No More Mr. Nice Guy

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No More Mr. Nice Guy Page 3

by Jennifer Greene


  One day, he was likely to throttle the woman for her busybody ways, but then, he wasn’t the throttler type. Which was the point. Types. Types of men. He wasn’t the type to grow a beard; he wasn’t the type to seduce a woman. Fact was, maybe over the past two years he’d turned into just a little too much of a fuddy-duddy type.

  He pushed open the door to the examining room, the child’s file in his hand. A frantic young mother was pacing the floor. A tiny girl with far-too-bright eyes and pale cheeks was sitting placidly on the examining table, a giant baby doll next to her.

  “You can look at my throat, but you have to give her all the shots,” the little one told him uncompromisingly, pointing at the doll.

  Alan didn’t miss a beat. “How many do you think she’ll need?” he asked gravely.

  “Three or two. I don’t need any, though.”

  He nodded, then put the stethoscope in his ears. “I understand. She’s afraid of shots…but she’s not scared of having me listen to her heart, is she?” he asked.

  The child hesitated, then smiled. “She is, but I’m not. You can do me first.”

  Flexibility, he thought absently. In his work, he’d never had a problem being flexible. And with Carroll—for Carroll—he’d simply learn to be.

  When the doorbell rang, Carroll hurried through the hall to answer it, still trying to fasten an amber button earring. The catch had always been difficult. She hadn’t yet managed it when she opened the door. “I’m so glad you’re early; I was just—Alan?”

  The earring post popped out and bounced on the carpet behind her. She bent down to find it, muttering embarrassed imprecations, with one eye on the scruffy-looking stranger at the door. Alan didn’t wear leather moccasins. Or jeans and cord jackets and black shirts open three buttons down over a naked chest. Or sport quarter-inch-long whiskers that implied the man had had a week-long hangover. Or stand like that, looking…well…macho.

  But Alan’s grin surfaced when he crouched down beside her, immediately finding the amber earring and leaning toward her to fix it in her ear. “Chaotic morning?” he asked gently.

  The masculine scents of sandalwood and musk drifted toward her, faint, startling. “Not really. Mom and Nancy both called this morning, both tearing their hair out over this wedding. Then…”

  Actually, lots had gone wrong with the morning, from trouble with Nancy’s wedding plans to a toaster on the blink. Those kinds of problems didn’t bother Carroll, but she’d been desperately anxious to see Alan this morning, to make things normal between them again.

  She’d had a long week to think since her sister’s engagement party…and she could have kicked herself since. Like secrets stored in an old attic trunk, she’d discovered a few memories that should have been jettisoned years ago.

  Five years ago there’d been another engagement party—her own. At the time, everyone she knew was pairing off; Tom had been part of her life for a year, and they’d both done a good job of telling each other they were in love. The first time in bed should have convinced them otherwise—how dreadful could a first time for any two people be?—but it hadn’t. And the incident at her engagement party had been nothing, just the accident of seeing Tom talking with another woman, laughing in a way he’d never laughed with her, eyes shining as they’d never shone for her…

  She’d had the sense to give him back his ring, and she’d had the empathy to know just how badly she’d hurt him. So much went into her present wariness of marriage—fear that she hadn’t the spark to hold a man for the long term, apprehension that she might thoughtlessly hurt someone else, an awareness that she’d talked herself into believing a relationship existed that never had. Wildly in love, she hadn’t been.

  Nancy’s engagement party had roused all the old fears—foolishly, she saw now. Her relationship with Tom hadn’t gone wrong because she hadn’t been wildly in love, but because she’d never been honest with herself or him. Only Alan wasn’t Tom—how could she have forgotten that? With Alan she had been honest. If she didn’t feel some crazy-in-love-type nonsense, she at least had a realistic relationship with him, based on love and sharing and mutual interests—everything that really mattered.

  And this morning, she wanted nothing more than to show him that she was her sensible self again, a woman with both feet on the ground. Silly moods and old fantasies had been banished for good. Alan deserved better than a woman yearning after pipe dreams. She offered him her best serene smile…just in time for Alan to take sudden advantage of his proximity to give her a kiss.

  It was just a hello kiss. Alan always gave her a hello kiss, but his lips felt different today, surrounded by the rough, ticklish beard. And he tasted different, with a roguish promise of mint, and that taste set off a little hum in her head that she hadn’t been anticipating at all. As determined as she’d been to start this outing with honesty and common sense and no nonsense, she found her pulse fluttering like a hummingbird’s.

  “You look beautiful this morning,” he told her.

  She glanced down, at the old white cords and thick gold sweater she’d donned for their Saturday morning outing. She didn’t look beautiful. Her hair might look extra nice, but that was hardly enough to rate the compliment. And if she’d been dressed in sequins, she doubted that Alan would normally have noticed. Speechless for a second and a half, she responded carefully, “Alan, are you feeling all right?”

  “Just fine.” He motioned boyishly to his chin. “Like the beard?”

  “Hmm,” she said expressively. First thing in the morning was no time to hurt anyone’s feelings. She’d never deliberately hurt Alan’s feelings.

  She had little time to mull over the beard, because Alan was thumbing through her hall closet, getting her coat for her. “I know I promised you we’d look at that colonial house, but there’s another place I’d like you to see, too. You’ve got the whole afternoon free, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.” For a minute, she couldn’t imagine why he was standing there holding her kid jacket open. Belatedly, she realized he was doing it for her. Heavens.

