Present Danger (10 page)

James’s head jerked up. Aunie was regarding him from a few feet away, her hands on her hips, an eyebrow elevated, and her mouth cocked in a wry smile. Relief creased his face into its familiar, quirky lines and his teeth flashed white as he grinned back at her. Oh thank God, she hadn’t taken it seriously.
He had messed up royally this time and he’d been at a dead loss how to rectify the situation. What had seemed like a platinum idea at the time had climbed so far beyond his control, so damned fast, he hadn’t had a clue how to salvage it.

But she had done it. She’d dispelled the awkwardness and simultaneously let him know she didn’t expect anything from him.

He nudged her with his elbow. “C’mon, admit it. It was the best you’ve ever had.”

Oh Gawd, it was. But that would just have to be her secret. Palm down, thumb slightly elevated, she rocked her hand from side to side, signifying she’d had better.

“Well, hell,” he muttered in mock irritation, “I’ve been insulted by better folk; I don’t have to take this from you, too.” Then he dropped the facade and looked down at her seriously. “You gonna be okay, Magnolia?”

“Yeah.” She reached out and lightly touched his arm. “Thank you for all you did for me today.” She prayed she wasn’t blushing as she got a quick mental flash of what
all
had entailed.

She forced the image from her mind. “You and Lola really helped me over a rough spot tonight, and I appreciate it … I mean that.”

James shifted with obvious discomfort and she gave him a slight push toward the door. “G’on. I know you have work to do tonight, and I’ve gotta tuck in the boys.”

James snorted at the thought of her gallery wall of half-naked men. “You’ll understand if I don’t have you give ‘em all a good night kiss from me.” He opened the door, but just stood looking down at her for a moment. Finally, he said, “G’night, Aunie.”

“Good night, James. Sweet dreams.”

She shut the door behind his departing back and leaned back against it. She had a sinking feeling she shouldn’t have added that last bit.

Between the news of Wesley’s acquittal and James’s life-altering kiss, it was going to be difficult enough falling asleep tonight. She was afraid she knew exactly whom her dreams would feature—supposing she had any—and it was the absolute last thing in the world that she needed.

Why did the most passionate kiss she had ever received in her life have to have come from him?

James had had an excellent brain long before he ever developed brawn. He thought perhaps that was how he had come to be saddled with responsibility for his family.

It certainly wasn’t because he was the oldest. Hell, except for Will, he was the youngest of the four Ryder brothers. But his wit was quick, his tongue was facile, and his methods, while unorthodox, were effective, and by the time he was sixteen years old, he’d found himself locked into a seemingly perpetual custodianship of his brothers’ problems.

A prototype of behavior had already emerged: His brothers got themselves into trouble and James promptly maximized whatever tools he had at his disposal to bail them out. For a kid lacking financial means, who hailed from an area where power was not endemic, his tools were astonishingly functional. He utilized his native intelligence, his offbeat sense
of humor, an ability to think on his feet, and—as he grew older—his rough language and the reputation he had gained on the street for being unpredictable and maybe just a little bit crazy. Folks never knew quite how to take it when James Ryder smiled and made those bizarre remarks that a person couldn’t help laughing at; not when in the next breath he could spout the meanest obscenities they’d ever heard and appear perfectly willing to slit the throat of anyone who got between him and the accomplishment of his objectives.

Despite the impression he gave, he had always managed to avoid any outright violence in his quest to keep his brothers in one piece. It was a little like tiptoeing through an urban minefield, though; he never knew from one moment to the next if one of his bluffs was going to blow up in his face. It had exhilarated him when he was a kid, but as he’d matured it had taken its toll. Now, he was just plain tired of it.

Neither he nor his brothers had had more than a modicum of parental guidance growing up. There was only Ma, and while she had done the best she could, she’d had to work two jobs just to feed four growing boys and keep them in shelter and shoes. The old man had disappeared so long ago James hardly remembered him. His teacher, therefore, and that of his brothers, was most often the streets of the project, and a faithless slut she could sometimes be. All four of the Ryder boys, it seemed, had learned a different lesson from her.

James credited Otis’s mother for instilling many of the values he’d ultimately adopted. Muriel Jackson ran her family like a marine unit, and hanging around her apartment as much as he did, he was automatically
included when she drilled morality into her kids. She had ironclad opinions on what was right and what was wrong, and she was not hesitant to express them. Neither was she reluctant to tear the hide off anyone foolish enough to ignore her sterling edicts, and that included James.

