All a Man Can Ask

by Virginia Kantra

  Silence.

  Faye straightened. Her back ached. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears. Was he gone?

  Pressing a hand to the small of her back, she walked to the doors. The sun beat down on the green, empty strip of grass.

  Gone.

  She was…relieved. Of course she was relieved. She refused to identify the sinking in her chest as disappointment. She turned back to her empty living room, but with all the quiet and time and space to create in she couldn’t bring herself to pick up a paintbrush. Maybe she would go down to the lake and take photographs?

  Yes. She nodded to herself. That would ease this odd restlessness. She stuffed her feet into sandals, grabbed her camera from the narrow table behind the sofa and went out the sliding doors.

  Aleksy sluiced water over his arms. Standing waist deep in the cold lake might help cure his sexual frustration, but it didn’t do a thing to relieve his itchy mood. After three days of surveillance, he had exactly nothing on Freer. No unexplained absences, no unknown visitors, no unauthorized stores of munitions in the gun dealer’s boathouse.

  Aleksy needed some action. Now.

  A break in the case. A roll in the hay. Anything to kill the mind-numbing boredom and make this exile in Pleasantville feel like something besides a colossal waste of his time. Mowing pretty Faye Harper’s lawn didn’t count.

  He thought of the tiny blonde’s bare, arched feet, her wide, intrigued eyes and grinned. Now there was a woman who could provide a man with a little diversion.

  Yeah, if he was dumb enough to let himself be distracted. Which Aleksy was not. Not yet. Not without some encouragement, anyway.

  He dunked his head. And when he raised it dripping from the water, felt that unmistakable tingle at the back of his neck. His life preserver. The cop’s sixth sense. The awareness that someone, somewhere, was watching him.

  Hell.

  His sweat-soaked jeans were on the rocky bank behind him. His gun was out of reach, under his folded shirt. He’d better hope some vacationing tourist had stumbled on him skinny-dipping or he was in big trouble here.

  He ran his hands over his face, like he needed to wipe the water from his eyes. He turned slowly, squinting through his fingers to scan the sloping bank.

  The rocks were empty. His clothes were undisturbed. But a flash of pale blue—someone’s shirt, he guessed—drew his attention up the bank. There in the bushes, a camera in her hands and pure confusion on her face, stood little Faye Harper.

  Aleksy grinned. The day was looking up.

  He lowered his hands. “Like what you see?”

  Her fair skin made her an easy mark. She blushed bright red. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  He believed her. But he couldn’t resist teasing her. He shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “I didn’t!”

  He smiled.

  She lifted her chin and some of the cream puff air fell away. “I don’t think this arrangement is working. Frankly, Mr. Denko, you’re intruding on my privacy.”

  He felt a moment’s regret. But she couldn’t get rid of him that easily. Not until he had proof one way or the other of Freer’s complicity in Karen’s death. “I’d go easy with the accusations, sweetheart. At least I’m not taking your picture in the buff.”

  “I was not taking your picture.”

  He gestured. “So, what’s with the camera?”

  She looked down at the camera in her hands as if she’d never seen one before. He stifled another grin.

  “Oh. I’m taking backup shots of landscapes.” Her voice gained confidence as she spoke. “To prompt my memory when I’m in the studio.”

  That was actually kind of interesting. Which just went to prove he’d been standing in the water too long.

  “Yeah, well, you better turn your back,” he said. “Or I’m going to give you something else to remember.”

  Her face set in cool, disapproving lines. He could almost see how Miss Pixie might have kept order in a classroom.

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m going into town now.”

  “Running away?”

  “Running errands.”

  “That could be good,” he decided. After five days of bug bites and boredom, he was ready for a new angle. Karen’s lead only took him as far as the town. Maybe all this time, he’d been barking up the wrong tree. Staking out the wrong dock. “I’ll come with you.”

  “No.”

  “It would be good cover,” he said.

  “I don’t want you to come.”

