Forever Mine (13 page)

“What makes you say that?”

“You don’t look familiar. I know most of the guys hang out in here.”

He swallowed a malicious laugh. Bet she did. “No. I’m just passing through.”

“I thought so.” She clumped off toward the bar.

He tracked the women through heavy-lidded eyes, skimming quickly over the blondes, natural or not. In no time, he eliminated about a quarter of the women, which left enough to choose from. Ever on the alert, he scanned the room for brunettes, with the requisite long legs and slender waist. Like his mother. There was no problem finding dark-haired women there if you weren’t turned off by a mild case of acne or a roll or two that rippled under a too-tight sweater or tee. Pickings were slim, though, for a man of discrimination.

The waitress returned with his drink and a smile.

“You wanna run a tab?” She cocked a hip, planted a hand on the full swell.

He thought about it, decided to give himself another hour or so to make a connection. “Maybe. I’ll let you know later.” He picked up his drink and took a sip, shutting her out.

The noise encompassed every element of human sound and dug into his head. The music blaring from a juke box, although loud, couldn’t mask the clunk of colliding glassware or the dull conversational tones. More than anything, he wanted to hasten his search. Problem was, if he made contact with a special woman, would he even be heard above the din?

The thwack of colliding billiard balls drew his attention to a back room area. A half dozen or so men ringed a green felt-covered billiards table visible through a wide archway. Their hands were wrapped around pool cues and bottled beers. A cute, willowy gal, with a good body and a mane of dark wavy hair worn pulled back and held with a narrow tortoiseshell band, leaned over the table, her butt stuck high in the air. Unhurried, she angled the cue stick before making her shot. The loud crack of striking balls carried into the bar. Whoops and whistles followed from the onlookers who ringed the pool table. She walked around to the opposite side, chalked the cue, lined up another shot and took it. The chorus of groans said she’d missed the pocket.

She grabbed a beer bottle and took a long swig. While she drank, her eyes grazed his in a look so brief another man might have misread the signal.

He finished his gin and tonic, wondering how long she’d be tied up. She made no pretense, from the way she interacted with the men, she welcomed their attention. She played around with her hair band, pulled it off, shook her head and fluffed her hair with her fingers. A skimpy tank top molded high firm breasts, no bra. Hip-rider jeans were worn low enough to show off a three inch band of pale smooth flesh. She was primed for action.

She could have passes for his mother’s daughter, the way she put it out there. Except after giving birth to him, dear old mom had wised up and somehow managed to avoid another pregnancy. He couldn’t begin to guess how with the steady stream of men she’d brought home. Did she ever wonder what he thought when the wall, separating her bedroom from the living room where he’d slept on a daybed, had shuddered? Their loud voices—Mom’s squealing like a sow in heat —had risen in the throes of passion and kept him awake half the night.

Passion had been nowhere in evidence during the sad, short course of his parents’ marriage. A complete sham, it had been all about his mother picking at his father, finding reasons real or imagined to humiliate him. The man had possessed the gumption of a worm with no way to fight back. What had ever brought them together would always remain a mystery. If only the worm had defended himself just once and picked up a whiskey bottle, of which there were always plenty available, and broken it over her head. Listening on the other side of the flimsy wall, he’d lain awake and wished that one night his father would kill her. More than once, he’d thought about killing her himself.

Raucous sounds from the billiard area pulled his attention back there. The game was still in progress. He ordered another drink and settled in to wait. The night was just beginning for him. He had nothing but time, no other plans. Well, he did have a plan and, as so often happened, the anticipation was every bit as exhilarating as the expected outcome. He eased back in his chair and sipped his drink. Every so often that sweet little gal’s eyes met his. His excitement mounted, flowed through his body like current jumping through a taut wire.

One of the men made a good run at clearing the pool table. The game ended, she handed off her cue stick and entered the bar area. She headed over to the juke box and fed change into the machine. While Elvis drawled the opening words of a mournful tune, the stranger finished his drink, dumped a few bills on the table then rose from his seat and joined her.

“You must be a fan.”

He rested his hand against the jukebox. The neon glow from within turned the domed glass into a rainbow.