He was converted early to the work ethic, thanks largely to her influence. What he ultimately wanted for his life, the streets didn’t begin to offer, and Otis’s ma made him realize that no one was going to simply hand him his dreams on a silver platter. That being the case, with the single-minded determination he applied to everything he did, he set out to accomplish his objectives on his own.

He had three priorities, and if they did not appear to be of earth-shattering importance to anyone else, they were fairly ambitious for a son of the Terrace. For one thing, he desired more than a high school education. That was a rarity in itself in a neighborhood that counted a high school diploma a triumph. Secondly, he saw beauty where many saw decrepitude, particularly in architecture, and he wanted one day to own a place whose former glory he could restore with his own two hands. Third, most important, and the most difficult to achieve, he wanted to be a professional cartoonist.

The first was easy. James didn’t give a damn if he earned a degree; he simply wanted the education. To that end, he worked construction by day and audited classes when he could. His interests were eclectic, and he pursued them with his customary diligence.

His other goals, unfortunately, were not as easily attained. Between his own living expenses, the cost of his mother’s funeral his third year out of high school, and his brothers’ needs, saving money was
practically impossible. And God knew, no one was breaking down his door, begging to publish his ‘toons. He had expected some initial rejection, of course; he just hadn’t been prepared for the damage to his sense of ability that went along with it. Rejection hurt; there were no two ways about it. It hammered the ego and battered his faith in his own talent. Was he fooling himself? Hell, probably—how many times had he vocalized his sense of the ridiculous only to elicit blank looks from half the people around him? Maybe his stuff wasn’t as humorous as he’d have liked to believe.

Otis said that was pure bull, and deep inside, that’s what James believed, too. But sometimes it was a struggle to continue cranking it out. He hardly had a free minute as it was. Why waste what little he had on something that wasn’t paying off?

In the final analysis, however, it proved to be a matter over which he didn’t have a real option. It was simply something he felt compelled to do.

The only aspect of his life over which he
did
seem to have complete control was how and when he’d allow females into it, and damned if he planned to relinquish that. He liked women, but he lacked all desire for a steady relationship with one. Hell, the last thing he needed was yet another person demanding more of his time than he was willing to give.

Females demanded so much attention and ultimately always seemed to expect marriage and children. No thanks. He had inherited his familial responsibilities by default, and he felt compelled to draw. He didn’t also, however, have to commit himself to some woman who’d further constrict his limited privacy. Give him the good-time girls, preferably tall, blonde, and stacked, whom he met in bars. They were
usually looking for the same things he was seeking: a little light flirtation; some good, vigorous, uncomplicated sex; and a bit of lighthearted social interaction.

When his cartoons finally began to sell it surprised him to learn that success could be a two-edged sword. He’d never expected it to have a downside.

He was indignant to read in a national magazine that he was an overnight success. “Fancy that,” he’d said to Otis, with more than a little sarcasm. “Am I a friggin’ miracle worker, or what?” He didn’t dispute that shortly after it had appeared in his hometown evening paper, “A Skewed View” was rapidly picked up by papers nationwide and almost as quickly expanded into commercial rights. But that damned article had completely discounted the nine years he’d struggled to keep producing while the rejection slips had mounted up.

Overnight success, his ass.

Hell, he used to put himself to sleep sometimes, fantasizing about seeing just one of his cartoons published. He’d always sort of assumed it would make his life perfection itself.

He should have known better. For all his creative mental flights of fancy, he was ultimately a man whose life was firmly grounded in reality. Yes, having his cartoons finally accepted gave him a very real feeling of validation. And there was no denying that the financial aspect was rewarding. He finally had the means to purchase his dream in the form of this apartment house, and he’d enjoyed every damned minute spent restoring the place. He was able to repay Otis’s faith in him, if just a little, by providing extra income for the help Otis gave him during his off hours and by offering him and Lola free rent in the guise of managing the rental aspects of the apartment
house. So far, that had meant renting to Aunie, but as they restored the remaining eight apartments, the Jacksons’ managerial duties would expand. James supposed it would be nice to have the place pay for itself, but he was in no particular hurry to see it filled up with people.

The confusion and lack of satisfaction stemmed from his personal life, which was nowhere near perfection. As his financial worth grew, so, it seemed, did the scope and magnitude of his brothers’ problems. Now they assumed he had unlimited resources to fund the bailing-out process for whatever current difficulties they might find themselves in. And women who had been perfectly content to while away a few hours with him when he was just James Ryder, construction worker, suddenly wanted more from J. T. Ryder, cartoonist.

