Out Of Her League (3 page)

His bang-on observation left her speechless. Maybe she should tell him. He
was
a cop. But what if Seth was harmless and she was just overreacting? Last thing she wanted was for Rayne to think she was a head case. “Sorry. It's nothing.”

“Okay.” He let it go. “My building's on the left at the next corner.” He indicated a condo complex in sleek lines of stucco and glass.

“There you are,” she announced, pulling to the curb. “Service with a smile.”

He tipped his head. “And a beautiful one at that. Thanks for the lift.” His grin had her heart tripping.

Flattered, but not allowing herself to dwell on it, she shrugged. “Anytime.” He climbed out of the truck, thigh muscles stretching the fabric of his jeans, and she had to will her heart to slow down.

“Don't forget to call me,” he reminded her.

“I won't.” She was more likely to forget to breathe.

“I'll give you my cell number. That's the best way to reach me.” He searched in his pocket for a piece of paper, then leaned on the truck to write. “No excuse now.”

“Thanks.” Now that she'd given her word, what choice did she have but to follow through? Her schedule was so crazy, though, between work and ball—"Wait... how about tomorrow night? For dinner,” she clarified when he stood there frowning. Hard to tell which one of them was more surprised, and she felt like an idiot for blurting out the invitation. She swallowed, a difficult task when her foot felt like it was stuffed halfway in her mouth. “I know it's short notice, but I don't know when else I'd— ”

“I work until seven. Seven-thirty okay?”

Relief flooded through her. She'd make it work, even if it had to be breakfast at five a.m. “Sure. I was planning to invite Teryl and Drew anyway.” There. Now she'd covered her bases and made it plain it was definitely not a date.

“Okay. Give me your address.”

She recited it, said goodnight and rolled up the passenger window, then pressed a hand to her galloping heart.

Pulling out her cell phone, she begged her oldest friend to be there tomorrow night and Teryl agreed with a good deal of suspicion. Christa pulled away feeling almost giddy, wiping her damp palms on her thighs and glancing in her rearview mirror, but Rayne had already disappeared inside.

Well, of course he had, she told herself. Only the weirdoes watched until you were out of sight.

The following afternoon Christa loaded her border collie cross, Jake, into the Chevy Avalanche for a trip to the local plant nursery, where she'd filled a cart to overflowing with pots of deep blue delphiniums, bright yellow marigolds and cheerful purple pansies with gold faces. Now, sitting back on the heels of her gardening shoes, she wiped the sweat off her forehead with her arm and paused to survey her hard work.

The May sun had climbed steadily, bringing a humid heat that promised to become sweltering. The reflection from the windows on the south side of her house made the pale yellow exterior glow— an excellent backdrop for the plants she'd tucked in along the front walk, if she did say so herself. Gazing up at the Victorian gabled and turreted roof, Christa felt a swelling of pride.

Her house was a source of joy, a haven of warmth and coziness that wrapped around her like a hug. The first summer she'd moved in she'd added gingerbread trim around the wraparound porch and in the gables, and had installed dark green shutters. Last fall she and Michael had completed the landscaping, then made the stained glass panels in the transom window above the kitchen sink, and when the sun hit them just right, shards of cobalt, ruby and gold dappled the gleaming hardwood floors she'd re-finished. The glow of satisfaction curling inside her made every penny she'd put into the place worthwhile. So what if she still had a sizeable mortgage, even after spending her grandparents’ trust money? It was her dream, her perfect little nest to do whatever she pleased with. No chemically imbalanced stalkers to worry about here— just a retreat from her busy life.

Giving Jake a scratch behind his ears, she picked up her tools and replaced them in the shed, painted to match the house, before settling into her favorite deck chair under the pink dogwood canopy. She had stained the chair cobalt to match the drifts of delphiniums shooting their spikes into the air in the perennial beds. Basking in the peace of a job well done, she surveyed the carefully placed arbors and obelisks draped with twining wisteria and clematis, the stone fairies peeking out from behind a leafy hosta or clump of merlot and saffron-colored pansies. She had just swallowed an icy mouthful of tea and leaned her head against the backrest when the cordless phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi hon, it's me.” Teryl's cheery voice greeted her.