She pulled the band off her hair and shook her head. Thick, dark brown waves tumbled off her shoulders and down her back. She trained her cat’s eyes on his with a practiced flirty expression. Yeah, she was looking for action.

An itch tickled his palms.

“I’m a big-time Elvis fan,” she said. “For sure. After all, he was the King. No one can argue with him being…you know…the best. Royalty you might say.”

She had a sweet, pleasant voice and a delicate, heart-shaped face. There was a small zit on her right cheek, but he could forgive her one flaw. She was perfect right down to the pungent gardenia scent wafting off her body. Gardenia happened to be one of his mother’s favorite perfumes.

“I never argue when in the company of a pretty lady, especially one who shares my musical taste.” He let his gaze drift off for a moment, pretending to deepen the enjoyment of the music. “Seems to me, I have every album he ever recorded.”

“Lucky you.”

“Hmm. You might say I’m lucky.”

“Wish I owned all his albums.” She hummed a few bars along with the King.

He let her enjoy the moment then waited for a pause before breaking in. “Since we’re both fans, I’d sure like to buy you a drink. Did you come with anyone special?”

“No. Just a couple friends, but they already bailed.”

He smiled. “That’s my good luck.”

She tilted her head in a coy attitude. “Well, whether it is or not remains to be seen.”

He placed his hand lightly under her elbow. “I promise I’ll show you a good time.”

She hesitated a second then said, “Why don’t we start with a drink?”

He had a strong feeling she gave it away on short acquaintance. Like his mother. It shouldn’t require much more time than it took to down a couple beers.

“Okay then.”

“By the way, my name’s Jordan.”

He patted his back pocket, double-checked his supplies. He steered her toward the table he’d just vacated. “Mine’s Dave. I’m real pleased to meet you.”

Chapter Thirteen

Ben pushed an index finger under the collar of his dress shirt and tugged at the fabric, easing it away from his neck. The last time he wore such a stiff-collared shirt was toward the end of his relationship with Danielle. She’d insisted on trying a new restaurant, which set him back almost a day’s pay. He never could figure out what he’d eaten that night. The food was alien to him from the moment he read the menu to the minute the oversized plates, holding barely more than a few bites, were cleared away. One experience convinced him he was in no hurry to repeat it. The same with the dress clothes but, tonight, he had no choice.

He gave his collar one last tug, checked his watch and resumed pacing. It hadn’t taken him more than fifteen minutes to change. Allie had been upstairs—the water running and the radio tuned to a classical music station—for more than an hour. By six, he’d expected her to be dressed and ready to leave the house. Given the Saturday night traffic, if she didn’t hurry, they’d arrive at her mother and stepfather’s anniversary party midway through what Allie had referred to as the “sloshed-tail” hour. Drinking posed no problem for him. Since he was officially on duty, he was required to stick to something non-alcoholic.

Maybe he should hurry her along, give a call from the foot of the stairs. Not go up there, though, like the time he’d caught her coming out of the bathroom, wearing only a towel. The near collision had the potential of a major catastrophe. Every time Thompson groused about his midnight-to-noon shift, Ben thought about making a switch. Except such a radical change would require too many explanations and wasn’t worth all the hassle with the brass. He cursed Barnett under his breath

The radio clicked off, replaced by a soft tread on the stairs. She stepped off the lower landing and into the sewing room. A short, black jacket draped her shoulders and framed the simple, vibrant red gown that clung to every perfect curve of her body. Her hair was a glossy deep brown tumble of curls that spilled over the jacket collar. Bare toes—the nails painted a deep red—peeked out from under the hem of her gown. A fragile black strap anchored her feet to her high-heeled shoes.

One look and Ben stopped short in his tracks as if he’d hit an invisible wall. He blinked, and his heart jerked without warning. His gut clenched in a way he recognized from his past experiences with women. The physical reminder was followed by a mental signal that screamed, “This one is off limits.”

He waited for his heartbeat to stabilize. When it didn’t do it quickly enough, he suddenly wondered if he’d developed some kind of cardiac problem, the sort of health risk that pulled a cop off the street and stuck him permanently behind a desk.

“I see you’re ready.” She tucked what resembled a lipstick tube into her little silver metallic purse.

