Julian was engrossed in the tail end of Y&R, leaning forward with his bony elbows on his khaki-clad knees, eyes intent under bushy grey brows.
He gasped. "Lucky, do you believe that stubborn idiot? Jill still won't acknowledge that Katherine is her mom and not that imposter, Marge! Even with Nikki on her side! She's got the ring and everything!"
"Don't give anything away, Julian, I'm recording it."
He shook his head, muttering, "I'd take Katherine Chancellor in off the streets any day. That is one hot broad."
Mentally filing that disturbing comment under "R" for "Repress," I moved toward the kitchen. "Chance, you need food with those pills. I'll feed you and then drive you to the airport or train station or bus stop or whatever. "
"I'm staying in town a while." His lips quirked in a smile and there was a challenging glint in his eye.
"Not here, you're not," I said coolly. "How about a sandwich, Julian?"
"Don't worry about me, chickie," Julian assured me blithely as he rose to his feet, pretending the room wasn't electric with tension. "I'm saving room for dinner. They're serving Salisbury steak tonight back in heaven's waiting room." He patted his belly and wiggled his eyebrows.
"I really wish you wouldn't call it that, Julian," I replied, shaking my head. "You're only 72. God's going to be waiting on you for a long time yet."
Julian was perfectly capable of living on his own, but his rotten excuse for a son had shuffled him off to a nursing home so he could sell Julian's house for some extra cash three years before. Julian had just lost his wife, Dot, to ovarian cancer and was grief-stricken and battling severe depression, so his son had him declared incompetent. Julian didn't fight the ruling, at first because he was too deep in mourning to care, but later, I think because he enjoyed breaking the all the rules of the nursing home.
He loved sticking it to the administration by sneaking out whenever he felt like it and smuggling in pints of Grey Goose vodka to stash in the janitorial closet. It wasn't like he was stealthy about it, either. Mostly, I figured the employees there just turned a blind eye to his antics because he was charming with the staff, the little old ladies all adored him and he made a damned fine martini.
Watching him pull his coat on in the entryway, I was tempted to ask him to move in with me, and not for the first time. I hated the thought of him being stuck in a sterile hospital environment when he was obviously no way near ready to get in line at the pearly gates. But that would go back to the whole almost-octogenarian boyfriend thing, and I wasn't sure if I was quite ready for that kind of commitment yet.
Julian gave me a strong hug at the door. He smelled comfortable and familiar, like peppermints and menthol cigarettes. "I'll be back in a couple of days," he whispered. "Don't let lover boy over there stomp you again, all right?" He raised an eyebrow at me knowingly when I flushed with guilty color.
"Well, you're sure not senile yet. I thought you'd forgotten all about that afternoon we split a box of wine and I spilled my guts about Chance."
"Nope," he replied, giving me a smacking good-bye kiss on the cheek. Plunking his fedora down on his head, he headed out into the rain. I waited, door open, until he navigated the slippery steps. "Don't make me kick his ass," were his parting words as he disappeared down the misty block.
Chapter 7
"So when did you sign up for the adopt-a-Grandpa program?" Chance asked from somewhere near my right shoulder.
"I thought we talked about personal space, Chance. Next, we need to discuss sneaking up on people." I turned around, but more cautiously this time. No one was injured in the process. And apparently Chance had learned a thing or two from the crack on his chin, because he wasn't hovering within striking distance.
"Not your business," I added defensively, not wanting to explain that Julian was the best friend I'd ever had aside from Addy. I eyed Chance's tall, tousled, irritatingly handsome self, barefoot in tuxedo pants and a wrinkled white t-shirt. The hormonal, frustrated part of me wanted to seduce him with my famous white chicken chili and get him out of those tuxedo pants, but the smarter and bitterer side of me knew he didn't deserve it.
"How's PB&J sound for lunch?"
"That sounds good. Crunchy peanut butter?" he asked hopefully, following me into the kitchen.
"Nope. Smooth and creamy, since any sane person knows that crunchy peanut butter ruins the whole atmosphere of the sandwich."
