That Boy From Trash Town (14 page)

"Okay," she said with a shrug,"I'm worried. While you're in there, look behind the overcoat at the back. Then you can check for living dead in the bathroom."

Giving a short bark of laughter, Dean walked into the bathroom and looked around. The area around the small sink was cluttered with cosmetics and other female paraphernalia. He picked up a vial of perfume; held it for a moment, then sat it back on the counter. A thick, white terry-cloth robe hung from a hook on the door. In white, Whitney looked like a sexy angel, and in his imagination, he could see her in the robe, the thick cloth emphasizing the slenderness of her body, her dark hair resting against the wide collar. Without thinking, he reached out to touch it, wondering if the smell of her flesh was still on—

"Hey," she called, "you're not being garroted or anything, are you?"

He jerked his hand back with an awkward movement. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Reentering the bedroom, he found her sitting on the bed. "Nothing," he said, forcing a smile. "Not a body, bloody or otherwise."

"What is it in us that makes us want to be scared out of our wits?" she asked as he moved beyond her to check the window ledge, then make sure the window was locked.

"It's not just horror movies," she continued, pulling her feet up beneath her. "It's roller coasters and fast cars. Skydiving and jumping off bridges with rubber bands on our feet."

While she speculated on human nature, Dean watched her from the corners of his eyes, pretending not to, pretending that he was having trouble lowering the blinds.

He really wished she hadn't decided to sit on the bed. Because the image he had conjured up in the bathroom was nothing to the vision that took hold of him now. He saw himself pushing her back on the bed, her dark, silken hair spreading out across the pillow, her flesh bare and warm beneath his fingers.

With an abrupt movement, he shoved his hands into his pockets. Touching her, he thought sadly. Touching Whitney. It couldn't happen. Ever. Because if Dean got too close, she would be touched by more than his hands, more than his body. She would be touched by the past.

Whitney was bright and clear as crystal, and Dean wanted her to stay that way. She had only ever had brief glimpses of the darkness, and she didn't know that even now, years after the fact, the ugliness of his childhood still visited him. He had to keep that away from her. He would be damned if he would let the black imprint on his soul touch her.

Releasing a slow breath, he said, "All clear. I'll get out of your hair now."

At the front door, he pulled up a stiff smile. "Good night, sleep tight, don't let the psychotic killers bite." He opened the door, then paused. "I have to fly home tomorrow, but I should be back before you get home from work. If Lloyd is feeling better I'll take us all out to dinner. Eating your own cooking is making you lose weight."

"That's very funny. You're no wizard in the kitchen yourself."

He started through the door but again turned back to her. "You're not really going to be afraid tonight, are you?"

"I'm fine. I'm just very sleepy," she said pointedly.

"Good... good." But instead of leaving, he leaned against the door frame and met her eyes. "Are you ready to talk about your mother yet?"

She bit her lip. "No— I don't know. Maybe."

Exhaling a little sigh, she leaned against the other side of the door, her face very close to his, and he could feel her soft breath on his lips.

"It's really weird, Dean," she said quietly. "Maybe pitiful is a better word. I'm so much in the habit of overlooking the things she does, always saying 'that's just Mother.'" She shook her head. "Sometimes something will remind me of her and I'll find myself smiling before I remember that I feel differently about her now. I don't want to be one of those people who expect everyone around them to be perfect, to never make mistakes, but— The thing is, if I found out she had an affair, or even that she had robbed a bank, I think I could come to grips with that. Because it wouldn't have been done to me. What she did, that was done to me, even though I know she doesn't see it that way. I keep telling myself that she really loves me, but sometimes I just don't know. How could she love me and hurt me like that?"

"She loves you," Dean said. "Even I don't doubt that. But she has different standards, different values than you and I do."

She caught her bottom Up between her teeth, and after a small pause, she shook her head again. "I just don't know what to think. I only know that I woke up one day and found that the woman I thought was my mother never existed. Ifs as though I made her up. Do I love her, or do I love my idea of her? If she's someone I don't know, how could I love her? You can't love a total stranger."

