Calamity Jayne Heads West (10 page)

Ken grabbed a handful of napkins and skedaddled. I chuckled. This speed-dating thing was a hoot.

I stopped hooting when I noticed the seat across me was once again occupied, this time by a pale, dark-haired young man who looked like a younger version of the comic-strip dad in Dennis the Menace, com-plete with black cat’s-eye framed glasses and long, pointed nose. Great. Just my luck. From creep to geek.

The timer signaled round two.

“Did I hear you say you sold shoes?”

I blinked.

“I may have said that. Why?”

“What are you wearing now?” he asked. What was it with this place? Pervs on parade or something?

“Just a minute,” I said. “How dare you—”

“On your feet!” The guy’s face turned red. “What are you wearing on your feet?”

I sat back, somewhat mollified. But only somewhat.

I shoved out my foot to reveal my black Justin Calfy boot.

“Nice,” he said, but I could tell he was disappointed.

“What’s wrong? Did you have something else in mind?” I asked.

“Have you ever considered wearing black Choo stilettos with those black jeans? I bet they would look sensational.”

“Oooh, I love Choo!” I said. Unfortunately, my bud-get didn’t. “And I’m bonkers for Blahnik!” I an-nounced.

He took my foot in his hand. “With these puppies, you’d have to go with a wide size, and something’s al-ways sacrificed in the line of the shoe when you go with a wide. Now, with flip flops, width isn’t as appar-ent,” he said.

For the next four minutes Ozzy and I conversed over footwear. And bags. (I might’ve implied Sophie’s designer bag was mine, solely to impress.) Plus, we covered the odd accessory.

It was the best speed date of the evening.

I lost track of Townsend, and found myself getting into the whole speed-dating scene. Five minutes left you with zero time to shoot the bull. You had to cut right to the chase—ask the questions you wanted to ask—and move on to the next partner. There was a certain comfortable simplicity about the process. And it was sure to appeal to the drive-up mentality of our society. I could see it now:

“Can I take your order, please?”

“Yes, today I want a six-foot, two-inch cowpoke with a full head of hair under his Stetson, a six pack under his shirt (nonalcoholic) and buns made for squeezing beneath his Levi’s. And hold the onions, please.”

I speed-dated Brad the bookkeeper, Phil the phar-macist, Antonio the tattoo artist and Mel who was studying mortuary science. I have to confess, I felt more than a little naughty in your basic bad-girl kind of way, chatting up each guy then dropping him like yesterday’s blue plate special and proceeding to the next new face. A nasty girl, yet kind of sweet.

I readjusted a backpack strap on the back of my chair and turned back to greet the next contestant on Tressa’s Geeks and Freaks—and almost fell out of my chair. Sitting right across from me was none other than my Oak Creek Canyon Mystery Man. “He Who Scares Young Girls and Steals Cake” himself! For a tiny second I was once again sucked in by the beauty of his face. The long, noble nose and prominent cheek-bones. The dark bedroom eyes complete with long, thick eyelashes even Maybelline’s finest brush couldn’t improve upon. The sleek, shiny hair I’d give up Cadbury chocolate to have. Well, maybe Hershey.

“You!” I hissed. “You . . . you . . . bobble-busting, cake-snatching, camera klepto!” I shrieked. “Of all the nerve. Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

“If I may, I would like to humbly ask your forgive-ness for that unfortunate incident the other day and, if you would be so kind, to permit me an opportunity to explain,” he said, his voice slow, deep, and seductive, so soothing to auditory nerves on overload.

I folded my arms. “I’m listening,” I said.

“You are very kind,” he replied. “I knew that from the first moment I saw you at the canyon. Your kind, gentle spirit reached out to me that day.”

I blinked. Kind, gentle spirit? Me? I sighed. They not only grew ’em gorgeous out here, but crazy as rabid coons. I should’ve known.

“Go on, Mr.—” I stopped, realizing I didn’t even know his name.

“Raphael,” he supplied, and I raised my eyebrows. Trust him to have a beautiful name, too.

“Raphael,” I repeated, getting a bit of a jolly from hearing his name on my lips.

“I felt something when I saw you that day that I never felt before,” Raphael said, and I hoped that
some-thing
wasn’t associated with the Three Stooges, milk of magnesia or Gas-X. I unfolded my arms and put my hands within grabbing distance of the glass votive, just in case he started using flowery words like throbbing and pulsating and I had to bust a cap or two.