Like him, I actually preferred crunchy peanut butter, but my arm was stinging, my head ached slightly from where I had probably smacked it on the floor in my subconscious swan dive out of the chair, and damn it, I was feeling ornery.
Chance wasn't taking the bait.
"Smooth is fine." He straddled one of my chairs, and it squeaked a little under his weight. Folding his arms, he rested his chin on them and watched as I bustled around the kitchen, trying to find where the hell I had put that smooth peanut butter I'd bought for no-bake cookies a few months ago.
I finally gave up and grabbed the crunchy stuff without a word of explanation.
"So what have you been up to the past few years?" Chance was making an obvious effort to clear some of the tension from the room.
"Nothing much." I slapped the strawberry jelly across the bread. I wasn't cooperating.
At a loss, he drummed his fingers on the table.
More seconds were ticked out by the cat clock while I tried not to feel his eyes boring into my back. Between us hung 10 years of unfinished history.
"Lucky—" he started, but the rest of what he was going to say seemed to stick in his throat. Was it going to be an apology? An explanation? My shoulders went rigid and I stopped what I was doing, waiting for him to come out with whatever it was.
Chance finally broke the uncomfortable silence by clearing his throat. "I gotta pee," he unceremoniously announced, and headed for the restroom.
I thought I was finally going to get some closure and he had to pee? Trying to distract myself from all of the recriminations that were about to explode out of me, I glanced out the window over the kitchen sink into the wet yard below. A white van down the block advertised Candy's Cleaning Crew. Inwardly, I snorted. Candy had an unfortunate affection for alliteration, and some illegal, super dark tinted windows.
I turned to set Chance's plate of PB&J's on the dinette table, and tripped over Louie, who was silently sitting behind me. The delicate, daisy-patterned dish in my hand went flying, following the two sandwiches, and broken glass sprayed the back of my head as I went down on my face.
I was stunned for a second by the fall. My eyes struggled to focus on the first thing I saw. An unbroken, daisy-patterned dish.
And I was surrounded by clear glass shards.
I was still puzzling over that as the bathroom door banged open and Chance came charging out, demanding to know what the hell had just happened. Finally, it clicked.
Holy shit. Candy's Cleaning Crew had just shot out my kitchen window.
Chapter 8
My eyes flew wide open as this realization dawned, and I scrabbled across the floor to where Chance stood.
"Down… get down…," I panted, frantically tugging on his pants.
"What the hell, Lucky!"
"You idiot—someone just shot out my window! Get down!"
"How hard did you hit your head this time?" he asked, concern written all over his face.
Chance sank down on his haunches, just as another bullet shattered the centerpiece of my salvaged crystal chandelier and wedged itself in the plaster of my kitchen wall, up near the ceiling. His eyes widened as colored chips of pink Depression glass tinkled musically to the floor around us.
"Where's your phone," he demanded, every trace of warmth in his face freezing hard.
"In the living room, on the end table next to the couch."
Chance crab-crawled across the floor toward the phone, and I went the opposite direction, terrified that Candy and her demonic crew would come barreling through my unlocked door any second, guns blazing. M
y apartment was on the third floor, and I wasn't in view of any windows, but my shoulder blades still prickled in terrified anticipation of more gunfire.
I got the doorknob locked and screwed up the courage to stand up and quickly shoot the deadbolt before dropping back down on all fours and crawling toward the living room. Chance was talking to someone in a low, urgent voice.
"Yeah, well, I've heard that before. Just get here."
He saw me coming and abruptly hung up.
"The police are going to check it out," he said, his green eyes dodging mine. "It's probably just some college kids playing target practice."
"You weren't on the phone with the police."
He looked back at me for a second, before dropping his eyes to my chest.
"Nice bra, Lucky. You always did have good taste in lingerie."
"Quit trying to change the subject. Who were you talking to and why did someone just snuff my chandelier?"
He ignored me and edged toward my living room window. Going up on one knee, he pulled the curtain to one side.
"Candy was the shooter, if that's what you're wondering," I huffed.
