TALL, DARK AND TEXAN

by Jane Sullivan

"I don't know. It just might depend on how good a cook you really are."

  "Well, then. I just might be staying for a very long time."

  This was a mistake. Wolfe could feel it in his bones. But something about the way Wendy was looking at him, her face all bright and cheerful, gave him a few seconds of feel-good he hadn't expected. And then there was Ramona, that tiny smile on her lips that told him she was thinking something she wasn't saying, even though he knew exactly what that something was.

  Get a life, Wolfe. And why don't you start with her?

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  Wolfe took Wendy by the grocery store, where she loaded up on enough food to feed a third-world nation. After they brought the groceries to Wolfe's apartment, she shooed him out the door, telling him if he wanted a masterpiece he had to leave the master alone to create it. He started to tell her that he had no intention of being kicked out of his own apartment, only to realize that it was probably a good thing. He wasn't used to another person rattling around anywhere near him, so if he stayed, she'd only end up driving him even crazier than she already had.

  But now, as he ascended the warehouse elevator two hours later, he felt a twinge of foreboding. After all, he'd left a crazy woman alone in his apartment playing with fire.

  Don't worry. Everybody's good at something. She's a gourmet cook. She knows her way around a kitchen.

  He shoved his worries aside, instead letting visions of the first decent dinner he'd had in months roll through his mind. Then the elevator doors opened, and he smelled it.

  Smoke.

  He rushed to the door, banged on it. "Wendy!"

  Without waiting for her reply, he fumbled for his keys and unlocked the door, tearing it open just in time to see her yank a pan out of the oven. She tossed it onto the stove top with a clatter, then backed away, waving her arms to clear the smoke that was pouring off it.

  "What the hell is going on?" Wolfe shouted.

  She shot him a look of distress, still fanning. He approached the incinerated pile of meat, staring down at it with total disbelief.

  She looked at him sheepishly. "I guess I burned it a little."

  "A little? I've seen five-alarm fires without this much smoke! How did this happen?"

  "Well, it was supposed to be cooked at three-hundred-and-fifty degrees, but I was short on time, so I thought if I set it at five hundred—"

  "You don't cook anything at five hundred degrees!" She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out Wolfe inched closer, narrowing his eyes. "You lied to me."

  "No," she said, holding up her palm. "Now, it wasn't a lie. Not exactly."

  "You said you were a gourmet cook! You practically burned the building down! You don't call that a lie?"

  "I just don't have my usual … you know. Utensils and stuff. Pots and pans and knives and measuring cups—"

  "Are you kidding? You wouldn't know a Crock-Pot from a crock of—"

  "Okay!" she said, throwing up her hands. "I lied! I'm not a gourmet cook! I'm not any kind of cook! I barely know how to order a pizza!"

  He looked at her with utter disbelief. "Then what in the hell made you think you could cook something like this?"

  She sighed. "While you were in the produce aisle, I sneaked a peek at a cookbook. I've got a good memory." She paused: "But I guess not good enough."

  "You come from a family with nine kids! How did you miss learning how to cook?"

  "I hated cooking, so I always swapped chores with my brothers and sisters. I made a lot of beds and cleaned a lot of toilets instead."

  Wolfe looked around. "What about the rest of dinner?"

  Wendy closed her eyes. "You don't want to know."

  She was absolutely right. He didn't.

  Wolfe flipped on the vent over the stove, which did very little to suck up the smoke, so his apartment was going to smell like an incinerator for a week. If he was smart, he'd hustle her down the elevator, into his car and out of here, and hope for the sake of the world at large she never rattled a pot and a pan again.

  Wendy poked at the pile of charred beef. "Actually, you know, it might not be as bad as it looks."

  "Oh, yeah? Tell me how it's not as bad as it looks."

  "Well, the meat is burned, yes, but it can't be black all the way through, can it? And only the potatoes around the edge of the pan are crusty. And the pie—well, it might be all right if we use spoons and think pudding instead. Now, the broccoli's a goner, but even I can't screw up a bottle of wine." With a bright smile, she grabbed a knife and fork. "Here. I'll dig around in the meat a little and see how deep the black part goes."