"Come on, Whit. You're looking at this from the wrong angle. There is one part of her that you didn't know. All the other parts were real. They just weren't the complete picture. You have to take the part you knew—the part you loved—and add this new part to it. You say you could allow her to make a mistake, and I believe you. You would have stood by her if she had run someone down in her Mercedes or something like that. But what she did wasn't a single act. And it wasn't just a careless mistake. She knew what she was doing. Which means there is a flaw in her personality, in her basic philosophy. And that's the part you're having trouble with. She really thought she was doing what was best. You know it was wrong and I know it was wrong, but faulty judgment is the flaw you have to allow in her."

She shook her head in a restless movement. "I don't know if I can."

"You don't have to do it tonight." He reached up and stroked her cheek with one finger. "I know you. You'll find some way to get through this."

If he moved his head a couple of inches he would be kissing her. Only a couple of inches.

Instantly he cursed himself for allowing the thought to form. Because now his mouth burned with the need to feel hers.

Straightening away from the door, he glanced at Ms watch. "This time I'm really leaving," he said, hearing stiffness in his own voice. "You get to bed and get some sleep."

When the door closed behind him, Dean stared at it for a long time. Leaving her was damned hard. And it got harder every time he had to do it.

Turning away, he walked the few steps to his apartment and unlocked the door. After he had turned on the light he stood for a moment and looked around the room. Furniture, magazines, plants. All the things necessary for human comfort were here and still the room felt barren. It was funny how two could equal full when just one less added up to empty.

Thirty minutes later Dean was lying in bed. He had left the window open because the air-conditioning was on the blink again, but there was almost no breeze. The room felt airless as he lay naked, his hands under his head, and stared at the ceiling.

There were times, like tonight, when he wondered if he was doing the right thing. Dear sweet heaven, did he even know what was right anymore?

Back when Whitney had been openly adoring, fighting his feelings for her had been damned hard. He hadn't thought it could get tougher than that. But he had been wrong. Dead wrong.

Even though he had always felt responsible for her, protecting her wasn't the only reason he had come back to Dallas. The plain fact was, Dean was here because he had no choice. Being without Whitney was like being without air. Like being without light. His life in San Antonio had stopped the minute she left, and a powerful need—the need to be with her, the need to see her smile and hear her laugh—had taken over his every thought.

His need for her had kept him awake at night, all kinds of wild thoughts visiting him. Whitney might be a hothouse flower, a Harcourt orchid, but she was an adult, free to make her own choices. Adults made love for a lot of reason, he told himself. They didn't have to be in love. Attraction, affection, even mutual need was enough for most people.

Dean had even managed, during those endless nights, to convince himself that making love to Whitney was his right. He had invested a lot of time and energy in her. It seemed only fair that he should be the first to touch her sweetness.

Dean knew she was a virgin. She had never been shy with him and would talk about anything that popped into her head. She had told him about her first kiss. She had told him about the fumbling in the dark that she hadn't taken seriously and had always stopped before it went too far.

And although she had never said the words aloud, Dean knew without a doubt that she had been waiting for him.

For him.

The idea twisted through him, leaving him drenched in perspiration. Whitney had waited for him. It was what she had wanted. Back then, before he had hurt her, she had wanted him to be her first and only love.

And during those long, frustrating nights back in San Antonio, Dean had told himself that no matter what happened between them in the future, no matter where their separate lives took them, it was right—it was just—that he should be her first lover. He had spent the better part of his life caring for Whitney. He deserved a return on his investment. If he were the first man to make love to her, he would be willing to call it even. Because then a part of her would always and forever belong to him.

In the dark of the night, when his body and soul ached for her, it had been easy for Dean to convince himself of a lot of foolish things. But the moment he had seen her again, he had known just how foolish the ideas had been.

Years of wanting Whitney and not having her should have dulled his sense of responsibility, but it hadn't worked out that way. Not where Whitney was concerned. He couldn't let her into his darkness. He couldn't stop being her protector, her hero.