  So she was running away. Aleksy tried to find that encouraging. Maybe he got to her the way she, improbably, got to him.

  He observed her stiff face and the way she held her right arm braced across her chest. Or maybe she couldn’t stand the sight of him.

  “Just into town,” he said. “You can let me out at—what is it?—Harbor Street.”

  Faye shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’ve let you stay, but I won’t be involved in—in whatever it is you’re doing. You’ll have to drive yourself to town.”

  The unnaturally red-haired woman behind the counter at Weiglund’s Camera—Greta, her name tag read—beamed at Faye as she popped her film into an envelope.

  “You sure do take a lot of pictures for a single gal. Have you heard from your aunt Eileen yet?”

  Faye blinked at the woman’s intrusive interest. Friendly interest, she told herself. It couldn’t hurt her. No one in Eden thought she’d done anything wrong. “I had a postcard from Galway. She thinks she’s found the parish where her grandmother was born.”

  “Isn’t that exciting,” Greta Weiglund said, sealing the envelope and tossing it into a box behind her. “And do you like it at the cottage?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Not your first visit?”

  “I— No. I used to come when I was a little girl.”

  “I thought I remembered that,” Greta said with satisfaction. “Of course, you stayed with your auntie, then. Don’t you find it lonely now?”

  Dear heaven. “No. Are my other pictures ready?”

  “Let me just check. I heard the police were out there the other day. A trespasser, was it?”

  Faye fumbled with her wallet. Living in Chicago, she’d grown used to fending off muggers, purse snatchers and panhandlers. But she was defenseless against Eden’s small town grapevine. “It wasn’t anything. A—a misunderstanding.”

  Greta twinkled knowingly. “A young man, I heard. Are you seeing each other?”

  Faye had a mental flash of Aleksy half-naked in the lake, the damp hair curling on his chest, his dusky nipples puckered with cold. Seeing each other?

  “I— That is—”

  I didn’t want to blow my cover, he’d told her. I’m working a case.

  Faye bit her lip. “I guess you could say we see each other occasionally.”

  Greta Weiglund nodded encouragement. “Isn’t that nice?”

  It was awful.

  Faye did not want to get involved. On her way back to the car, past the Rose Farms Café and Tompkins Hardware, she rehearsed to herself all the other things she could have said to deflect gossip.

  I’m not sure who you’re talking about.

  We’re just friends.

  That’s Raoul. He does the yard work.

  “Faye!”

  A man’s voice. Calling her name. She froze. But it was only Richard Freer smiling at her from the gleaming glass entrance of his sporting goods store, as well-groomed and ruggedly handsome as a race car driver hawking motor oil.

  Eileen Harper didn’t like him. “Cuckoos,” she called him and the other wealthy residents who bought up land across the lake to build newer, grander houses. But he was the closest thing to a neighbor Faye had. They seldom spoke, but he always waved when he saw her.

  He strolled forward onto the sidewalk. “I know Eden’s not the big city, but I didn’t know you were so hard up for entertainment here that you’d started talking to yourself.”

  She forced a smile. “H
i, Richard. Sorry. I was distracted.”

  “I could see that.” He looked her over with the confident air of a man used to paying for—and getting—what he wanted. Faye caught herself stiffening and ordered her muscles to relax. He didn’t mean anything by it. And she’d given up taking stands over things she couldn’t control.

  “I haven’t seen you on the lake,” he said. “What are you doing with yourself?”

  She wondered if she should try out her yard boy explanation on him. No. “Nothing much.”

  His gaze focused on the bag she carried. “Still taking pictures?”

  They were neighbors, of sorts. He’d seen her out with her camera, and she’d explained about her painting.

  “A few.”

  “Heard you had some trouble at your place the other day.” He shifted closer and lowered his voice. “You know, a woman alone should always have protection at hand.”

  He couldn’t mean… Condoms?

  “No, ma’am, you don’t want to be caught unprepared if a situation arises suddenly where you need it.”