“Hey! You checking in to find out what's on the menu for tonight?”

“Uh, actually, no... I've been called to a crisis at the office. My client's gearing up for a hostile takeover tomorrow morning, so we've got to get everything prepped today. Sorry, hon.”

“Oh, but Rayne's coming too, and the meat's already in the oven. Are you sure you won't be finished in time for dinner? You could come later and I'll save a plate for you.”
Please don't leave me alone with Rayne
.

“Sorry, sweetie, but I'll be at the office all evening. I'll make it up to you, though. Steaks on me sometime next week, okay?”

Well, crap. What should she do? Dinner alone with Rayne felt too much like a date, and she didn't want him getting the wrong idea. “Sure,” she agreed, striving to keep the nervousness out of her voice. “That sounds great. Thanks for letting me know.” When she hung up, she pondered her options. Talk about awkward. What was she going to tell him? She kicked off her gardening shoes and went into the kitchen in search of the piece of paper with his cell number on it, then came back outside and dialed.

He answered on the second ring. “Hutch here.”

“Hi Rayne, it's Christa.”

“Hey, darlin'. What's up?”

She fumbled with the strap of her overall, befuddled by that deep drawl, the easy way he said the endearment. Like hot fudge dripping over melting ice cream. “About tonight... ”

“What about it?”

“Teryl just called to say they can't make it. So I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner some other time instead.”

A pause met her words. “Are you uninviting me?” His voice held notes of both suspicion and amusement, but still managed to make her tummy flutter.

“Of course not. I didn't want you to be uncomfortable with only me here, that's all.” Who was she kidding?
She
was the one who'd feel uncomfortable. What did she really know about him, after all? In the two years since she'd met him, she'd discovered he had grown up in Charleston and had done a stint in the Marines, stationed in Hawaii of all places— which would account for some of his reputation as a ladies’ man— then moved to Vancouver and become an Emergency Response Team officer. Although she was drawn to his combination of looks and easygoing personality, they'd never spent any time alone together except for when she'd driven him home last night.

His warm laugh cut into her analysis. “Why would I be uncomfortable? I can't remember the last home-cooked meal I ate, and I'd love to find out if you're as good in the kitchen as everyone says you are.”

She didn't want to make him feel unwelcome. And how could she turn down an opportunity to show off her cooking skills? “Okay, then. If you're sure.”

“Can I bring anything?”

“No, thanks. I'm all set. So I'll see you at seven-thirty then?”

“You can count on it, sugar.”

When the dial tone buzzed in her ear, she sank into her chair, nerves jumping in her stomach. What the hell was she doing? Begging for trouble, that's what. Rayne was everything that terrified her in a man. Gorgeous and confident with a great sense of humor, and enough sex appeal to make women faint in a trail behind him.

Charisma oozed from his skin, his stride, his smile, his voice. A rumor was going around that he'd actually had an escort pay
him
for an evening, though even Drew couldn't say for sure it was true. He had ‘dated’ (and therefore presumably slept with) countless beautiful women, many of them models. She'd met plenty of them over the past two years.

Until her stalker had appeared in her life she'd led a fairly boring existence, which was exactly the way she preferred it. She rarely dated anymore. According to her ex-boyfriend she was nothing special in bed, and if any of the stories she'd heard about Rayne were true, he'd find her a dismal disappointment. Getting involved with him would be like committing emotional suicide.

Maybe she should call her ex, Cameron, to remind herself what heartbreak felt like. That ought to cure her of any romantic fantasies about Rayne.

She checked her watch to see how much time she had. T minus three hours and twenty-one minutes.

Way to go, Bailey. You've done it now
.

At seven twenty-seven, Rayne parked in front of the yellow Victorian-style house. He didn't usually pay much attention to houses but this place really was something to look at, like one of those fancy bed-and-breakfasts people paid a fortune to stay at. When he walked to the back gate, he stepped into a genuine fairyland decked out with strands of white lights trailing along the lattice fence, over an arbor and tangled amongst the trees. Lanterns hung from various shrubs, and tall candles flickered invitingly on the patio table.