That really caught him unprepared, the way so many people suddenly began to treat him as if he were someone new and exotic. He sure as hell didn’t understand it. He hadn’t changed; only their perception of him had; so go figure. The way a lot of them acted, though, you’d think he’d all of a sudden become some sort of Hollywood personality living life in the fast lane. What bull; he was the same old James he’d always been. Give him a couple Mexican beers, a few good friends, and an occasional evening of recreational fornication, and he was a happy man. They could keep the bright lights, premieres, and intrusive yellow journalism that other people seemed to visualize. He was basically a private man, already jealously guarding what little privacy he could scrounge up to call his own. Who needed more people poking into his life?

He’d ultimately dealt with the awkward onslaught
of intrusive, fawning attention by changing the bars he had frequented. He took his business to where he wasn’t known and he started over. When the new women he met asked what he did for a living, he told them he worked light construction, restoring an apartment house. It was the truth, after all. Maybe not the entire truth, but fact nonetheless. And for the past three years it had effectively protected his anonymity, which in turn had provided him the bit of isolation he craved. He required frequent periods of solitude, and if withholding pieces of information about himself was the only way to get it, then that was what he’d do. It had worked to his satisfaction thus far.

So life should be a chair of bowlies, as that Engel-breit lithograph in Lola’s hallway said. Only it wasn’t. His brothers seemed destined to keep repeating the same old mistakes right into the twenty-first century, and he had grown infinitely weary of cleaning up after them. He wanted them to grow up and take responsibility for their own lives. And if that weren’t enough to keep him occupied, he had this damned business with Aunie now to contend with as well.

James was finding it much harder than he had expected to put his encounter with her out of his mind.

He didn’t understand it; this shouldn’t be happening. He knew the drill. Hell, he had invented it; he
ought
to have it down pat by now. He didn’t get involved … not with anyone, not ever. He got so stressed just contemplating the idea, he practically broke out in hives. The complication that would come of an involvement with any woman, let alone Aunie Franklin, was the last thing he needed.

And yet …

He kept remembering that night in her apartment, the feel of her, her response … God, that response.

It infuriated him. He’d never had a problem putting a woman out of his mind before—why should it be any different this time? It was bad enough he was going to be dragged into Aunie’s problems should old Wesley ever show up. All right, in truth he wasn’t that averse to the idea of getting his hands on the ex-husband. He had a very real desire to hurt the man for what he’d done to her, and hurt him badly.

But that was as far as it went, dammit. They weren’t even
friends,
he and Aunie, not really. He was not about to get involved with her sexually, and that was the beginning and end of that. Hell, that’s all he’d need … a lover who lived in the same building as he did. He thought his privacy was limited now … just imagine what it would be like with someone who lived right down the hall. She would expect things from him that he simply wasn’t equipped to give.

Provided, that is, that she was interested in having an affair with him in the first place, which was assuming one hell of a lot. He kept hearing her voice in his head saying, “Gawd, James, you’re so conceited,” and it made him feel like the vainest of fools.

All right, so maybe she’d made more of an impression on him during that episode against her entry door than he had made on her. She
had
laughed the whole thing off; and the few times he’d run into her since, there hadn’t been so much as a hint in her manner to indicate she even recalled the incident.

So much for her claim to be looking for a red-hot affair.

Of course, she’d never claimed to be looking for one with him. That sure hadn’t stopped him, however, from telling her more than once not to expect
him to play the stud for her. That was what really made him squirm, the idea that he’d warned away a woman with her sort of classiness when she had never once indicated his attentions were even desired by her.

As if she’d have any use for a guy like him, anyway. He had seen things and been places she couldn’t even begin to imagine, while she possessed an inherently untouched quality that even the punishment she’d taken at her ex-husband’s hands had been unable to tarnish. She probably had some yuppie type in mind for her affair, someone real clean—a doctor or lawyer with soft, smooth hands.

So, it wasn’t a problem then, was it? Neither he nor she was looking for a sexual liaison with the other, so he didn’t have to worry about adding one more complication to an already overcomplicated situation. He’d been working overtime this past year to make his life less complex, not more so; but it really would be vain of him to include Aunie in his responsibilities. She’d never once asked him to be accountable for her. She had, in fact, bent over backward to demonstrate her independence—it seemed to hold some special significance for her. The best thing he could do by far was simply to forget the way he had forced that encounter between them and get on with the important things in life. No worries.

Why was it, then, that he couldn’t quite shake the feeling she was about ninety-eight pounds of pure dynamite primed to explode directly into his life?

Aunie put down her lipstick brush and surveyed her image critically in the mirror. Did she look all right? Except for her complexion, which even she could see was flawless, she had never quite understood
what all the fuss was about when people raved on about her looks. She had taken shameful advantage of it, but she’d never fully understood it.