And he was afraid that in the future, Whitney was going to need protecting. She was headed for trouble with her father.

When it happened, Dean was going to be there to hold her, the way he had always done in the past.

Chapter 10

O
n the day of the company picnic, contrary to Whitney's predictions, it didn't rain. In fact, one couldn't have asked for a more beautiful day, and as it was a weekday, the employees of Tickner Toy Company had the small park pretty much to themselves.

The baseball game had begun soon after everyone arrived, and Whitney, wearing white shorts with a red blouse and red tennis shoes, was playing second base. Although she would most likely end up with skinned knees, she hadn't thought about diving for a ball when she had dressed for the picnic.

"Come on, Frankie!" she yelled. "You're doing great. Keep on striking them out."

After the first inning, Whitney's team was ahead by six runs, and since she still hadn't mastered the art of being a gracious winner, she was already a little hoarse from taunting the opposition.

When the two teams had chosen up sides, she and Lloyd somehow found themselves on opposing teams. Whitney had come to love her father all over again, the real Lloyd rather than her memory of him, but love and filial duty had nothing to do with baseball.

Whitney spotted Lloyd now, standing near the backstop, and waved to him. Cupping a hand to her mouth, she called, "You're going to get skunked, Lloyd!"

In response, Lloyd grinned in what she assumed was a show of false bravado. It-wasn't long before she discovered her mistake.

After Frankie struck out a pretty redhead, Whitney squatted to retie her laces, and when she stood up again the next batter was in place.

For a moment she stared, her eyes narrowed, at the man who was swinging two bats over home plate, then she cut her eyes toward Lloyd and watched his smile widen. Lloyd had brought in a ringer. The next batter was Dean.

"That's illegal!" she yelled. "Throw the bum out. He doesn't work at the factory, and he's not a member of your family, Lloyd. Foul!"

"The rules don't say anything about family," Lloyd called back to her. "In fact, the rules don't say anything at all. We don't have any rules. Dean is my guest, and he's allowed to play on any team."

"He wasn't here when we chose up sides!'' she protested. "You're trying to pull a fast one, Lloyd."

"Ralph twisted his ankle," someone else yelled. "Dean is a substitute. Are we supposed to play one man short?"

Dean glanced in her direction, one dark brow raised. "What's the matter, Mary?" he called. "Afraid of a little competition?"

Her response to that was to send him a very rude, very Italian gesture that set the spectators roaring with appreciative laughter.

Grumbling under her breath, she watched Dean choose his bat, then square up to the left side of home plate. Dean was good at sports. Very good.

"Don't try your fastball on him, Frankie," she yelled to the pitcher. "He may be a little slow mentally, but he can knock a fastball into next week."

Hearing her warning, the fielders began to back up. Since Dean was left-handed, Linelle, who was covering first, moved a couple of steps toward Whitney. Whitney changed her position as well, then leaned forward and settled her hands on her knees as she prepared to watch the action.

Frank checked the field—an unnecessary gesture since there were no runners on base—and, after winking at Whitney, wound up and threw his famous drop ball.

Apparently Dean had been watching Frankie earlier in the game and knew what was coming. Instead of swinging, he turned the bat at the last minute and in a seemingly casual movement, merely intersected the ball with a light tap, sending it skimming just over the ground toward right field.

"Bunt!" Whitney squealed. "You idiot, he bunted!"

After Linelle dove for the ball and missed it by inches, the outfielders began scrambling to reach it. And in the meantime, Dean had already passed first base.

Whitney moved back to her base and began jumping up and down, screaming for someone to throw the blasted ball. When a tall man finally scooped it up, Whitney lost track of Dean.

Raising her glove, she prepared to receive the ball. It was in the air coming toward her when Whitney heard people yelling, "Slide.. .slide!"

Dean took their advice. He reached second base a split second before the ball, sliding into Whitney and knocking her feet out from under her so that, after flailing wildly, she landed, full-length, on top of him.

