Twilight (7 page)

“Evidence, Dana. Solid, irrefutable evidence.”

“Maybe I just like to wear my clothes loose.”

He grinned. “Give it up. You’re not going to win. Ken was very proud of your fashion sense. He often wished he could persuade you to teach these girls a thing or two about style.”

He had expressed the same wish to her on several occasions, but she had always dismissed the idea with one excuse or another. She had never realized that he’d shared those thoughts with Rick.

“He said you were too busy with other commitments,” Rick said, though it was clear he hadn’t bought the excuses.

“Okay, okay. Maybe I have lost a couple of pounds,” she conceded. “I haven’t felt much like eating.”

“Today you will,” he assured her. “I’m going to stuff you with black beans and rice, maybe a few enchiladas, maybe a taco or two.”

Despite herself, her mouth was watering. “Spicy?” she asked.

“If that’s the way you want them.”

“Is there any other way?”

He nodded approvingly. “See there, you and I do have one thing in common.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she warned.

“Hey, I’ve always believed that the path to victory was to find the first little chink in your opponent’s armor.”

“Is that what we are? Opponents?”

“Aren’t we?”

For some reason that she didn’t care to explore too closely, Dana suddenly regretted the accuracy of his assessment, but she couldn’t dispute it.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I suppose that is exactly what we are.”

It was too bad, too. What she was in desperate need of these days was an ally.

7

R
ick leaned back in the booth at Tico’s and studied the woman opposite him. He’d waited for disdain to fill her eyes all morning, first when she had met the kids at Yo, Amigo and minutes ago, when they had entered the tiny, unpretentious neighborhood restaurant. So far, she had surprised him.

She had been polite, if guarded, with the teenagers. Inside the door of Tico’s, she had drawn in a deep breath, and a positively rapturous expression had crossed her face. Once they’d found an available booth in the crowded room, she had grabbed the typed, laminated menu eagerly. For five minutes after that she had pestered him with questions about unfamiliar items.

She had ordered with such abandon that even the unflappable Tico had been startled. She would be stunned to discover that her meal would be enough to stuff a truck driver. Tico’s place might not be much for atmosphere, but he never stinted on his portions, especially not for a customer who demonstrated so much enthusiasm. Rick had had to hide his amusement at his friend’s bemused expression.

What a complex woman Dana Miller was, he thought, a little bemused himself as he watched her. This side of her was far too alluring, far too dangerous, when he was already having difficulty resisting the effect she had on his body.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s not polite to stare?” she inquired, squirming just a little under his gaze.

He liked knowing that he could rattle her. “Not that I can recall,” he said, enjoying her uneasiness. She had caught him totally off-guard the night before. He figured it was only fair that he return the favor. “I don’t think it applied to circumstances like this, anyway.”

She regarded him quizzically. “And what circumstances would these be?”

“Two people each trying to figure out what makes the other one tick.”

“Is that what you’re trying to do?”

Rick smiled. “Aren’t you?”

“I already know what makes you tick, Mr. Sanchez,” she said with evident bitterness. “You have a passion for just one thing—that program that you have poured your heart and soul into.”

It was essentially true, but Rick was vaguely insulted just the same. No man liked to hear himself described as so one-dimensional. “You see no more in me than that?”

“Is there more?”

“Maybe we should let you discover my other passions as we go,” he said softly, and watched the color climb into her cheeks.

The taunt came as naturally as breathing, before he could stop himself. It drew a spark of pure fire in her eyes that intrigued him, despite his best intentions. Dana Miller was a woman with passions of her own. Whatever they might be, though, they were off-limits to him. Honoring his friendship to Ken demanded it.

“This isn’t personal between us,” she said, her teeth clenched.

“Oh, no? You blame me for the death of your husband. You want to destroy something I love, something I’ve worked hard the past few years to get off the ground. I’d say that makes it pretty personal, Dana.”

“I meant—”

He couldn’t resist trying to shock her. “You meant there would be no sex, isn’t that right?”

The pink in her cheeks deepened. “How crude of you to put it so bluntly.”

“I don’t waste a lot of time dancing around the obvious, if that’s what you mean.” He leaned forward. “As for the sex, I think it’s a little too soon to rule anything out.”

She glared at him. “You are every bit as despicable as I’d imagined, Mr. Sanchez. My husband is—”

“Dead,” he reminded her, then cursed himself when the color washed out of her face. “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. “I should never have said that.”

