All for You

by Christi Barth

  Cute. She looked nervous. Casey was probably worried someone like her old middle school principal would blab a story about when she cheated on a test or cut class. No big deal. Heck, Zane had made five dollars and a kiss behind the bleachers in the eighth grade by letting the prettiest girl in school copy his Latin homework.

  He traced a finger down the zigzag pattern of her braid. “Then at the end of the week, I’ll stake out the barber shop. It’s always a great place to pick up info. Or to learn where I can get it.”

  “Sounds like quite an agenda.”

  “It’s a start. Besides, I know you’re on duty all weekend. Might as well fill my empty, Casey-less hours with something productive, right?”

  “That’s the problem with working at a major tourist attraction. You’ve got to work when the tourists are here. Crazy, huh? But I’ve got Monday off. All day. And all night.”

  Now they were back on a topic he wanted to pursue. “Keep talking.”

  “Nope. Words are your thing. I’m better at the physical stuff. Hiking. Biking. Kissing.” She cozied up to him with a playful glint in her eyes. And then her lids fluttered shut as Casey stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

  Ninety-nine percent of the blood in his body surged down to his dick. But the few drops still up in his head kicked in enough brain cells for Zane to be cognizant that they were in a restaurant and should keep it tame. Right. With the passionate woman in his arms? Impossible. But contained, yeah, that he could do. So Zane cupped her face in his palms as their tongues met and danced. As he tasted the fruity sweetness of the cocktail on her lips and swallowed the hum of enjoyment that welled up in her throat.

  A tap on his shoulder, a split second before Zane put together that Casey had both her hands on his ass, so who the hell was touching his shoulder? And then an unceremonious yank that twisted him backward. Instinctively, he let go of Casey so as not to hurt her.

  “Get your hands off her,” a low voice demanded.

  A guy in a blue blazer, crisp white shirt and red, white and blue plaid pants stood way the fuck too close to Zane. The curly brown hair triggered a memory. It was Pierce, the man who’d hassled him at the faculty party. The one who’d all but pissed a circle around Casey to mark her as his own.

  Zane planted his feet. Crossed his arms but kept his voice calm. “For starters, how about you keep your hands off me?”

  “Not until I get my point across.” Pierce angled his hand into the shape of a gun and pointed it at Zane. “You should’ve gotten the picture at President Carrajo’s house. For a professor, I guess you’re not too smart.”

  A cool head and a long fuse were important in his line of work. Cult leaders had been known to throw epithets at him. Tomatoes. Once even, a wooden pulpit that took out a chunk of wall where Zane had been standing only a minute before. And that didn’t even touch on how tough it was to handle book reviewers. He took it all in stride.

  But no damned mama’s boy was going to insult his intelligence. Zane put up with those taunts from his father. Turned a deaf ear every time the old man made digs about how easy it must be to sit on his ass all day and type for a living. How if he was really so smart, he’d have become a lawyer or a real doctor, not a fake one with the wrong initials after his name. So it was go time.

  Zane looked down his nose. Convenient that he topped Pierce by at least an inch. “Says a man who suctions spit all day long. ’Cause that makes you such an asset to humanity.” He was tempted to reach out and take Casey’s hand, but he didn’t want her within range of whatever was about to go down.

  “You probably don’t even floss.”

  No point in trying to hide his snigger at the weakest insult in the world. “That’s all you’ve got?”

  “Just giving you time to be scared.” Pierce balled up his hands and raised them to his chest. And then swung his leg out in a kick that connected with Zane’s shin.

  Unexpected. As was the newfound knowledge at how damn hard the end of a penny loafer really was. God, a fight over he didn’t even know what was so stupid. As a black belt, he tried to avoid fighting at all, but especially fighting untrained people. Zane thrust his left arm behind him to push Casey back. Then balled his right fist and cocked it right up by his chin, strictly for show. “This is neither the time nor the place. How about you turn around and walk away?”

  “Not without Casey.”

  Pierce took a jab that landed on Zane’s upper arm.

