Marta swiveled as he entered the room. He studied her with an unreadable expression. “Find anything worth reading?”
She set down the magazine. “That stuff about trauma. I’m impressed that you’re doing research for your job.”
“I don’t deserve any special credit,” he responded quietly. “Did you inspect the closet?”
“Not yet.” In fact, she didn’t see one. “Where is it?”
He jerked his chin toward the bathroom. A confined space, and even more personal than the bedroom. Rejecting a twinge of cowardice, Marta led the way.
Oversize tub plus separate shower, a skylight and a large, etched-glass window—palatial appointments, maintained with austere neatness. No feminine things on the counter, she registered.
Marta set down her sack. “This is a bathroom any woman would kill for. Nice going, Sarge.”
“I enjoy my comforts.” He grinned lazily. “Care for a dip? That’s a whirlpool bath. Very soothing.”
“Forgot my swimsuit,” she retorted.
“No problem.” He appeared to enjoy the implication.
Which was that he wouldn’t mind seeing Marta naked in his bathtub. Even as her pulse speeded, she registered that flirting had become second nature to Derek, regardless of whether he nurtured any interest in the woman. Besides, the last thing she’d do in front of this gorgeous man was strip off her clothes and display the scars zigzagging across her midsection.
“I charge for a peek at my maze,” Marta said. “Several carnivals have offered large sums.”
His teasing expression vanished. “Didn’t occur to me that might be a sensitive subject. Sorry.”
“Let me ask your opinion,” she retorted. “I’ve been considering incorporating them into one large tattoo. Which would be sexier—a map of Las Vegas or a picture of a goddess throwing lightning bolts?”
Derek studied her with unaccustomed gentleness. “You don’t have to act flip. I would never make fun of you.”
Unexpectedly, the compassion in his voice brought her near tears. Averting her face, Marta blinked them away. “I’m perfectly capable of making fun of myself.”
“So I’ve observed.” Drawing nearer, he touched her arm. “Do guys hassle you about your injuries?”
No, because I never let anyone close enough. She met his gaze. “Not since I decked the first one who tried. He’ll be out of traction any year now.”
Derek’s deep amber eyes loomed disturbingly near. “You’ve developed self-protection to an art form. But you don’t need it with me.”
Warmth radiated from where his hand rested on her sleeve. Crazily, Marta imagined he might be about to kiss her. She’d dreamed of this moment for so long it had become almost palpable.
But one kiss would threaten a friendship she valued beyond measure. As for his comment about not requiring defenses, the person she most had to guard against was Derek.
Pulling away, Marta snatched several hats from her bag and set them on the counter. Beside them, she placed a leather belt with a silver buckle. “Okay, big guy, choose your props.”
He focused on the array of accessories. “What is all this?”
“I figured the best tactic would be to represent a classy character.” Marta handed him a deerstalker hat. “Let’s start with Sherlock.”
Derek clapped on the checked hat with front-and-rear brims, and fixed his attention on the mirror. “Interesting, for a detective.”
“If you’ve got a tweed coat, it might work.” She feigned her usual good cheer, while her heart rate hurtled along.
He adjusted the brims at various angles, without improving the impression. “Nice idea, but it isn’t me.”
Marta had to admit he lacked the thin, angular build of the actors she’d seen portray Sherlock Holmes. “I guess not. Scratch that one.”
He swapped the deerstalker for the Stetson. “You think I could pass as a cowboy?”
Her finger traced the tooled surface of the belt. “Worth a try.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He cocked the hat atop his light hair. To her eye, he resembled a country-music singer, sexy enough to drive any roomful of females to loosen their purse strings. And their clothing, too.
He slid the belt through his jeans loops. At this point, she suspected Joel would have executed a slow pelvic grind for good measure, but that wasn’t Derek’s style. Instead, a charming devil of a cowpoke peered into the mirror for a second and then faded, leaving a rather uncomfortable man in his stead. “Sorry, no.”