If his tongue wasn’t nailed to the roof of his mouth, he would have choked out a compliment. Instead, he busied himself with Sutter’s First Rule of Etiquette and kept his eyes from straying to the low-cut bodice of her gown.

Why did she have to be so damn beautiful? More important, why did it matter to him? He couldn’t answer his own question, or maybe he didn’t want to. Theirs was a professional relationship, nothing more. Nor would it ever become anything even marginally bordering on intimate. So, why the hell was he even thinking along those lines?

Before he could dig an answer out of his fog-shrouded brain, she approached and said, “I like your tie. You have excellent taste. Expensive, as well.”

His eyes left hers and slanted downward to the gold and red patterned fabric that lay against his dress shirt. He shrugged, saw no big deal.

“Hermes, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Your tie. If you check the label, I’m certain it will say Hermes.” A quizzical expression settled in her eyes. “Did you pick it out yourself?” Her tone suggested she had serious doubts.

At once, he saw his mistake. That morning, he’d reached into his closet and pulled out a tie, giving it no more thought than when he grabbed a pair of socks. Being presentable was his only concern.

Since she waited for an answer, he muttered, “It was a gift.” He buttoned his jacket before she interrogated him on the shirt Danielle had purchased, along with the tie, for one of his birthdays.

“Ah.”

Yeah, she had him pegged right. He wouldn’t know a pricey tie from any of the half dozen he’d scored at Costco over the past several years.

“We’d better leave.” He forestalled further questions, in case she wanted to know who bought him his shoes, or if a squad of elves cobbled them together while he slept. Lately, her questions had become more personal. His silence in response failed to put her off. Steeped in the intricacies of interrogation, maybe he’d toss her into the hot seat the next time she probed. See how she liked him nosing into her affairs.

She slid the jacket off her shoulders. Bare, smooth creamy shoulders supported two thin red straps. Before she had a chance to shrug into the jacket, the section of his brain reserved for gentlemanly inclinations kicked into gear. He took the garment and held it out for her. She showed him an essentially bare back, which sucked the breath from his lungs, considering he hadn’t seen that much female flesh in months. At least not on anyone still living. As she slid her arms into the sleeves, his fingers brushed her shoulders. That brought another response somewhere south of his lungs, though she was the last woman in the world he’d ever get mixed up with. Still, it stoked the ashes, proving they weren’t completely cold and dead.

She turned and faced him. “Are you carrying a weapon?”

He peeled back one side of his jacket to reveal the butt of the gun nestled in a hip holster. “Like I said, I never…”

“…leave home without one. It looks different, even smaller than the one you took with you when we went jogging.”

His eyes met hers. “This is my party gun.”

She smiled and gave a little laugh.

“Which reminds me. We’d better coordinate our stories. On no account are you to let your parents in on the situation with Dave and Jimmy. So, who am I supposed to be again?” He held open the door that led into the garage. “You mentioned something about introducing me as a friend from school.”

“Yes. The Art Institute where I studied fashion design. I didn’t want my mother to get the wrong idea and think we were, you know, dating or anything.” A quick movement pulled her lower lip down as if the prospect were distasteful. “Some sort of colleague made sense. Over the years’, I’ve stayed in contact with a guy I met at the Institute. He lives in L.A. now and designs mostly men’s casual wear, sort of like Ralph Lauren—tweedy, leathery, mucho manly.”

“Whoa.”

She skirted the front of the car. “It’s not a concern
.
No one in my family has ever met him.”
She pulled open the door and slid onto
the passenger seat.

Ben settled behind the wheel and turned toward her. “Your family knowing him is not what I’m worried about.”

“Oh?”

“I thought you meant from high school or…”

“Not possible. My high school was all girls.”

“… college. I went to State but could have easily hooked up with you anywhere else.
Not
a fashion school.” He punched the garage door opener and fired up the motor. What he wanted to do was mash the accelerator, but good sense warned him to stay cool and avoid what could prove a dangerous way to relieve tension. Still, he gave the engine enough juice to back the car into the empty street and swing into a tight arc that rocked the chassis. Allie grabbed the handle anchored above the passenger side window.