  Faye goggled.

  “A gun,” Richard said firmly. “A nice, light ladies’ handgun, that’s what you need.”

  “Oh.” Faye’s breath escaped on a shaky laugh. “I don’t think—”

  “You’ve got to take care of yourself. A couple of vagrants have been spotted at the lake. I’ve seen one myself, hanging around your aunt’s cottage.”

  Her relief died. “Well, actually—”

  “Hi, sweetheart.” Aleksy’s warm, rough voice broke into her explanation. His warm, heavy arm wrapped around her shoulders. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  And before she could get her mind or her tongue working, before she could react or protest or prepare, he bent his dark head and kissed her full on the mouth.

  Chapter 3

  He tasted like coffee.

  He needed a shave.

  And he had absolutely no business putting his tongue anywhere near her lips.

  Faye registered all this in the brief, confused moments when Aleksy’s hard arm squeezed her shoulders and his mouth crushed hers. Wild heat bloomed in her chest and in her face. Indignation, she told herself. Had to be.

  And then Aleksy released her and turned his careless, all-guys-together grin on Richard Freer.

  “I don’t think we’ve met,” he said. “I’m Alex.”

  “Dick Freer.”

  They shook in a ritual less complicated but no less appraising than the high fives and hand signals of Lincoln High’s homeboys.

  “Are you in town long?” Richard asked.

  “As long as Faye will have me,” Aleksy said. And don’t you forget it, she thought, her lips still tingling from his kiss. “You?”

  “I’m lucky enough to live here.” Richard straightened proudly against the plate-glass entrance. “This is my shop.”

  “Guess you don’t get to travel a lot, then.”

  Richard pulled in his jaw, creating an important-looking double chin. “Oh, I get around. Trade shows. Gun shows.”

  Aleksy nodded. “Ever get down to Chicago?”

  “Not often. Most of my business is selling shotguns and rifles to local sportsmen. And self-defense, of course.”

  “What kind of self-defense are we talking about?”

  “Whatever makes a man feel free and his family safe. Are you interested in guns, Alex?”

  Faye wriggled out from under Aleksy’s arm. He was too close. This was too weird. And she wasn’t crazy about Dick Freer’s aggressive salesmanship, either.

  Aleksy let her slide from under his elbow and then caught her fingers in his. “I could be,” he said.

  Richard’s smile broadened. “Are you a gun owner?”

  “Well, no. Not yet.”

  Faye frowned. He was lying. Why was he lying? “We really need to go now.” Aleksy gave her a sharp look. She bit her lip. “Dear.”

  He shrugged. “Okay, babe. Nice talking with you,” he said to Richard Freer.

  “Come back and see me,” the dealer invited.

  “Count on it,” Aleksy said.

  Faye breathed a sigh of relief as they started down the sidewalk toward the tiny municipal parking lot. She caught a glimpse of their reflections in the window of the Silver Thimble—short, blond and flustered, barely keeping pace with tall, dark and annoyed—and was amazed that she’d stood up to him. But everything was all right now. In another minute she’d be in her car and going home. Alone.

  “Do you mind telling me what the hell you were running away from back there?”

  Indignation rendered her almost speechless. Almost. “Excuse me?”

  “I wanted to talk with that guy.”

  She dug in her canvas bag for her keys. “Why?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Exactly.” Her keys jangled in the bottom of the bag. “I don’t want to know. I can’t afford to get mixed up in whatever it is you’re doing.” Her hand closed on her keys but Aleksy was in her way, leaning against her door, arms folded indolently over his chest in this sort of macho slouch. Her pulse speeded up.

  “I don’t want you kissing me, either,” she said.

  “Fine.”

  She searched his eyes. “I mean it.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’re not my type.”

  She raised her chin. “Really.”

  “Yeah.” He grinned crookedly. “So you can relax.”

  “I am relaxed. Or I will be, as soon as you leave.”