  She turned to her task, acting as if they were embarking on some kind of exciting adventure together.

  "Look, Wendy…"

  "Oh, good! Some brown stuff!"

  "Wendy—"

  "And even some pink. See?"

  He sighed. "I just don't think this is going to work out."

  She paused a moment, then started carving again, her voice a little shaky. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that I was right the first time. I don't think you should be staying here."

  Her face fell, and she lay down the knife. "Oh."

  "I think it would be best for both of us if I took you somewhere else."

  For several seconds she just stood there, not moving. She swallowed hard, then slowly turned her eyes up to meet his, and his heart skipped with apprehension. Those big brown eyes were one thing. Those big brown eyes swimming in tears were something else entirely. She pursed her lips, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

  He fumbled around, grabbed a dish towel and held it out to her. "Come on," he said awkwardly. "Don't cry."

  She nodded, but the tears kept coming.

  "Maybe it's time for you to call your family and ask them for money," Wolfe said.

  "I can't do that to them. They'd have to scrape too hard to help me." She dabbed at her eyes with the dish towel. "And I shouldn't be doing this to you, either. It's wrong for me to ask you to let me stay here when you've done so much for me already."

  Wolfe sighed. "Look, I don't get it. Why is this such a big deal to you? I mean, look around you. This place isn't very nice. And neither am I most of the time. So why do you want to stay here?"

  "Because I—" She shrugged weakly. "I—I guess because even though I act like all of this is no big deal, getting carjacked, losing everything I own, the truth is that I'm alone, and I'm scared, and—" she paused, her voice a plaintive whisper "—I feel safe with you."

  Safe? With him?

  Wolfe just stood there, dumbfounded. When she looked at him, she had to see the same hard-edged face, mammoth body and don't-screw-with-me expression every other woman on the planet saw. Yet every word out of her mouth, every move she made, said she didn't. In a world where he'd spent his entire life scaring people to death, she was telling him just the opposite.

  In that moment, his anger went up in smoke right along with the smoldering chunk of beef. He couldn't do it. No matter how much grief she'd caused him, he knew there was no way he could drop her off at one of those places where she'd be just a face in the crowd, one more down-on-her-luck woman who nobody cared enough about to help so strangers had to do it. Okay, he was a stranger, too, but not as strange as those people would be, and…

  Oh, damn.

  She dabbed at her eyes some more, but the tears kept coming, and he had no idea what to do to make them stop.

  He sighed. Yes, he did.

  "Never mind," he said. "You can stay."

  She rolled her eyes. "You're just saying that because I'm crying. As soon as I stop—"

  "No. I mean it."

  "Sure. You say that now, but—"

  "You can stay."

  "I know men hate a crying woman. They'll stand on their heads and sing show tunes if that's what it takes to get her to stop."

  "I said you can stay. Does it really matter why?"

  "I just want you to know
that I'm not trying to manipulate you. I swear I'm not. I just cry a little too easily sometimes. I—I can't help it."

  "Wendy—"

  "And I've had a lot to cry over for the past day or so. Still, if that's the only reason you're letting me stay—"

  "Wendy!"

  She sniffed. "What?"

  He leaned in and spoke slowly and distinctly. "If I were you, I'd quit while I was ahead."

  In spite of the no-nonsense look he gave her, a tiny smile warmed her tear-streaked face. "So you're really not going to kick me out?"

  "No. I'm not going to kick you out."

  "So how long can I stay?"

  "Hell, I don't know," he muttered. "For now. That's the best I can do. But you have to salvage something out of this dinner. I haven't gotten any less hungry in the past five minutes."

  Her smiled widened. "Yeah. Okay. There's bound to be something edible in this mess somewhere, right?" She wiped her cheeks with the dish towel, her whole body heaving with relief, then picked up the knife and started in again on the charcoal beef briquette. As she sliced away, she began to hum. The noise should have driven him crazy, but instead it was a soothing sound, like a waterfall, or wind rustling through treetops.

