Almost Perfect

by Julie Ortolon

  He'd risked his life, sweated blood on foreign soil, so people like Maddy could live free and go after their dreams.

  And last night she tells him she didn't do it?

  That was not acceptable.

  By God, if she came down those stairs and refused to let him help her, she'd have a fight on her hands. She was going to get her art career if he personally had to take her work around to every gallery in Santa Fe.

  Just then, she appeared on the landing-and Maddy the ideal vanished in the face of Maddy the flesh-and-blood woman.

  Good God, she dazzled him every time he looked at her.

  Get over it, Joe, he ordered himself. Don't be a sap. Ancient history, remember?

  As she skipped down the stairs, he forced himself to look away, with a stern reminder that he was on a mission that had nothing to do with getting close to Maddy on a personal level. Where this woman was concerned he needed a T-shirt that said BEEN

  THERE, DONE THAT, HAVE THE SCARS TO PROVE IT.

  Today was about setting the world back on its proper axis. Period. And if that meant ceasing hostilities, he'd do it. He'd be downright pleasant, if he had to.

  He heard the truck door open. "Okay," she said, sounding breathless. "How do I look?"

  Even though he braced for it, a bolt of need punched through his defenses when he turned and saw her. She stood back a few paces so he could see all of her.

  "Is this all right? I was going for artsy but professional." Holding a leather portfolio out to one side, her purse to the other, she twirled about, showing off an outfit that was pure Maddy: a crocheted sweater that was more air than yarn, belted at the hips over a sage-colored tank dress that fell to her ankles.

  His body tightened as his gaze ran the full length of her. "I think the boots might be a bit much for summer."

  "Oh, no, they're just ankle boots." Hitching up the skirt, she plopped her foot on the floorboard so he could see the 1890s brown-leather boots, an inch of frilly sock, and a lot of creamy bare leg.

  "I see." He cleared his throat.

  "They're fine?"

  "More than."

  "What about the hair?" She cocked her head back and forth. With Maddy, the hair was always the crowning touch, but today it was more glorious than ever, a full mane of wild red hair around her heart-shaped face. "Too much? Too big? Too messy?"

  "I don't think anyone will doubt you're from Texas, if that's what you're asking."

  "I knew it. Too big. I should pull it back. I have a scarf in here somewhere." She started digging through her massive purse.

  "Maddy, no, it's fine."

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  "Okay, then." She released a huff of air. "I'm a little nervous."

  "I never would have guessed." As he waited for her to get settled, he wondered which made her more nervous, the thought of showing her portfolio, or of spending the next half hour trapped- alone with him in his truck. Personally, he wasn't too thrilled with the second idea either. They'd both just have to make the best of it. "Seat belt."

  "Oh. Yeah. Right." She fastened the belt, then shifted toward him as he put the truck in gear and drove down the mountain. "Okay, last question, so be honest. Did I manage to hide the circles under my eyes? Or can you tell I got zero sleep last night?"

  "You didn't sleep well?" He felt a surprising stab of concern, remembering how emotionally wrung out she'd looked after their discussion.

  "It's a little hard to sleep when your head doesn't even hit the pillow until four a.m." She gave a breathy laugh. "My mind's been busting with images the past few days, but I haven't had a chance to set up an easel and break out the paints. That's the problem with oils. You can't just pick them up and set them down on a lark. Then yesterday, when I was cleaning out the supply cabinets in the craft room, I ran across a bunch of oil pastels. How perfect is that?"

  "I wouldn't know." He gave her a questioning look, which was all she needed to launch into one of the chatty monologues that had always amused him. This one was about the history of oil pastels, and how artists like Monet and Renoir had used them as a means to make color sketches while hanging out in Paris cafes.

  The neutral topic also provided a safe zone for them to operate. He welcomed it with the hope that the day wouldn't be too uncomfortable after all.

  "Is that what you were doing last night?" he asked when her monologue ran out. "Preliminary studies?"