  Shit. Zane flipped his left arm up in a chop to just dislodge him. To stop this from turning into an all-out fistfight. But it didn’t work. Pierce’s other hand came up, in a hook from underneath, toward Zane’s side. He managed to sidestep, but that rammed his hip into the console table covered with menus. A vase of red and white flowers tumbled to the ground. Broken glass skittered across the floor. Water puddled.

  Screw playing defense. Zane curled his right hand into a cotton fist, fingers loose as though cradling an egg. With a straight wrist, he powered a strike right into Pierce’s lapel. The man’s neck snapped audibly, and he staggered back three steps. That ought to be enough to scare him off.

  With a roar, Pierce bent in half and flung himself at Zane’s knees. The move would’ve tackled some men to the ground. But Zane saw it coming a mile away. He turned, grabbed Pierce’s jacket at the waist and at his collar, with a forearm against the neck. Training said Zane should keep going. Pull up a knee and slam it into the undoubtedly glass jaw, which would take Pierce out. This being a restaurant, and still not entirely sure why the guy had come at him, Zane just held him there, pinned on hands and knees to the ground.

  With the situation defused, Zane let his focus widen. Noticed the crushed petals beneath his feet. Heard the high-pitched whimper from the hostess, who’d just come back from seating that big table. And the slap of sandals against concrete as a bunch of people came running.

  Lifting his head, he found Casey first. She stood stock still against the wall, eyes big and cheeks bright. Ella and Piper rushed to surround her.

  “You okay?” Ward crouched beside him, adding another restraining hand in the small of Pierce’s back.

  “Not even breathing hard,” Zane affirmed. “Thanks for coming to help. I think.” He could be making the entirely wrong assumption. “Just to clarify, which one of us are you here to help?”

  “We’ve got your back,” said Gray. “Not that you need it. Want us to take him off your hands?”

  “Gladly.”

  Gray grabbed an arm. As soon as Ward shifted his grip to Pierce’s belt to haul him upright, Zane straightened and backed away.

  A large woman with a shock of salt and pepper hair joined the group. She had a tiny flag painted onto her cheek. Guess she’d been at the race festivities earlier. “Ward Cantrell, what have you done to my restaurant this time?”

  “Not a thing. Thanks for thinking the worst of me, though.” He and Gray yanked Pierce around to face the growing crowd.

  “Dr. Rensselaer?” Whipping a handkerchief from a more than ample bosom, she dabbed at the beads of moisture on her upper lip. “Unhand him,” she demanded.

  “When Zane gives the say-so, we will.”

  First, he had to get Ward off the hook. Zane made a mental note to ask later why she’d assumed he’d been the one to start the fight. “Are you the owner?”

  “Manager. I’m Greta Neuhaus.”

  “Dr. Zane Buchanan.” They shook. “I’m sorry about the commotion. Ward had nothing to do with it, I assure you. And I also apologize for the loss of your lovely flowers and the vase. Dr. Rensselaer will be paying to replace it.” Gray tugged out Pierce’s wallet and tossed it to Zane. “Right after he tells me what the hell is going on.”

  Pierce wouldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he swiveled his head to look at Casey. “Can we talk?”

  A swift and firm shake of the head that, p
aired with her thinned lips and scowl, made it clear Casey was far from happy with this turn of events. “Nope. Not really in the mood to chat right now.”

  She cracked him up. Casey didn’t hold back from telling it like it is. Zane hoped she appreciated the remarkable restraint he’d showed in not beating up the putz.

  “I did this for you,” stated Pierce.

  “What?” One honey-colored eyebrow zinged upward. “You picked a fight with Zane for me?”

  “For you. Over you. To get you.” The diners who’d crowded into the hallway to gawk sounded a general gasp of surprise. Greta included, he noted. Weird that she wasn’t sending them back to their tables. Was this aborted fight with zero blood shed so compelling? Or was it something about the specific people involved? Zane wondered just what the story was behind the assumption that Ward was at the center of the trouble.

  “To get me?” Casey over-enunciated each word, as if trying to make sure those were indeed the words he’d really meant. “I’m not a six-pack of beer you pick up on the way home. You can’t get me. And where is this coming from? You’ve never wanted me like that. Never even hinted.”