“You know what your problem is?” Marta demanded.
“Too boring and conventional?” he challenged.
“Too much dignity.” She reclaimed the hat and stuffed the crown with tissues before stowing it in the sack. After he removed the belt, Marta wound it into a circle, aware of the body warmth clinging to the leather.
“Any more ideas?”
“There’s baseball.” She produced a blue cap bearing the words Con Amore, the name of Connie’s new line of designer accessories, and a blue-and-white-striped polo shirt with the same name woven above the breast pocket. “What do you think?”
Derek shook his head. “I’m not the baseball type. Used to enjoy soccer, but I’ve outgrown it.” Politely, he amended, “I appreciate your efforts and you’ve produced some creative options. I suppose I’ll just have to walk out and stand there like a block.”
Disappointed to have let him down, Marta tucked the items out of sight. “Is there anything you are willing to do? Push-ups, for instance?”
He stared into space for so long that she feared she’d offended him. Abruptly, his fingers began tapping his thigh, a movement that seemed almost involuntary. She’d never seen Derek this fidgety before.
“Are you okay?” Perhaps he had a migraine.
He blinked away the hesitation. “No push-ups. I can’t move around the stage.”
“Why not?” He’d moved well enough on the dance floor.
Derek folded his arms defensively. “As I mentioned, I used to play soccer, and my old injuries have caught up with me. Once in a while I run into a balance problem. If I stumble or trip, the guys would rag on me forever.”
He evidently found the confession painful. The fact that he’d divulged this much to Marta said a lot about their friendship.
Entering his mid-thirties and being forced to deal with approaching middle age must hit such an active guy hard. By contrast, Marta had long ago abandoned her own notions of youthful perfection.
“I’m the right person to ask about clumsiness,” she said. “Don’t forget, I had to relearn how to walk.” Noting his rigid stance, she stood on tiptoe and reached up to massage his shoulders. “Relax.”
Beneath her probing fingers, some of the tightness eased. “You missed your calling. Should have been a masseuse.”
“I’m not that talented.” Besides, because of their height difference, she had to balance against him. The sensation of his hard back muscles beneath her breasts lit up Marta’s nerve endings.
“I beg to differ,” Derek murmured.
“Also, my hands aren’t strong enough.” She finished kneading and stepped aside. “If I were a real masseuse, I’d make you lie down.” Hearing the possible double meaning, she amended, “On a table.”
He smiled. “You’re cute when you blush.”
“All the guys tell me that.” Her cheeks heated even more.
“Does your boyfriend? Or do you have a boyfriend?” He remained angled toward her, disturbingly close.
“Not at the moment.” A very long moment. The ten-year variety, Marta mused, since that was how long she’d gone without a guy. “Returning to our subject…”
“Massages, as I recall,” he drawled.
“The auction!”
“Ah, yes.” He conceded the point. “Pray continue.”
She gathered her concentration. “How about a presentation that allows you to simply strike a pose?”
“The less I move around the better,” Derek agreed.
<
br /> Marta recalled how handsome he’d looked at the wedding. “Do you own a tuxedo?”
“If you’d rifled through my closet as you threatened, you’d know the answer,” he commented.
“You could just tell me.”
“And spoil the fun? Besides, you might devise an even better idea while you’re in there.”
She doubted she’d find a better idea than a tux, but curiosity won. “Okay, you asked for it.” She opened the door to the walk-in closet.
Venturing into the ripple of pheromones emanating from crisp jeans, slacks, tees and business shirts felt like being wrapped in Derek’s arms. A change in air pressure marked the moment when he slipped in behind her. His presence jolted Marta almost as if they were physically connected.
“To your left.” His baritone restored her to reality.
Staring at the spot he indicated, she identified the pieces of the penguin suit arrayed on hangers. “So you do own the tux.”
“Bought it when I was in high school. I can’t tell you how much I’ve saved on rentals.”