  He couldn't believe it. She was actually happy to be here. No. Happy to be safe. Happy not to have to pay rent. Happy not to be on a cot at a women's shelter. That was a far cry from being happy to be here.

  Or happy to be with him.

  I feel safe with you.

  Well, she'd feel safe with a bazooka on each shoulder, too. It had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with him living in a fortress. Or maybe in the end it just came down to the fact that she didn't like the idea of sharing a bathroom with forty other women.

  In any case, he'd probably let her stay a week. Just until she got on her feet. Okay—maybe two weeks if that was what it took until she could get an apartment deposit together. Of course, if Ramona's pay period hadn't cycled around, it might be three weeks, but that was absolutely it. After that, she could cry buckets, and he wasn't going to be the least bit moved. He was going to hustle her right out the door, and there wouldn't be anything she could do to change his mind.

  * * *

  To her own surprise, Wendy managed to salvage enough of the food to make a decent dinner, then even got Wolfe to admit that while it wasn't the best meal he'd ever eaten, it certainly wasn't the worst. And the wine made everything seem as if it didn't matter all that much, anyway. Afterward, she sent Wolfe to the living room, insisting on tidying up the kitchen herself. Her cooking sucked, but cleaning she could handle, and after everything that had happened she figured it was the least she could do.

  Wolfe sat down on the sofa, flipped on the TV to a cable news station, then opened up the newspaper. Out of nowhere, the cat from hell slithered over and leaped up beside him, curled himself into a ball and closed his eyes, his head resting against Wolfe's thigh. It all seemed so domestic that, for a moment, Wendy felt like June Cleaver, until she realized that June probably wouldn't have set foot in the sleazy side of downtown Dallas, Wolfe didn't resemble Ward in the least and any pet of the Beaver's would have had all of his appendages intact.

  After she finished in the kitchen, she brought their glasses and the remainder of the bottle of wine into the living room, wanting to make this situation feel as normal as possible for both of them. She sat down on the sofa gently so as not to disturb the domestic tranquility of man and cat. But as soon as her fanny hit the cushion, the cat leaped up, tore off the sofa and sat six feet away, glaring at her with those wicked yellow eyes.

  Wendy slumped with dismay. "Maybe I'm a little sensitive, but I don't think your cat likes me."

  Wolfe never looked up from his newspaper. "He doesn't like anybody."

  "He seems to like you just fine."

  "He's just kissing up. He knows where his food comes from."

  Nope. Dogs kissed up. Cats would starve before hanging out with a human they didn't like.

  "Do you keep him inside all the time?" Wendy asked.

  "Hell, yes. This is a bad neighborhood."

  "Well, he looks like a pretty bad cat."

  "Nope. He's a real wuss."

  "Hard to believe."

  "Oh, yeah? If he could kick another cat's ass, would he be missing half his body parts?"

  Good point.

  "So what's his name?"

  He shot the cat a dirty look. "Weenie."

  She laughed a little. "Weenie?"

  "He ran into the warehouse one night to get away from a dog."

  She looked at the cat, wondering why the floor hadn't collapsed under his weight. "Must have been a big dog."

  "Oh, yeah. Had to weigh at least five pounds. Damned cat could have turned around and sat on the stupid thing and squashed him flat." He looked down at the cat and made a scoffing noise, then turned back to his newspaper. "He ran away like his tail was on fire."

  "It was nice of you to take him in," Wendy said.

  "I didn't have much of a choice."

  "Sure you did. You could have left him out on that street, scared to death. But you didn't. I guess it's lucky for him that you're the kind of guy who picks up strays." She paused. "I guess it's lucky for me, too."

  Wolfe glanced up at her, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. He folded his paper, then looked down at the sofa where he sat.

  "Uh, listen … you probably want to go to sleep. I'll just—"

  "No!" she said. "You don't always go to bed this early, do you?"