"What are you talking about?"
"A white van with a cleaning company sign on the side was parked across the street and down the block. Is it still there?"
"Nope," he said. "What's the deal—didn't you pay your bill?"
"I have no idea why a cleaner would try to take me out," I said. "Maybe you do, though." I gave him a long look, but he was saved from a reply by a pounding on the door.
"Chance, it's me. Open up!"
I raised my eyebrow. "So the cops are on a first name basis with you, not to mention right in the neighborhood?"
He shook his head in exasperation. "Nate's a friend. There's some stuff I should probably explain, but I don't have time right now. Just try not to freak out and don't call the police yet. You can as soon I leave, which will be ASAP, okay?" Chance stepped close to me, and despite the bandage wrapped around his head, he was the most beautiful thing I'd seen in... well, 10 years.
He touched my cheek, looking almost regretful, and went to answer the door.
My face tingled where his fingers had been, and suddenly, I wasn't quite as eager to see him go.
Chance's friend was not what I had expected. At least six and a half feet tall, with long, thick black hair in a ponytail, sun-bronzed skin and dark brown eyes, the man who stood at the door was probably the second most fantastic-looking guy I had ever seen. His dark green sweater hugged muscles that looked capable of inflicting serious pain, and his dark jeans encased legs that were as thick and solid as tree trunks. In one hand, he effortlessly carried a duffel bag that appeared to weigh more than I did.
Amusement glittered in his dark eyes as he reached out to help me to my feet. "Ma'am," he drawled. I had the sudden, stupid thought that I wished I had opted for the smutty sleep set when I changed earlier.
"Are you a cowboy?" I asked stupidly, gripping his hand and pulling myself up.
"Actually, I used to be," he laughed. "But mostly I'm an FBI agent now. Name is Nate Whiteford. Pleasure to meet you." He lifted the bottom of his sweatshirt to show an FBI badge clipped to his belt, along with a little bit of smooth brown hip and what I'd swear was the shadow of a six-pack.
FBI, huh? He'd probably make better money as a stripper playing an FBI agent.
It wasn't until he laughed that I realized I'd said that out loud.
"He gets that a lot. Criminals throw themselves at him for the chance to get arrested by Sexy Special Agent Nate Whiteford." Chance's wry remark earned him a shove that could have felled a sapling.
To cover my crippling embarrassment, I rushed on. "My name is Paige, but you can call me—."
"Lucky. I know. I've heard a lot about you."
Nate grinned at Chance, whose face was flushing a mottled red. Interesting, I thought. Chance has told someone about me. Which made me immediately wonder whether it was locker room talk or reminiscing over a first love talk. Oh, wait, these were men, which meant the former. Awkward.
"Are you FBI, too?" I asked Chance.
"No," he answered shortly. "Now if we've got all the introductions out of the way, can we get back to business?"
Next thing I knew, the two of them were heading into my kitchen like they owned the place.
"Gee, guys, make yourselves at home. Can I get you anything?" I queried from the doorway.
"Coffee'd be great," Nate said absently, before digging around in his enormous bag and coming out with a small, notebook-sized computer. I craned my neck and took a small step forward, but before I could catch a peek of what else was contained in the mysterious black duffel, Nate zipped it back up and I stepped on a shard of glass.
Cursing, I hopped back into the bathroom for tweezers, more Neosporin, another Band-Aid and some house slippers, and then shuffled to the hall closet for a little whisk broom and dustpan. By the time I returned to the kitchen, Chance and Nate were deep in conversation and had seemed to have forgotten about the coffee and the fact that I existed.
I kneeled down on the linoleum and started sweeping up glass, trying my best to be unobtrusive while I eavesdropped.
"It can't possibly come as a surprise to you that Dominick is still out for blood," Nate was saying. "Until you turned his last shipment into a fireworks display, you'd been flying under the radar and he was finally starting to trust you. Six months wasn't going to be enough time for him to get over that. Hell, a hundred years wouldn't be enough. So, yeah, for now, I go where you go."