  “I didn’t know it until recently.” Pierce raised his voice. “I’ve been an idiot. Taken you for granted. Assumed you’d always be here for me.”

  That couldn’t be good. Zane had sniffed out that they’d been involved before. What he didn’t know was that he was being cycled into rotation behind Pierce like a record lining up in a jukebox.

  Casey took a few steps closer. “Of course I’ll always be here for you, Pierce.” Her voice gentled. “We’re friends.”

  “We’re more than that, and you know it. We are sometimes, at any rate.”

  Her lips thinned again into a straight line of disapproval. “Now is most certainly not one of those times.”

  There was the confirmation Zane had been in no hurry to hear. Still, everyone had a past. It wasn’t his right to judge anything about hers. Merely unfortunate that it happened to be encapsulated in this not very large town he was about to make his home.

  Pierce let his head droop a little. “You made that clear when we had dinner last weekend.”

  Casey had mentioned she went out with a friend when he was at the Sagamore. Even been upfront that it was a guy. But she hadn’t dropped Pierce’s name. Had that been on purpose? Sure, they hadn’t laid out any rules. Maybe they should have. Staked his claim. Should he be jealous? Or just relieved that she’d evidently set the guy straight on whom she preferred?

  “No different than dozens of other times we’ve had dinner and then gone our separate ways.”

  Pierce nodded. “I know. It should’ve been fine. We’ve both done it. Seeing you with this man, though, seeing you draped over him at the Hobart party, started me thinking. Thinking about how I haven’t appreciated just how wonderful you are. Seeing you kissing him just now sent me over the edge. I want you. As a girlfriend with all the strings attached.”

  Really? A whole big romantic declaration, as if Zane wasn’t standing two feet away? That had to violate some guy code. And it made him regret not at least bloodying the douchebag’s nose.

  Casey’s mouth dropped open. “Are you drunk, Pierce?”

  “A man doesn’t have to be drunk to want you. What I don’t want is to let you slip through my fingers. So I’m taking a stand. No more of this casual stuff. I want us to be exclusive. I want you to be mine.”

  Zane still had plenty of juice left in him, and he wanted more than anything to clock this guy before he uttered another word. Nobody owned Casey. She didn’t belong to Zane, and she damned well didn’t, couldn’t and wouldn’t belong to Pierce. Or that’s what he hoped, at any rate.

  “That’s very sweet, Pierce, but you just caused a tremendous scene in one of my favorite restaurants, and attacked...ah...one of my dear friends. We’re not seguing into a relationship talk when there’s a roomful of people trying to enjoy their meals.”

  “Oh, we’re enjoying the show tremendously,” piped up a woman at the round two-top closest to them. She even raised her beer mug in a toast. “Don’t stop on our account.”

  Enough. Zane flipped open the wallet in his hands, rifled past a dry-cleaning ticket to pluck out a hundred-dollar bill. He thrust it at Greta. “That should be enough to compensate for the vase, the flowers, and the scuffle. If you need anything else, contact Dr. Rensselaer tomorrow, because we’re booting his ass out the door right now.”

  On his signal, Ward and Gray half marched/half dragged the dentist not just outside, but all the way down the path to the gravel parking lot. Zane watched through the sidelights. He didn’t want another surprise attack. Casey joined him, lacing her fingers through his.

  “I’m so sorry, Zane. Pierce was way out of line. I swear I had no idea he felt that way.”

  “Yeah—quite the speech your dentist made.”

  “Um, about that. Any chance you can forget it happened? Just go back in and enjoy our brats and sauerkraut and eat until we’re ready to pop?”

  Zane was all for getting back to the raucous fun of a holiday dinner. But he had to get one thing straight first. “Because you don’t want to talk about it? Or because you haven’t decided what to do?” This was a do-over he’d never expected to get. “Look, I didn’t get the chance to fight for my ex-wife. Rebecca just left—no shot at counseling or anything. So I’m damn well going to fight for you.”

  “I...what I mean to say is...” Her fingers tightened on his hand. She drew in a long, deep breath.