Wow. Martha Stewart had nothing on Christa Bailey. If she could cook half as well as she kept her home, he was going to be in heaven.

A black and white dog came barreling out, skidding to a stop at his feet, dancing around him. Rayne held out his hand to let the dog smell him and saw from his collar that he had just met Jake. He gave his ears a ruffle. “Hey, fella. You're a pretty friendly guy, aren't you? Do you always let strangers into the yard when your mistress is alone?” The dog leaned into his touch, which Rayne guessed meant Christa's dog approved of him. That had to count for something.

“Hello?” he called out, heading toward the French doors off the patio.

“In here,” Christa answered from the kitchen, pulling something that smelled spicy and garlicky out of one of the two wall ovens. An island topped with pale granite graced the center of the room, surrounded by acres of granite counters and walls of white cabinets. A white apron front sink sat under the window overlooking the backyard, a butcher block stuffed full of professional quality knives next to it. On the far wall was an intimidating stainless steel gas range that looked like it had come straight out of a gourmet restaurant. The place was clean and bright, cozy without being too feminine. He liked it.

“Hi,” she said, smiling as she swept back a stray lock of hair the color of espresso, the overhead lights making it gleam with chestnut highlights. She looked fresh and pretty in a pale yellow blouse and worn jeans that clung in all the right places, making her legs seem a mile long. He'd always been a sucker for long, shapely legs.

“Hello yourself,” he answered, glad he'd accepted the invitation. When she'd called out from the truck he'd had the impression she hadn't meant the words to come out, and then when she'd phoned him earlier he'd been sure she was going to cancel on him. Funny, how she seemed so at ease with everyone else yet tended to clam up around him.

For some reason he'd always wanted to get to know her. From the moment they'd met he'd enjoyed being around her, but then, everyone liked Christa. She was intelligent, kind, thoughtful and sweet. Need help moving? Call Christa. She'd even lend you her truck. Need your bathroom painted? Christa would be happy to help. Got the flu and no one to look after you? She'd be right over with some home-made chicken soup and a bottle of Nyquil. The quintessential girl-next-door, the kind of woman you'd take home to mom— the exact opposite of every woman he'd been with, but even that didn't squelch the growing attraction.

He decided to stop thinking and focus on his hostess’ legs instead. “Whatever you're doing in here, it smells amazing.” Her cheeks were flushed a rosy pink from the heat of the oven, and her incredible robin's-egg blue eyes danced as she shot a grin at him over her shoulder. He loved that she was so quick to smile.

“Braised spare ribs with Yorkshire pudding and roasted potatoes,” she told him in that slightly husky voice that made his insides tighten every time he heard it. “I heard you were a meat and potatoes guy.”

“You heard right, lady.” He sniffed appreciatively, picking up the scent of chocolate. She stood on tiptoe to gather some plates from a cupboard, revealing a few inches of taut, smooth midriff as her shirt rode up. An image of him nuzzling that satiny strip entered his brain before he could stop it. He nearly groaned. “What's in there?” He gestured to the other oven.

“Homemade pudding cake.”

Oh man, he was already drooling. He leaned over the island counter, propped his chin in one hand and gazed at her. “Run away with me,” he said earnestly, and earned a laugh.

“Flatterer. You'd die of boredom within a week.”

Don't bet on it, sweetheart
. “Was that your way of trying to let me down easy?”

She gave him another playful grin and went back to prepping their dinner, his lips tugging upward when he read her apron: “Kiss the cook.” Maybe he'd kiss her after dessert, once she'd relaxed a little, and see how she reacted.

Interesting how she made a habit of laughing off his attempts at flirting with her. She'd been doing that since the day they'd met, probably to keep him at a comfortable distance. Or was it that she didn't take him seriously? Scary thing was, he didn't flirt with her just to get a reaction anymore.

She deftly covered the meat with tinfoil and gave the herbed potatoes a final toss. “Okay with you if we eat outside?”

“Sure.” He took a dish of vegetables from her and headed onto the patio, set it on the table. “Did you do all this yourself?” He indicated the riot of blooms filling her garden.

“I have a landscaping business, remember? Until I scrape enough together to start my own landscaping design company.”