“I think we should go now,” she said, her eyes shadowed with unbearable pain. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”

Rick wondered only briefly whether he should accede to her wishes. Perhaps if she remained very angry with him, if she thoroughly despised him, she would stay away from Yo, Amigo, after all. He knew better, though. She wouldn’t allow anything—not even her dislike of him—to get in her way. She might avoid him, but she would be back.

He met her gaze squarely. “Suit yourself, but my appetite is just fine, and I’m not about to let Tico’s food go to waste.”

Their meal arrived as if on cue, plates loaded down with fragrant, spicy concoctions that blended meat and cheese and chili peppers in ways that fast-food chains had never imagined. As furious as Dana was with him, she eyed the plates avidly. He wondered if she would be stubborn enough to leave the food untouched to spite him.

For a moment or two, she did exactly that, hands folded primly in her lap, her chin tilted defiantly, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond him.

But as he continued to eat, slowly and deliberately savoring each mouthful, he could see her wavering. Finally, with a soft sigh of resignation, she picked up her fork.

She took one tiny, tentative bite at first, still resisting the idea of enjoying her meal. That bite was quickly followed by another, larger one, and then another.

“Oh, my,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “This is heavenly.”

Rick grinned. “See, not even I can ruin the taste of Tico’s enchiladas.”

She ignored the comment. “Do you think he would give me the recipe? What’s in this mole sauce? How many chilis?”

“I have no idea, and I doubt if he’d tell you. I think he would rather you came here often,” Rick said, and immediately regretted his own foolhardiness. He was practically begging to make things more personal, more intimate between them. How many meals could they share without the undeniable sparks between them leading to something neither of them wanted? Her violent response to his taunting comment just moments earlier proved that she was not half as immune to him as she wanted to be. No doubt she believed that such a significant spark of attraction made a mockery of her mourning, whereas he believed it was simply a life force exerting its pull.

“For more of this,” she said, holding up a forkful of savory meat, “I would spend time with the devil himself.”

For one brief second, Dana Miller was just an attractive, intelligent woman, a woman whom his body responded to, even when his head told him nothing could ever come of it. There were depths to her that it would be fascinating to explore, depths he would never know. That being the case, it was better to remind them both of why they were together at all.

“Ken always loved it here, too,” he said.

Rather than pain at the mention of her husband’s name, though, something soft and wondering lit her eyes. “He came here?”

It was as if he’d offered her an unexpected connection to the man she had lost. “Often,” Rick said. “He loved the food and the people. Tico was one of our first success stories when we began four years ago.”

Astonishment spread across her face. “Tico was in a gang?”

“He led one of the gangs,” Rick corrected, then added somberly, “until one of the members of his own gang killed his little brother, claiming he was a snitch.”

She gasped at that. “How horrible!”

“But out of that tragedy came some good. Tico was ready to listen to what Yo, Amigo had to say, to what Ken had to say. His mother was an excellent cook. Tico took her recipes and began to experiment with them. He fixed several suppers for everyone at Yo, Amigo. Everyone was wildly enthusiastic. Ken found a few people in the restaurant business, invited them over one night and, after tasting some of Tico’s wizardry with Mexican food, they came up with the money to back this place.”

“It was a wise investment, wasn’t it?” Dana asked.

Rick nodded. “He repaid all of the loans in the first year and he’s been in the black ever since. Four of his younger brothers and sisters work here now. His mother comes in to act as hostess in the evening. It’s truly a family enterprise.”

“You must be very proud,” she said with obvious sincerity.

“Not me. Ken had the foresight to see what Tico could be. I was worried only about getting him off the streets. It takes more than that. I can rescue kids every day. I can talk until I’m blue in the face about opportunity and dreams and success. It takes people like Ken to make them a reality, to keep these kids from drifting back to their old ways. Your husband offered more than a moral compass. He offered hope.”

He met her gaze evenly. “Can you see now that even though my loss is very different from yours, it runs just as deep?”

He could see the struggle in her eyes, the unwillingness to acknowledge that he might be suffering because of Ken’s death, just as she was. Eventually, though, she was too honest to lie, even to herself.

“I think I’m beginning to see that,” she conceded, albeit grudgingly. “But don’t you see that it was because of that very need you had for him that he’s dead?”

Ah, Rick thought, there was the rub. He fought that acknowledgment, denied it. When he did allow it, he could see his responsibility so clearly it kept him awake nights.