  And in that too-long moment of silence, Zane changed his mind. “Never mind. You’re right—a holiday is no time for this kind of discussion.” He pulled her back toward the table. “Fill me up, woman! I suppose instead of apple pie for dessert, there’s apple strudel?”

  The tentative smile she gave him showed her gratitude for the bullet they’d both just dodged. “With vanilla ice cream, if you’re into that.”

  “I like to lick my fill of sweet, creamy goodness.” Zane damn well wasn’t giving up just because someone else might still be in the race. So he traced a finger down her sternum and along the swell of one breast beneath her shirt. “And I like ice cream, too.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The bulbous cork made a smacking pop when Joel eased it from the bottle. A small cloud of vapor wisped up. Casey thrust her glass forward before he finished tucking the napkin back into his half-apron.

  “I don’t like this,” Ella said. She paced in front of her spa’s registration desk, her lavender and green polka-dotted Converses squeaking against the tiles.

  Joel turned the bottle to show her the label. “It’s Mayhew Manor’s reserve sparkling rosé. Raspberries in the nose, strawberries and rhubarb on the tongue, medium dry. Your father approved this particular vintage years ago. It’s a double gold medal winner. There’s nothing for you to dislike about this wine.”

  “Sure there is. I dislike that you haven’t poured any into my glass yet,” Casey said, tapping her nails against the crystal. Ella didn’t crack open the good stuff very often. And her family’s award-winning wines were noticeably great even to Casey’s undiscriminating palate.

  “And I won’t until Ella tastes it.” Joel poured barely a mouthful into a flute and tried to hand it to Ella. She didn’t stop pacing.

  “I shouldn’t taste it.”

  “Ella, you’re the host of this shindig. Also the owner of the spa, the hotel in which the spa is located, and the winery that produced this bottle. There is nobody better suited to taste this wine than you. Now take the damn glass,” Joel barked.

  “I’m sure the wine is fine. I meant that I feel guilty for sipping wine and munching on truffles while my employees spoil me and my friends rotten. You’re all still working. It isn’t right.”

  Casey hitched herself up to sit on the counter. Ella usually co
mplained about her hiking boots scuffing the paint, but today was a blissful day off. No uniform, no boots, and Casey planned to make the most of it, starting by swinging her legs without netting any dirty looks. “Speaking as one of those friends, I have to say I have zero objections to this plan.”

  “I second that,” added Piper. Apparently as tired of waiting as Casey, she grabbed the bottle from Joel and started pouring.

  “You think I’m some hack?” With much clattering and clanging, he removed the silver domes from the line of plates he’d brought from the kitchen on a rolling cart. “I didn’t bring you clichéd truffles for your girls’ day. I brought you piquillo peppers stuffed with goat cheese to start, a chicken and dill potato salad with herbed asiago rolls and a lemon amaretto torte for dessert.”

  “Figure of speech, Joel. You went above and beyond, as usual. All I expected was a couple of scoops of chicken salad in a pita.”

  More clanging. Joel’s dark hair was rumpled, as though he’d shoved his hand through it a dozen times. Feet planted wide, eyes sparking, he looked and sounded snarlier than a hibernating bear awoken too soon. “If that’s all you expected, why don’t you go hire the guy who makes wraps at the mall to be your executive chef? Until then, every damn plate that leaves my kitchen was, is and will be a work of culinary art.”

  “Geez, you’re touchy today.” Ella pushed the glass back along the counter to him. “I think you need a drink more than I do.”

  “I think what Joel needs can’t be cured by alcohol.” Was Casey sticking her nose into an already sticky situation? Yes. But she’d thought about this all day yesterday while handing out park maps, answering about a million phone calls about the weather, running in circles trying to keep people out of the waters of the Gorge and generally hustling so much Casey swore she’d dropped three pounds off her ass. Joel’s unrequited love was romantic. It was sweet. And it pissed her off.

  “Drop it, Casey,” he warned in an even pricklier tone.

  “Are you still sore that you didn’t get to run the race?” asked Piper. Her always perfectly manicured nails—today’s shade a vivid pink that popped against the red of her hair—ran in a swift caress up and down his tan forearm. “I’ll bet your broken toes are a hideous shade of purple and blue.”