  "About a dozen of them. Heavens, it was so liberating. I haven't played with oil pastels in years. I'd forgotten how fun they can be. They're so fast, you don't have time to think about the rules. You just let the image spill out of you onto the paper with quick strokes and squiggles. I'll rein all that in when I do the real paintings, but it was a blast to just let it rip."

  "Rules?" He raised a brow. "Since when did you care about the rules?"

  "You get enough technique hammered into you by art profs, some of it's bound to stick." She turned toward him. "Okay, here's the deal."

  "The deal?"

  "About today. I brought photographs of my work, just in case, but today is mostly for me to get a feel for the various galleries. If I'm not comfortable talking to any of the owners yet, I'll wait until I'm ready."

  "We'll see."

  "I'm serious, Joe. I worked in one of Austin's best galleries, so I know how to play this game. You don't blow your chance with a sloppy first impression. Plus I really want to turn some of the sketches from last night into paintings before I make my move. The images are good. They have an energy my work hasn't had in a long time."

  "I look forward to seeing them," he said as he drove.

  "Then we're agreed?"

  "Hmm."

  "Great." She let out a sigh of relief, then turned to take in the scenery. By the time they arrived in town, they'd established an amiable note for the day, even if it ran only skin deep.

  Santa Fe. The artist's Mecca. Fabulous shops, trendy restaurants, historic buildings-and traffic jams! Maddy felt like a kid with her face pressed to the window as Joe maneuvered the black pickup through narrow streets originally designed for men on horseback. Finally, they inched their way onto the famous Canyon Road, where finding a parking place was as much a battle of wills as a game of chicken.

  After Joe snagged a spot, Maddy stepped out of the truck and took a deep breath as she looked around. Adobe-houses-turned-art-galleries stood shoulder to shoulder as far as she could see in both directions. Tall spikes of flowers bloomed in tiny rock gardens, adding splashes of color along with turquoise window and door frames, and artwork displayed on porches. Over the tops of the flat roofs, the scalloped edge of mountains gave way to towering white clouds that dwarfed the land beneath them.

  Everywhere she looked, her mind gathered images to be stored and painted later. Beyond the visible, though, was a feeling, a mystical call of the land that made her long to capture it with imagery.

  Joe joined her on the narrow gravel path beside the line of parked cars. Wearing jeans, a denim shirt, and cowboy boots, he fit right in-and looked sexy as all get-out. "Where would you like to begin?"

  "I don't have a clue." She laughed. "Any suggestions?"

  "That depends. How would you describe your current work?"

  "Impressionistic landscapes, garden scenes, a few still lifes." A steady stream of art lovers moved past them, stepping in and out of open doorways. "I don't suppose you know the galleries well enough to have a favorite."

  He chuckled. "I have about ten."

  "Really?" That surprised her.

  "When Mom moved back to New Mexico, I started collecting Native American crafts, which spilled into art. Around here, it's an easy addiction to slip into."

  "I can see that it would be." She nodded. "Sounds like you'll make a perfect guide. So, lead on. I place myself in your hands."

  "Very well. Let's start with this place up on the right."

  Joining the flow of foot traffic, they made their way up the street and through the first of many
doors. By the time they'd gone through the tenth gallery, she was on sensory overload. And more intimidated than ever. The art ranged from pastoral to whimsical to avant-garde, some of it bizarre, but all of it top-notch quality.

  "I know the owner here," Joe said as they entered yet another gallery. The place was a maze of rooms with thick white walls, wood floors that creaked, and track lights aimed at several large canvases. Somewhere in the distance she heard drum and flute music playing and a woman talking on a phone. Pinon incense drifted on the air.

  Joe studied her. "Would you like me to introduce you?"

  "No!" she said too quickly, then released a breath to relax. "No. I just want to look."

  "Are you sure?"

  "No," she said weakly. "To be honest, I think I've seen all I can absorb for one day. Can we take a break?" She saw an argument spring into his eyes. "Please. My head is spinning, and my feet are killing me."