“Yes?”

“Yes. You see, in my culture we believe you can feel the essence of a person—their soul, if you will—and con-nect with it. I felt drawn to you. For a reason, I believe.”

Something other than my svelte figure and beauti-ful face? Something like . . . chocolate, maybe?

“I just wanted to get closer to you, maybe to ex-change a word or two. See if the feeling was real. Butwhen the young girl took my picture, I panicked. You see, I do not like having my picture taken. In fact, I studiously avoid it. I somehow got the idea your picture-taking was a joke—that you were making fun of me—and I became upset and tried to grab the cam-era. Silly, but there you have it. I am sorry if I fright-ened the girl.”

I frowned. “Okay, so how do you explain taking off with my bag of cake?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I really don’t know. Temporary insan-ity, maybe. Haven’t you ever done something incredi-bly rash and stupid and had no idea why you did it?”

I gave him a beady-eyed look. He’d recited my stan-dard operating procedure almost verbatim. Someone had obviously gotten to this guy.

“I did come back to try to return the bag and its con-tents, but by that time you had left,” Raphael went on. “I’d like to make it up to you. Replace the item.”

“Hmmm. And I suppose you just happen to have a nice, big slice of Tlaquepaque Chocolate Delight on you,” I said. Then I frowned. I definitely needed to go cold turkey on the chocolate for a while. Somewhere along the line it had become my own personal Turkish delight.

“If I had known you would be here, I would have brought an entire cake,” he said with a smile that was much, much sweeter than the cocoa-based confection I so didn’t need cementing itself to my hips and thighs.

“Talk is cheap, buster,” I responded.

“If you would permit me, I know of a place nearby that features many fine desserts,” he said. “I’m sure you could find one to please your palate.”

Talk about Code Talkers! This guy was one smooth-talking native. The invitation—as well as the inviter—was tempting as the chocolate itself, but I couldn’tquite shake the memory of the slightly desperate look in his eyes the last time we’d met.

“I’m here with a friend,” I said.

“Not a boyfriend, I gather,” Raphael said. “For you would not be sitting at this table if that were the case.”

I shrugged. “Maybe I like to live dangerously,” I challenged with a tilt to my chin.

“That I can believe,” he said. “I sense a spirit of ad-venture.” Misadventure was more like it.

“So, what do you say? Miss . . . ?”

“Jayne,” I responded. “Calamity Jayne.”

He hesitated for a moment and then smiled at me.

“Miss Jayne. How about that coffee and dessert?”

The timer signaled an end to our date and I shook my head. Living dangerously had lost some of its al-lure after I started collecting cadavers and attracting a certain criminal element.

“I’ll accept your apology and we’ll call it good,” I said. I sighed. Besides, it never would’ve worked out. I could never be with anyone who had longer hair but fewer split ends than me.

Raphael smiled and nodded. “As you wish,” he said, stood, put fingers to an imaginary hat brim and walked away.

I gave myself a good hard head slap. Figuratively, that is.

“Fool! Coward! Yellow-belly. And you call yourself a cowgirl!”

“Well, if it isn’t the infamous Calamity Jayne!” Hot breath seared the back of my neck like a branding iron. “What brings the crime-fighting cowgirl to these parts? Cattle rustling? Snake oil salesman? Baked goods bandit?”

“How about the report of a certain ranger lookin’ for love in all the wrong places?” I replied as RangerRick Townsend took a seat across from me, gaining a dirty look from the rotund person next in line for that chair.

“What’s love got to do with it?” Townsend asked with a smile so incredibly certain of his own appeal he made me want to slap it right off his handsome face. Or kiss it away. “I’m waiting for an answer, you know,” he said.

Fat chance. Like I was gonna get into a discussion about love when Townsend had the
cojones
to show up here to meet another woman.

“I’m here following up on a lead from this after-noon’s mugging,” I said. “I’d ask why you’re here, but we both already know the answer to that. Where is Of-ficer Whitebreast anyway?” I asked.

Townsend grinned. “Carena is in the ladies’ room,” he said. I stared at him.

“Carena? Is that her name?”

Townsend nodded.

“Pretty name for a pretty woman,” I observed, think-ing Raphael and Carena should really get together. They could name their children things like Dmitri and Desdemona, Anastasia and Alejandro.

“So, you’re here following a lead, huh?” Townsend said. “Funny. I could’ve sworn you were here to spy on me.”