  He jerked his head toward the broken line of cars. “I’m parked here.”

  She looked. He drove a TransAm: low-slung, high-geared, dark and dangerous looking. Unsafe at any speed, she thought, and shivered.

  “Then you won’t need a ride,” she said.

  He uncrossed his arms. “Careful, cream puff. You might hurt my feelings.”

  “I’m not worried. I’m not your type, remember?”

  “No, but you are tasty.”

  Three months ago she would have known how to answer him. She was still searching for a response when he pushed off from her car and strolled over to his.

  “See you at home,” he called. The TransAm started with a testosterone-spewing roar.

  Faye yanked on her car door. “Not if I see you first,” she muttered.

  Which wasn’t at all the kind of I’m-in-charge-class comeback she was looking for, but she was out of practice.

  Faye stepped back and surveyed her morning’s effort. She had hoped maybe this time she had something special: a moody blend of light and dark, a study in atmosphere. Her photos spread sharp and bright across the table. Her open sketchbook captured the creamy hull and coral sky reflected in the shifting surface of the lake at dawn. But when she looked at her painting, she saw only a flattened boat on overworked water. Murky. Muddy. Muddled.

  Crud.

  It wouldn’t even make good sofa art.

  Let your work express your feelings, she used to lecture her students. The gnawing dissatisfaction of the past few months developed new teeth. Maybe her feelings were the problem. Maybe instead of letting herself be stalled by her painting and stumped by Detective You-Don’t-Want-to-Know Denko and just generally frustrated, she should pick up the phone and check on Jamal.

  Faye winced and rubbed her wrist. She’d been holding a brush too long.

  Or maybe she’d simply had it with this particular piece of work.

  She needed…inspiration. She stretched once to get the kinks out, slapped shut her sketchbook and shoved it into her bag. She would take a walk down by the lake and clear her head.

  “You know, for an artist, you don’t seem to spend a lot of time painting,” Aleksy said.

  Below him on the bank, knee deep in the green brush, Faye Harper froze like Bambi’s mother about to get shot. Her head turned slowly.

  And then she spotted him, propped against a tree trunk with his fishing pole and field pack. Her wide brown eyes narrowed in annoyance. “For a detective, you don�
��t seem to spend a lot of time investigating.”

  Ouch. Bambi’s mom was packing heat.

  Despite his frustration, Aleksy grinned. “I hit a snag.”

  She picked her way over roots and rocks toward him. “Fish not biting?”

  “I didn’t expect them to. No self-respecting striper’s going to feed in the middle of the day.”

  “Then what are you doing out here?”

  “Surveillance,” he said briefly.

  “What are you looking for?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t—”

  “—want to know,” she finished for him. “Thank you. Is it safe for me to sit down next to you?”

  His grin broadened. “Be my guest.”

  Her skirt billowed and collapsed around her. She wore sandals on her narrow feet and a scoop-necked T-shirt that revealed the slight upper slope of her chest. Her face was pink and moist and she smelled like heat and spring flowers.

  Tasty, he thought.

  But not on the menu. He wasn’t on vacation, whatever his lieutenant said. And a cream puff art teacher with baby-fine skin didn’t fit into his plans or his future.

  “Did you want something?” he asked.

  “Yes. No.” She rested her arms on her knees and her neckline gaped, revealing the white line of her bra. Oh, man. He had definitely been sleeping in his car too long, if a glimpse of ladies’ underwear made him hard.

  “I hit a snag, too,” she said.

  “What kind of snag?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Probably not. He didn’t know squat about painting. But her automatic dismissal rankled.

  “Try me,” he said, surprising them both.

  He didn’t do intimacy. No way was he discussing art with a woman he wasn’t even trying to talk into bed.

  “I’m not—I seem to be putting in a lot of effort without a lot of result,” Faye said.

  Well, hey, okay. “I can relate there.”

  She turned her head and looked at him. “Have you found…whatever it is you’re looking for yet?”