Lloyd's team had finally gotten a man on base, and the spectators were going wild, hooting and stamping their feet in raucous celebration, j

When Whitney felt one of Dean's hands clamped to her buttocks, she raised her head to look down at him.

"God, I love this game," he said, his eyes sparkling as he tightened his grip on her derriere.

Laughter caught her by surprise. Soon she was shaking with it, and she had to rest her forehead against his for a moment to catch her breath.

"Unhand my butt, you fool," she said as she pushed off him.

Rising to her feet, she offered him a hand. A show of sportsmanlike conduct never hurt anything. She could always get even with him later.

Dean's run set the tone for the rest of the game and an hour later it was all over but the crying. Lloyd's team had won by two runs.

She watched Dean mingling with her friends and coworkers, joking and laughing with them, and frowned. She knew Dean was in town because of his overdeveloped sense of responsibility, but that didn't explain why he was haunting her footsteps.

At times she saw something in him, a look, a tone of voice, that worried her. Some conflict, some inner struggle, was making him uneasy. And she was very much afraid the conflict was caused by his continuing absence from his law practice.

Dean was a dedicated attorney, and he had worked so hard to make his practice successful. Trying to maintain it from a distance would have to be frustrating for him.

She had gone out of her way to show him that she was capable of taking care of herself. He should have been convinced by now, but there was no mention of his returning to San Antonio. He was still there, as though he were waiting to rescue her from a disaster only he could foresee.

"What's worrying you?"

She glanced up to find Lloyd standing close beside her. "Dean... as usual," she said with a heavy sigh.

Lloyd shot a speculative glance toward where Dean was playing horseshoes with several others. "Looks to me like he's having a good time. What's the problem?"

"He shouldn't be here. I don't mean here at the picnic, I mean here in Dallas. He should be back in San Antonio in a courtroom. You've never seen him work, Lloyd, but he's some kind of boy wonder, the finest attorney seen in appellate court in years, they say." She pushed back her hair with a rough hand. "But he's so busy making sure I don't screw up my life, he's screwing up his own. I have to do something. I can't let him make stupid sacrifices for me. Not anymore."

"He's an adult," her father said with a shrug. "You can't tell him how to live his life any more than he can tell you how to five yours. You know what they say— a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

She gave a short laugh. "No, you're right. I can't tell him what to do, but I can show him that I'm getting a life going for myself. I can make him see that I don't need him to play big brother anymore."

Lloyd shoved his hands into his pockets and shook his head. "You've got your apartment, your job, new friends. From where I'm standing, that's a life. He's seen it. And he's still here."

She frowned. "I know, and I've been wondering about that. I've known Dean for 4 long time—for most of my life—and I never would have suspected him of being a male chauvinist, but I'm almost sure I know what his hovering is all about. He thinks I'm supposed to have a man to protect me. Not just a good friend like you, but my very own man. Stop laughing," she said, laughing with him as she punched him in the shoulder. "It's true. Why else would he still be here? He's waiting for me to go steady or something."

Still chuckling, he shook his head again. "I think you're wrong, but I'm not about to talk you out of the idea. I'm having too much fun watching you two. So now that you've spotted where the trouble is, what are you going to do about it?"

The question threw her for a moment. What was she going to do about it? She couldn't just sit around feeling guilty for ruining his life. Dean deserved better than that. It was her fault that he was in this mess, so she would just have to find a way to get him out of it.

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth as she concentrated on the problem, then after a moment, she raised her chin, shoved her thumbs through her belt loops, and glanced around the park. "I'm going to find me a man," she said, then walked away to the sound of Lloyd's laughter.

Whitney spent the next half hour scoping out the men at the picnic. By the time she was done she decided that finding an eligible man wasn't going to be as easy as she had thought. Several of the men she worked with had shown an interest in her, but Whitney knew she couldn't choose just any man. He had to be someone Dean would approve of. Someone Dean trusted.

