansions built on lots the size of a cocktail napkin. The guard on duty was pissed because he’d had to work over an hour beyond his shift.
Tyler settled in, put his feet up and wished he had thought to pick up a magazine. Nothing was more boring than the graveyard shift. His cell phone buzzed. “What the hell,” he said out loud. It was almost three-thirty in the morning. He checked the caller ID. Oh, fuck! His father.
Quinten Foley had been a commander in the navy. They’d lived all over the world until his father retired. His father had prodded Tyler to enlist, but Tyler joined the police force instead. He was a major disappointment to his father. Quinten Foley never mentioned it, but Tyler couldn’t shake the feeling.
He hadn’t heard from the old man in months. A call now must mean bad news—his father only checked in a few times a year and never in the middle of the night. This wouldn’t be about his family. Tyler was an only child. His mother had committed suicide when Tyler was in hi
gh school. There wasn’t anyone else except distant relatives somewhere in New England.
Tyler forced himself to keep his voice upbeat. “You’re back in town.”
“No. I’m on the Gulfstream, heading in.”
His father worked as a consultant for weapons manufacturers and helped smaller countries decide what to buy, then expedited those purchases. He often supplied soldiers of fortune with the latest weaponry. His clients had to be extremely wealthy to afford his services. He never failed to let Tyler know he was in a limo or on a fancy jet. It was just another way of reminding Tyler that his own father was out of his league.
“Did I wake you?”
“Nah. Holly and I were out late hitting the clubs.” No way was he going to confess to his father he was sitting on his ass in a guard shack.
“Meet me for breakfast at eight at the Outpost.” It wasn’t a request. It was an order to appear at a trendy restaurant frequented by retired naval officers on their way to the golf course.
“What’s going on?”
“We need to discuss something.”
Tyler knew that was all he was going to get out of his father until they were face-to-face. Years of working in naval intelligence and weapons had made him frickin’ paranoid about what he said over a cell phone. Tyler seriously doubted any spies were monitoring his father’s calls but the old man always acted as if his every word, every move was being scrutinized by “foreign operatives.”
Tyler hung up and stared out into the darkness. Quinten Foley was rarely interested in his opinion. Could his father want to talk about his will? The old man was in his early fifties, an appropriate time to consider discussing his future with his only child.
TYLER CONVINCED THE MORNING-shift guard to come in an hour early so he could get home, shower and shave before meeting his father. His old man treated him with a little more respect now that he’d been able to purchase a condo.
His father probably wanted to discuss his wishes should he become ill as well as his finances. Tyler couldn’t bank a smile. Quinten Foley seemed immortal, but, of course, no one was. Tyler had no idea how much his father was worth. It didn’t matter. He’d suffered enough to deserve every penny he’d inherit.