Interesting. I carefully whisked my little pile of glass shards around the back of Chance's chair, where I was more inconspicuous.
"Oh, so I'm bait?" Chance bit off the words through clenched teeth, and I was surprised Nate wasn't reeling from the force of his glare. "Let's temporarily put aside the fact that your partner all but told me I was probably off Dominick's radar by now." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How would Dominick even know I was here? It's fricking Kalamazoo! Nobody knew my plans but you and Fisher and I made sure I wasn't followed. I'm not stupid."
Nate raised a dark eyebrow, dividing his attention between rapid-fire typing and Chance's obvious discomfiture. "That's debatable. If you weren't stupid, how do you explain the fire?"
"Goddamn it, none of this is my fault and you know it! Everything was going fine and then I got hit by some freaking bad luck." Shoving against the table angrily, Chance stood up, knocking his chair backwards sharply. Unfortunately, I was still behind him.
"Dammit, Lucky, what were you doing back there?" His words were harsh, but his hands were gentle when he untangled me from the chrome legs of the fallen chair and lifted me to my feet. "You need a keeper," he muttered, as he brushed some glass shards off my shirt. He froze when he realized where his hands were and how close I was to him. I had opened my mouth to make a smart-ass retort, but no words came out.
We were nearly nose to nose in the cramped corner of my kitchen, sandwiched between the dinette table and the fridge. He was watching me with an intensity that both fascinated and terrified me. The fascination part was winning, though, and I suddenly wanted him in a very bad way.
Right up until Nate cleared his throat.
I jumped away like he'd poked me with a cattle prod, whacking my head on the corner of the fridge. Chance quickly moved out of my way and shot Nate a glare when he chuckled. "I hate to interrupt, but we really should finish up here."
Chance sat back down and folded his arms, looking at me, but speaking to Nate. "I think it would be better if we moved our conversation to my hotel. It was a mistake for me to even come here in the first place."
"Right," I said, before I could help myself. "Time for the famous Chance Atkins disappearing act. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out."
He pushed himself back to his feet and carefully rotated his sore shoulder. "I don't know if I could take much more of this welcome home treatment anyway. Next, you're going to find a way to accidentall
y cut off one of my fingers or something."
"Welcome home treatment? You've got some nerve, you arrogant nitwit!" I sputtered, but Nate stood, too, and stepped between where the two of us stood bristling like Dobermans over a mailman squeaky toy.
"What about the insignificant little fact that someone just shot out my window?" I demanded, shifting my wrath to Nate. Nate smiled placatingly, even white teeth gleaming like an actor's in a toothpaste commercial.
"Don't worry. My partner tracked down the van. It was on I-94 and already 20 miles toward Chicago. We're following him now for a bit to make sure he truly is on his way out of town."
He put a hand on my shoulder, turning me toward the broken window, and pointed to a blue sedan parked across the street where the van had been. That's Randall Fisher. Fisher's going to keep an eye on things here for a while to make sure everything stays copacetic."
"Should I still call the local police?" I asked.
It occurred to me that if the Fisher guy was there, and obviously Nate and Chance had things covered on their end, I probably didn't need to freak out my pot-growing neighbor downstairs if it wasn't necessary. Gary was a super nice guy, despite his hobbies, and he always checked on Louie for me when I was out of town. Plus, he made me an awesome pan of brownies once.
"I'll leave that up to you," Nate answered, "but we've really got it covered. Local police would probably just muddy the water at this point."
Nate zipped his computer back into its case and tucked it in the duffel again. "I'm really sorry about the circumstances, Lucky, but it was good to meet you." The way Nate said my name in that Texan drawl of his was undeniably cute, and he looked like a Cabela's model, but it was Chance that I couldn't take my eyes off as stalked around the living room, grabbing his coat, shoes and painkillers.
Nate bounded down the steps to the big red Chevy Silverado parked in the driveway. Chance stopped on the landing and I stood in the doorway.
"It was good seeing you, Lucky," he said quietly. He started to say something else, but then his face closed up again. "Be happy."
Lucky in Love Page 3