I made a
who, me?
face and straightened my spine in indignation.

“Really, Townsend. Give that ego of yours a vaca-tion, too, will you? I’m here strictly on a fact-finding mission. To get some straight answers. To satisfy my curiosity.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?” Townsend asked. He sat forward in his chair, resting his arms on the table be-tween us. “I knew you’d be here,” he said, surveying me. “And I knew the minute you walked in.”

“Oh, really? How?”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Could Townsend have actually felt for me what Raphael had spoken of earlier? Of souls reaching out and locking on to each other? A connection that drew one to another? My kind, gentle spirit?

He nodded.

“By the grumbling and complaining of patrons in line behind you waiting to get into the joint,” he said. “What’d that guy at the door do anyway? Take down your life story? What was his reaction when you got to the part about the stiff in the trunk? Did you mention your recent stage debut that almost turned out to be your last performance?”

My idiotic idyll disappeared like caramels out of a box of chocolates.

“As a matter of fact, we did share some meaningful repartee,” I said. “And for the record, Sophie recog-nized this afternoon’s mugger’s photo as someone who frequented this particular establishment, and that’s what brought us out. Not some morbid fascina-tion with the mating rituals of a puffed up, egocentric booby on the ‘in no danger of being mistaken as hum-ble now or ever’ list.”

Townsend sat back and crossed his arms over his broad chest. His biceps bulged against the white sleeves of his polo. His arms looked incredibly tan. And manly.

“So, you expect me to believe you came here to track down a guy who snatched a slice of cake?” he asked. “Just admit it, Tressa. You’re here because you were jealous. And I think we both know why.”

Townsend’s heated look locked on me, the fire in his gaze like a flaming arrow to the heart. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t look away. Dammit. I couldn’t even crack a blasted joke. All I could do was stare back at him.

I’d just opened my mouth to finally admit that he was right, that I was jealous, that I thought I knew why but wasn’t sure, when the timer went off again.

“Oh my gosh, Tressa! Do you know who is here?” So-phie, breathless, appeared at the table.

I kept watching Townsend.

“Tressa, you’re not gonna believe this! I spotted your Oak Creek Canyon Casanova over by the dance floor! He’s here!” Sophie squealed.

I saw, rather than felt, Rick Townsend react. The light in his eyes dimmed perceptibly and he exhaled a long, drawn-out breath that took forever to end. He stood and held out his hand.

“Hi, Sophie. I’m Rick Townsend,” he said, and So-phie’s eyes got big like she was looking down the bar-rel of a loaded six-gun. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he told her.

Sophie managed a weak smile and equally weak nod of her head. “Uh, nice meeting you, too, Rick,” she said. “Tressa’s told me a lot about you,” Sophie added.

“I’m sure she has,” he said. “What was that you were saying about yesterday? Something about the Oak Creek Casanova being here this evening?” Townsend pressed. “Tressa mentioned something along those lines, but I guess I didn’t think I was hearing right.” He looked down at me. “Guess I was way off base,” he said. “Again.”

I found myself battling a case of the weepies once more. This was getting ridiculous. And so not me.

“It’s the reason we’re here,” Sophie said, and while I knew she was just trying to assist me in keeping the cocky ranger from figuring out I was there for more than payback for yesterday, that didn’t keep me from wanting to reach up and pinch her to prevent her from helping me out any more. “I recognized the guy in the photo and finally remembered it was here thatI’d seen him. Tressa talked me into coming out to see if he would show. Plus, the speed dating concept in-trigued her. Right, Tressa?”

I shook my head at Sophie, but she didn’t pick up on the gesture. Apparently she was going all out to make very sure Townsend didn’t get the idea that I was there because of him. Well, that was what I wanted, af-ter all. Wasn’t it? My pride demanded that I not be seen as obsessed or smitten. Didn’t it?

“I see,” Townsend said, and I knew Sophie had suc-ceeded. “And this man is here tonight? That’s why you’re here?” Townsend was looking at me now, and from the set of his jaw I knew there’d be hell for me to pay no matter how I responded.

I hate that
damned if you do, damned if you don’t
crap, don’t you?

“If you’ll excuse me,” Townsend said, his face a study in self-control. “I see Carena over yonder so I’ll leave you ladies to enjoy your five-minute mixers. For one of you, and I won’t name names, I suspect these little interludes represent the longest relationships you’ve had in quite some time.” Townsend turned and walked away.