  His jaw worked for a moment before he sighed. "Fine. We'll have lunch, then see how you feel."

  "Thank you." She sagged in gratitude.

  If there was one thing Joe didn't miss about the Army, it was the food. Living in Santa Fe, with its

  Mexican food and haute cuisine, was a welcome break from MREs, Meals Ready to Eat. Since Maddy looked in need of a complete change of scenery, he battled traffic into the heart of Old Town to take her to the Ore House, one of his favorite restaurants.

  "This is fabulous," she said as they stepped onto the second-story balcony that overlooked the plaza.

  "I thought you'd like it," he replied as the hostess laid two menus on a table against the rail.

  The server came as soon as they'd settled. "Can I get you something to drink?"

  Joe ordered a locally made pale ale, while Maddy asked for a glass of white wine. Sitting back, he watched Maddy scan the menu he knew by heart. Midday sun slanted in, turning her hair to orange fire, all the more striking with the row of red chile ristras hanging behind her. Their truce had been going surprisingly well. He'd even managed to go for several minutes at a stretch without old anger and renewed attraction playing tug-of-war in his gut.

  Although that had been easier to do while wandering the galleries. Sitting on a crowded balcony with nothing but a very small table between them, he felt a low hum of awareness start deep in his belly.

  "So," he said when she finally closed her menu, "what do you think of Santa Fe?"

  She laughed, tipping her head so the sun shone off her eyes. "A part of me thinks I've died and gone to heaven."

  "And the other part?" He shifted sideways, creating more space between her legs and his.

  "Is a little overwhelmed." She turned as well, so they both looked out over the plaza. A child threw a ball for a Jack Russell terrier near the Civil War monument. Vendors from the various pueblos were out in force, selling their jewelry on blankets in front of the Palace of the Governors. The bell at St. Francis Cathedral proclaimed the hour of one o'clock. "I never should have promised Christine and Amy I'd get a piece of my work in a gallery out here. I should have started off at one of the galleries back home and worked my way up to the big time."

  "Christine and Amy?"

  "My two closest friends in all the world. You'd like them." She wrinkled her nose in a playful manner. "They're as pushy as you about wanting me to put my neck on the chopping block."

  "Maddy"-he shook his head-"I refuse to believe you're not good enough. You were fantastic back in high school, and you've had fifteen years to mature in your work."

  She sighed, and some of the tension he'd seen earlier returned. "Do you think we could talk about something else over lunch, so that I have some hope of actually eating?"

  "All right. What would you like to talk about?"

  "You."

  He laughed dryly as he toyed with the salt and pepper shakers. "A boring subject, I promise you."

  "Then bore me." She shifted back to face him, folding her arms on the table as she leaned forward. "Please! It'll get my mind off my nervous stomach."

  He stared at her eager face and felt a tug of need so strong it wiped all thought from his brain.

  Fortunately, the server arrived and plopped their drinks down on the table. "Here you go. Are you ready to order?"

  Joe gave himself a mental shake. "I'll have the Hatch green chile cheeseburger."

  "And you?" The woman turned to Maddy.

  "Oh. Let's see." Straightening, she opened the menu again. "It all sounds so good." Scanning the options, she struggled to make a decision. "Okay, I'll have the soft chicken tacos. Can I have extra cheese? And the jalapenos on the side?"

  "Absolutely." The woman snapped her order book closed and moved away.

  "Okay, where were we?" Maddy turned back to Joe, determined to keep the pleasant mood going. "Oh yes, talking about you. Tell me about running the camp. Do you enjoy it?"

  "Yes and no." His gaze dropped to the finger she was running around the rim of her wineglass before he looked away and took a swallow of ale. "No, because I miss the hell out of being in the Rangers. Yes, because…" He hesitated as color climbed up his neck. "This is going to sound hokey."

  "What?" She leaned forward, remembering a time when he'd shared things with her that he would never share with others. She realized she missed that. He'd always had so many interesting facets once he opened up. "Come on," she coaxed. "Tell me."