  He paused. "No. Not usually. But I can go to my room and read, or something."

  "No! We've still got wine to finish, don't we? Let's stay up and watch something on TV."

  The last thing Wendy wanted to do was drive him out of his own living room at seven o'clock in the evening. That would make him uncomfortable. And the more uncomfortable he felt with her there, the more likely he was to want her to leave.

  She grabbed the remote and began to flip through the stations, every hit on the channel button causing the television to spit out a loud static noise.

  "Wendy—"

  "Doesn't look as if there's much on tonight," she said, still flipping. "But I'll find something." She zoomed past a talk show. A decorating show. A game show.

  "Oh, look! It's that new reality show! The one where three couples and a marriage counselor go into the Amazon with only the clothes on their backs, army rations and a—"

  "Will you give me that?" Wolfe pulled the remote out of her hand. He checked his watch, then pushed a couple of buttons, taking him directly to what looked like one of those urban cop shows.

  "There you go," Wolfe said, setting the remote down next to him. "Some quality programming."

  "Sure," Wendy said, pouring them both a little more wine. "Why not? I haven't had my quota of extreme violence today."

  "And from now on," Wolfe said, picking up his glass, "I'm in charge of the remote."

  He said it with such authority that she almost laughed out loud. Like that was a big surprise? A man declaring himself chief-in-charge of an electronic device?

  Wendy settled back on the sofa, tucked her legs up beside her and leaned against a pillow. Wolfe sat with his feet propped up on the coffee table, his arms folded over his chest, watching the show with the same intensity with which he did everything else.

  After a while, Weenie overcame some of his feline disgust at Wendy's presence on the sofa and leaped back up next to Wolfe, who began to stroke him absentmindedly. It was a strange and wonderful sight—a man powerful enough to tie a python into a pretzel petting that abysmal-looking animal.

  Wendy kept stealing sidelong glances at Wolfe, and pretty soon she wasn't following the TV show at all. Her mind kept wandering back to how he'd kept her from freezing on the street last night, how he'd stomped into that bar to save her and how, even though she'd messed up so much, still he'd taken her in. Little warm fuzzies started coming to life inside her, and a feeling of security and well-being w
rapped itself around her like a warm blanket.

  Soon, though, security and well-being weren't the only feelings she had.

  After half an hour, her eye muscles were worn out from looking at him without looking if she was looking, at the same time the attraction she felt toward him was growing exponentially. And her mind was exhausted from telling herself how crazy that was. Now that she was actually coexisting with her landlord without the two of them snapping at each other, the last thing she needed to do was to rock the boat with all these sexy thoughts.

  Sexy?

  That made no sense. He wasn't classically handsome by any means, with a ruggedness to his face that would have made a lumberjack look like an underwear model. And that scar on his cheek made him seem downright dangerous. So why was her heart suddenly going crazy just because she was in the same room with him?

  It had to be his gorgeous body. What woman with two functioning eyes wouldn't be drawn to that?

  No. That made no sense, either. She could go to a gym and watch buff bods right and left and not feel half as hot as she did right now.

  It had to be the wine.

  Well, she knew that was a lie, too. She'd once downed half a dozen tequila shots on a Florida beach, then danced until dawn. Two glasses of wine might make her a little woozy, but she was hardly one of those women who thought any man looked good after a couple of drinks. Alcohol just made her observations a little more focused.

  And boy, were they focused right now.

  When the first TV program was over, Wolfe turned to another one, and then another one after that. His attention remained on the television while Wendy's attention remained on him.

  Finally ten o'clock came. Wolfe turned to her. "It's getting late."

  Wendy couldn't help yawning. "Yeah."

  He flipped off the television, then reached into his wallet, pulled out some bills and tossed them onto the table.

  "What's that?" she asked.

  "A hundred dollars."

  She stared down at it with surprise. "But you said you weren't going to pay me."

  "I'm not. It's just a loan. I expect it back. And I'm keeping track."

  "Of course. I've got a job now. I can pay you back soon."