She visualized the impact he would make on the small stage at the homework center. “Just stroll out with that James Bond sophistication of yours and you’ll be the hit of the evening.”
“I won’t come across as dull?”
Marta almost laughed. “Not a chance,” she said. “Let the other guys show off. The contrast will emphasize how polished you are.”
He nodded in approval. “I love the idea. Can you arrange for me to go last? That’ll increase the impact.”
“I’m sure Yolanda will agree.” Marta ducked beneath his arm and escaped the confines. Too personal and intimate. Derek might be immune, but she was not, by a long shot.
He sauntered out, clearly pleased with the decision. “This is perfect. Thanks, Marta.”
“My pleasure.” She collected her bag. “I’ll be there to cheer you on.”
“No fair bidding on another guy and breaking my heart,” he joked.
She sought an equally lighthearted rejoinder. “Don’t worry. I won’t go blowing my tuition money on some guy.” She eased out of the bathroom, chattering because it was more comfortable than dealing with silence. “Don’t forget to arrive early. I’d recommend wearing your costume from home. The only dressing facility is the men’s room.”
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” he commented dryly.
“Best to park across the street at the high school. Leave our lot for patrons.” Villa Corazon occupied the city’s former community center, a Spanish-style building that had originally been a church. “I’ve got to head over there now to help with the decorating.”
“What kind of decorating?” A dubious note crept into his voice. “No boudoir themes, I hope.”
“Certainly not.” Marta spoke over her shoulder as they went down the hall. “Connie’s borrowing spotlights from the high school, and she talked a local theater into lending us posters. Glamorous, not amorous. Yolanda was firm about that.”
“Glamorous, huh? I hope we don’t disappoint.” Quickly, he amended, “Those other guys, anyway.”
“Villazon’s bachelors are the best!”
“I’ll second that.”
As they started down the stairs, one knee must have given him trouble, because he was limping. He’d mentioned balance problems, not stiff muscles. He really should reduce his workouts, Marta thought.
On the ground floor, she hurried toward the exit. No sense risking further proximity. She only hoped her reactions to him hadn’t been too obvious. “See you tomorrow tonight.”
“I owe you big-time for rescuing me,” Derek called.
“You cops are the ones who rescue people,” she responded. A flash of chagrin on his face was the last thing she saw before closing the door.
As Marta descended to the sidewalk, the truth dawned. She’d heard speculation about the reasons behind Derek’s assignment to his new post and had noted his less-than-enthusiastic comments. Now she put two and two together.
The physical restrictions he’d mentioned must have forced him to leave active policing. Although his current work included crime prevention, he evidently felt like an exile, and she’d just rubbed salt into his wounds.
At least he’d trusted her enough to share his concerns. Henceforth, Marta resolved to resume her role as cheerleader and confidante, with more understanding than before. As for the vibes flowing between them, those simply reflected his natural sensuality. How fortunate that she hadn’t complicated the situation by yielding to the urge to kiss him.
*
Derek dropped onto a stool at the dining peninsula and attempted to sort through his emotions. Primarily relief that he’d managed to convey the gist of his symptoms without revealing his diagnosis.
He felt something else, too—an unfamiliar warmth for Marta. He’d become aware of her in a new way physically while they were examining the costumes. But he couldn’t allow anything to come of that.
Restlessly, he wandered into the kitchen and poured a drink of water. His medication tended to dehydrate him, so he downed the contents in a few gulps and set the glass beside Marta’s.
Derek wished he understood why he quickly grew impatient with relationships. Perhaps if he had a tragic tale of lost love, that might explain it, but although a few of his affairs had lasted for a year or longer, none had truly touched his heart.
Must be a quirk of his personality. Growing up, he hadn’t fit into his family, always feeling like an outsider, especially compared to his younger brother and sister. Were it not for the maternity-ward photos of him as a baby with his mother and the resemblance between him and his father, he might have believed he was adopted.