  He straightened the linen-wrapped silverware and turned the beer bottle so the label faced him. "I like the kids. They give me hope."

  "Hope?"

  "For the world. That's hard to hang on to sometimes with so much hatred out there. God, the things I've seen…" He shook his head. "I miss being a part of the action. Not just the adrenaline rush of being on a mission, but feeling like I'm making a difference, like I'm doing something to make the world safer." He gazed back out at the plaza, watched the little girl playing fetch with her dog. "What I don't miss is looking into old eyes filled with mistrust in the faces of children. Or worse, the kids who are like children the world over, young, innocent, and happy one minute, maimed bodies the next. Jesus." He scrubbed his hands over his face, shuddered, then rolled his shoulders. "Sorry."

  "It's okay." Maddy laid a hand on the table in front of him, wanting to touch, but not sure it would be welcome. "You wouldn't be human if that didn't affect you."

  "Yeah." He tried to laugh, but the sound held no humor. "I guess it's taken me a while to decompress. Actually, strike that. I'm not sure a man ever decompresses from that. Or if he should. But when the camp fills up with children, most of who have never been touched by all life's ugliness… it feels good. Really good."

  He smiled that crooked smile of his. And when his dark eyes met hers, Maddy swore she heard a thud as her heart hit the floor. Just like that, she fell smack-dab in love with Joe Fraser all over again.

  Startled, she sat back, her pulse racing. No, it couldn't be love. Love happened slowly, grew over time, and endured. It wasn't like a light switch that you turned on, then off, then back on again. Did that mean she'd never fallen out of love with him? Was this an echo from the past, or something entirely new?

  She blinked at him, remembering the intensity of what he'd once felt for her. He'd actually overwhelmed her with it at times. Did a part of him still feel traces of that for the impulsive girl she'd once been?

  Fortunately, their lunch arrived, saving her from saying something stupid.

  "So… then…" Her hand trembled slightly as she spooned salsa into the tacos. "You're happy running the camp?"

  He shook salt and pepper over a mammoth burger heaped with chopped green chiles. "During the summer, when the kids are there, yeah. The rest of the year it drives me crazy. There just isn't enough to do, and man does not live on skiing alone."

  "You couldn't use the camp for other things the rest of the year?" She took a bite of taco and nearly moaned with pleasure at the sharp, spicy flavors.

  "Actually, I've been toying with an idea."

  "Oh?"
She waited while he chewed and thought even that was sexy-all those strong muscles in his face working together.

  "Okay." He swallowed. "You can't mention this to my mom."

  "Is it something she wouldn't like?"

  "The contrary, actually, which is why I want to think about it before I mention it to her. I want to be sure she's physically up to having the camp open year-round. I mean, God, the woman's old. Which shocked the heck out of me when I came here to recuperate. When did that happen? I've seen her on a regular basis over the years. How could I not notice?"

  "You were busy chasing bad guys?"

  "That's no excuse," he insisted. "Do you know she was one step away from having to sell the camp when I agreed to take over as director? She loves that camp. Kids are her life! If I hadn't gotten shot in the knee, she'd have lost everything. The camp, her home, and a good chunk of her heart. After everything she's done^for me, I absolutely will not let that happen."

  Maddy's heart took another hard bounce on the floor. "So"-she cleared her- throat-"what's your idea?"

  A smile teased up one corner of his mouth. "A boot camp for civilians."

  "A what?"

  He popped a tortilla chip into his mouth as the smile reached his eyes. "There's already a few of them up and running. Former special-ops guys giving civilians a taste of the physical training we go through. Some of the camps are geared toward physical fitness for adrenaline junkies. Others offer group programs to corporations for employee team building. That's where the Rangers excel, working as a team. I think the concept of 'no man left behind' is sadly lacking in corporate America."

  "I think you're right. And the idea sounds great."

  "So far that's all it is, an idea in my head, but I'd like to pitch it to Socrates."