The requirements weren't all that complicated, but as Whitney walked around the park, going from one group of people to the next, she made the unpleasant discovery that there were a lot of loose screws working at the toy factory.

Just when she was beginning to think it was hopeless, she caught sight of a stocky man in his mid-twenties. She had forgotten all about Ralph Jenkins. Ralph was a sweet, shy man with blond hair and a pale complexion. His wasn't exactly a shining personality, and Whitney couldn't help wondering about a man in his late twenties who still lived with his mother, but Ralph was certainly someone Dean would find trustworthy.

"It's a good day for a picnic, isn't it?" Whitney said as she joined Ralph at a picnic table.

Eyeing her warily, the blond young man nodded and
swallowed a couple of times in what seemed to be a
nervous reaction to her presence.

Undaunted, Whitney leaned back against the concrete table and pressed on. "I think someone's getting people together for a volleyball game. Are you going to play?"

When he shook his head and swallowed yet again, Whitney shifted her position slightly. This was going to be tougher than she had thought. Ralph was watching her the way a man would watch a swaying cobra.

Gentling her lips into an encouraging smile, she said, "I'm sorry, Ralph. I forgot you twisted your ankle in the first inning of the game.''

Again there was no verbal response. Whitney glanced around, frantically searching for a new subject. "Arnie brought his boat for anyone who wants to water-ski. What do you think? It should be fun. I know you won't be able to ski, but we could just ride around in the boat... and, you know, watch the others... or something."

Her last words dwindled away as Ralph began to swallow again and again in rapid succession. The scene took on surreal aspects and his somewhat prominent Adam's apple seemed to grow even more prominent, his neck more elongated.

She pursued the course of the maverick larynx with her eyes. Up...down. Then more rapidly—up and down, up and down...

And then Ralph spoke. "I don't—"

She leaned forward hopefully, but instead of finishing the thought, he broke off and swallowed— again.

Whitney cleared her throat to suppress a hysterical giggle. "Is it your ankle? Is it still painful?" She had given up hoping for a real conversation, but was perfectly willing to carry on alone. "Say, I have an idea. Why don't we sit under a tree white they're cooking the hamburgers? When they're done I can fetch yours for you. That way you can stay off that bum ankle, and you and I will have a chance to get to know more about each—"

"Ralph, your mother is looking for you. She's entered the three-legged race and needs a cheering section."

She swung around and found Dean on the other side of the picnic table, his knee bent as he rested one leg on the bench.

Turning back to Ralph, Whitney saw an expression of relief cross Ins thin face before he stood and limped away.

"Why did you do that?" she asked, rising to her feet in exasperation. "Ralph and I were having an interesting conversation."

Dean raised one brow. "I beg your pardon, did you say conversation? I guess I don't understand all the finer nuances of the word. Does conversation mean that one person talks while the other sweats and shakes?"

She raised her chin belligerently. "You don't know anything about it. Ralph was just beginning to loosen up."

He gave a loud bark of laughter. "Sure he was. If he got any looser, he would have passed out. The poor man was scared to death. Face it, Whit, when you turn on the sizzle, you separate the men from the boys. Ralph is a nice guy, but he's definitely not up to your speed."

Her eyes widened in indignant surprise. "I don't know what you're talking about. You, act like I'm some kind of femme fatale. I don't exactly have a long trail of broken hearts behind me. You know better than anyone that I'm as virginal as they come. Untouched by human hands. Ninety-nine and forty-four one-hundredths percent pure."

There was a barely discernible pause, then Dean slowly ran his gaze over her in what seemed like a deliberate examination of her body. "I know things about you that even you don't know," he said finally, his voice low.

Whitney stared in shock, taken aback by the unconscious sensuality that flared in his dark eyes.

At least, she thought it was unconscious. Of course it was unconscious, she admonished silently. Dean had never turned a seductive look in her direction, and she had a feeling she probably should be grateful for that fact. Because, judging by her reaction to a look she had mistaken for lust, she was pretty sure she wouldn't be able to handle the real thing.