“I’m sorry,” he told her once more. “But even if I’d known what the outcome was going to be, I wouldn’t have stopped him from coming. Yo, Amigo, the kids there, kids like Tico, needed him.”

“So did I,” she said fervently, visibly choking back a sob.

Rick reached across the table and took her hand in his. It was cold as ice, but she didn’t pull away.

“I know, Dana,” he told her quietly. “I know.”

She wasn’t through with him yet, though. “Because of you, my kids will grow up without a father.”

He could have told her there were plenty of kids here in the barrio who would grow up without a father, as well, but it would have brought her no comfort. He thought of her going home to that empty, silent house in the suburbs and, for once, he didn’t envy the life she and so many others had.

Once, not so very long ago, he would have dismissed her as an uncaring, pampered housewife. He had kept that opinion to himself, even when Ken had sung her praises and ignored her shortcomings. Now he was glad that he had. She had loved her husband and her kids. With her misguided notion that she could insulate them from the world, she had wanted nothing more than to protect them. How could he fault her for that? It was exactly what he wanted for so many others.

“I’ll take you home now,” he said at last.

From the despondent look in her eyes, he suddenly realized that it was a trip neither of them was looking forward to.

With every mile that brought them closer to home, Dana felt the tension inside her mount. It was worse in many ways than what she’d felt only hours earlier, when she had made the reverse trip into Chicago. She had gone to Yo, Amigo filled with rage and, perhaps, if she were totally honest, just a modicum of fear of the uncertainties ahead.

Coming home, where she knew exactly what to expect, she felt only this vague tightness in her chest, the far more devastating threat of more emptiness. Even though the winter sky was darkening, it was barely four in the afternoon. A long, lonely evening stretched out ahead of her.

When they pulled into the driveway, Rick glanced at her knowingly. “Are you going to be okay here by yourself?”

“Of course,” she said, denying the truth. “I’ve lived in this house for nine years. It’s home.” For how much longer? she wondered. She couldn’t drag out the move forever. Sooner or later, the board’s patience would wear thin.

“I’ll be fine,” she insisted.

He regarded her with obvious skepticism. “Maybe you should call Mrs. Jefferson.”

The thought appealed too much. Kate’s cheerful ways and common sense would chase away the shadows. She forced herself to shake her head. “No, this is the way it’s going to be. I have to get used to it.”

“Not overnight.”

“Yes,” she said. “The sooner the better.” Changing the subject, she asked, “What time will you be here tomorrow?” Only after she’d asked did she wonder if she’d sounded too anxious to escape.

“Two-thirty, maybe three.”

“Or maybe later,” she said, imagining him to be the kind of man who lost all track of time.

“I said two-thirty or three,” he corrected. “That’s what I meant.”

She shrugged. “Whatever.”

He regarded her with a direct look that commanded her attention. Only when he had it, did he say, “Dana, I know you don’t want to trust me, not even in so small a detail, but I mean what I say. You’ll see.”

“It’s not important.”

“I think it is. Would you like me to come in with you?”

She almost smiled at that. “To chase away the ghosts?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“No,” she said too quickly. She didn’t want him inside again, in Ken’s space. He was the kind of man who could far too quickly overshadow memories. They would fade fast enough without the competition. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She left the car in a rush, then hurried up the front walk. She fumbled the key in the lock and then she was inside. She closed the door quickly behind her, blocking out the view of Rick Sanchez still sitting in her driveway, his gaze worried as he stared after her.

She didn’t want his worry or his concern. The only thing she wanted from Rick Sanchez was entry into the world where her husband had died.

She peeked out from behind a curtain and saw that he was still there. Eventually, though, he started the car and backed out of the drive. Only then did she release the breath she had unconsciously been holding. Relief followed, relief that didn’t bear too close an examination.

Fortunately, just then the phone rang. Switching on a light as she crossed the room, she grabbed the portable phone eagerly, glad for anything that would push Rick Sanchez and the disturbing afternoon they’d just shared from her mind.

“Mom?”

She wasn’t prepared for her son’s whispered voice. It was thick with tears and enough to break her heart. Her oldest prided himself on never crying. Since Ken’s death, Bobby had taken his role as man of the house far too seriously. Except at the funeral, he had remained stoically dry-eyed. He had been the one to comfort his younger brothers, to try to explain the inexplicable, when Dana’s words had failed. This afternoon, though, he sounded more like a scared and lonely little boy.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, sweetheart, I’m here.”