Mom and Dad were lawyers, a career his brother had followed and his sister had considered before becoming an accountant. All held advanced degrees, as well as political views far to the left of Derek’s.
His parents and younger siblings also shared the same interests: chess, museums, art films. He’d been the odd kid, stubborn and, as an adolescent, defiant. A loner, impatient with academic subjects, failing to fit in anywhere until he joined the police force.
Now he didn’t truly fit in there, either. Despite the doctor’s assurances that he might be able to continue working for a decade or longer, his illness had already consigned him to the perimeter. Not only because of his front-office post but because he had to keep the others at bay in order to hide his condition.
If anyone would understand, it might be Marta, given the injuries she’d overcome. But she was too tightly linked to the rest of his circle: friends with fellow officer Rachel and cousin to Hale’s wife Connie. How unfair to burden her with a secret and expect her to keep it from those dearest to her.
And how uncomfortable to realize that, once she knew the truth, she wouldn’t be able to avoid viewing him differently. Not as a person who, like her, might ultimately regain his health, but as a man destined to deteriorate.
Derek hated this illness and hated his body for betraying him. All the same, tomorrow night he planned to show Joel and the others he was still the sexiest man in Villazon. In later years, when his friends reminisced about the good old days, he hoped they’d remember Derek Reed’s triumph at the bachelor auction.
Not much compared to saving lives and bringing down bad guys, but a victory nonetheless. His spirits rising, Derek wondered what sort of woman he’d be spending Saturday evening with.
Chapter Four
On Friday after work, Marta arrived at the Villa Corazon center an hour and a half before the scheduled start of the auction. Her back and hips, always vulnerable, ached from her exertions last night helping decorate. As usual, she’d let enthusiasm override her better judgment.
After parking at the high school, Marta limped across the residential street to the stucco building. A banner over the arched front door read Bachelor Auction Tonight 8:00 p.m.! To one side, a placard explained about the center’s tutoring program.
This week’s edition of the Voice
had carried a front-page article about the event. Perhaps as a result, more than half the available tickets had sold in advance.
Marta hoped no one planned to jeer or catcall. Most guys might laugh off such behavior, but it would offend Derek. Still, with so many police officers involved, she didn’t expect any serious rowdiness.
In the lobby, oversize posters of male movie stars spiced up the usually sedate decor. From the unseen interior echoed a few male and female voices, punctuated by childish shrieks and giggles.
Surprised that Yolanda would allow youngsters to attend, Marta walked to the interior doorway. Connie’s son, Skip, ran up the aisle in pursuit of Rachel’s stepdaughter, Lauren, and had nearly caught her when Rachel’s husband, Russ, swooped in to capture his little girl. Giving the five-year-old a hug, the pediatrician informed the two kids that they were going for a walk.
“I’m babysitting tonight,” he told Marta as he shepherded the children past her. “We figured that in case people bring kids, someone should supervise activities in the playroom, and I’m nominated.” Stocked with toys and books, the room was used for tutoring five- and six-year-olds, who often had trouble sitting still.
“Nice of you to pitch in.” She ruffled Skip’s hair as he went by.
“Have fun,” Russ responded.
Marta descended the aisle and approached Yolanda. The director stood near the front, supervising nineteen-year-old Ben Lyons as he adjusted the sound system. Skinny and freckled, he scrambled to do a good job for his mentor and landlady.
Ben had had a rebellious streak until he found a supporter in Yolanda. After a fire gutted his apartment the previous spring, she’d repaired it and rerented to him. Yolanda had disregarded initial suspicions that Ben, who’d battled a drug problem, might have triggered the fire with the carelessly discarded joint found in his unit.
The blaze had been yet another in a series of embarrassing incidents affecting the police department, now headed by Ben’s father, Chief Will Lyons. Suspicion later fell on Norm Kinsey, a police lieutenant once fired for prisoner abuse. He’d returned to town seeking revenge against his former colleagues but had died of a heart attack before he could be charged with anything, including a possible attempt to frame the chief’s son.
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