  Swiftly, she slipped into it, a flush on her cheeks that deepened when his hands slipped inside her collar, smoothing it when it didn’t need smoothing, touching her in such a way that his fingers caressed the soft skin at the nape of her neck.

  Breathless, she slipped ahead of him outside, with one last glance at her pumpkin-and-cream living room. She’d planned on making fresh coffee and serving him doughnuts, because Alan loved doughnuts, but somehow it didn’t seem the time. It just didn’t have the feel of an average Saturday morning.

  She knew it wasn’t the average Saturday morning when she looked in the apartment’s lot for Alan’s town car and saw only a metallic-red Italian sportscar… “Alan?”

  “Just bought it,” he affirmed. “Like her, Caro?”

  Climbing into the soft leather seat, glancing at the complicated dials and five on the floor, she wondered where on earth one would put a bag of groceries, much less the stack of medical journals and doctor’s bag Alan always carried with him. “Very sporty,” she answered. “You sold the town car?”

  “Not yet, but I will,” Alan said lightly as he put the car in gear and backed up. “It just occurred to me what a practical, sensible car that was. You didn’t think I was always practical and sensible, did you, Caro?”

  Yes. “No,” she said hesitantly. It wasn’t like her to lie, but she needed a minute to absorb the meaning of all these changes. As it was, she was still trying to catch her breath.

  “One can overdo the responsible image. There’s more to life than being serious.” Abruptly, he shot her a grin. “We’re going to have fun today, and that’s a promise.”

  The pulse in her throat slowed down to a normal rate. Alan’s grin was as familiar as apple pie. “We always have fun when we’re together,” Carroll said affectionately.

  “More fun, then. Completely forget work and responsibilities and just let it happen.”

  “Sounds good,” she mu
rmured.

  Lafayette’s city streets zoomed past, abetted by a purring engine and a cornering speed that had her reaching for her seat belt. The gray-green waters of the Wabash River glittered beneath them, and then they were in West Lafayette, winging past Purdue… Carroll stole glances at Alan at every turn.

  House hunting on Saturday mornings was just one of the casual pastimes they’d taken up recently. Alan had always chosen outings that suited their mutual needs and interests. Their compatibility was real, and she wasn’t likely to forget that again…but this morning felt increasingly different from their other dates. The changes in Alan were rather baffling.

  Not necessarily upsetting or alarming, but definitely baffling. Usually comfortable with Alan, she felt an odd blend of anticipation and nervousness today. It was almost as if she were going out with a stranger, dating someone for the first time.

  Sandalwood and musk, the beard, the black chamois shirt, jeans that hugged his long, muscular legs, the lingering flavor of that morning kiss…he wasn’t Alan. Not that she went for a scruffy appearance, but his look was rather unexpectedly and boldly male.

  And in the close confines of the sportscar, she felt a trickle of something chase up and down her spine, something starkly sexual, something elemental and powerful…

  His hand suddenly reached over and claimed hers. “Cold, honey?”

  She linked fingers with him, welcoming the comfort of his big hand enclosing her smaller one. “Not at all.” There, now. Alan wasn’t a dangerous stranger, but the considerate man he’d always been. She relaxed, as she always relaxed around Alan. So he’d had a masculine whim when he got dressed that morning. Well, all men who could afford it probably succumbed to the yen for a sportscar sometime.

  It was the best of October mornings, cool and crisp, with sunlight so bright it turned the leaves to garnet and amber and emerald. City turned into country, with roads that wound around sleepy hills and ancient woods.

  Lafayette wasn’t the kind of town that boomed or died out on the whim of the economy. Having survived the rule of the British, Indians and French a few centuries before, the residents had learned to roll with the punches. Suburbs didn’t just pop up in Lafayette. New houses were more likely to go up in twos and threes, some in the country and some in the city, all constructed with the understanding that they were going to last.

  When Alan stopped the car, he said quietly, “Now, I know this one sounded like something we’d both like, Caro. But keep an open mind until I show you a second one later today, all right?”

  “Of course.”

  But she loved the area the minute she stepped out of the car. A contractor was putting up four homes, all two-story colonial-style houses with huge yards, nestled among the hills. It wasn’t far from town, yet kids could easily and safely play here, and one had the illusion of getting away from it all while at the same time neighbors were only a few steps away.

  There was no grass yet, and the sidewalk was littered with sawdust. They went inside the first house, still so new there were no windows, no doors, and the floors on the second level weren’t completed. It smelled like fresh wood and newness, like hopes and dreams. Carroll just looked at Alan, whatever worries she’d previously had dissolving instantly.

  He chuckled. “Caro, you like every house we see,” he chided.

  “I can’t help it. Just look at the fireplace!” She wandered over to the fieldstone hearth. “I can just imagine a fire here, a Christmas tree in that corner…” She stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets and ambled through the rooms. “Alan, this is a wonderful kitchen!”

  He followed her, leaning against the doorway. Chunks of space had been left for appliances, but the kitchen was no more than wishful thinking at this point. The cabinets were oak, and still unvarnished. A space had been marked for an island counter. Windows looked onto a showy cluster of trees in fall colors. He saw all that, but couldn’t stop looking at Caro.

  If anyone had accused her of being a dreamer, she would have instantly denied it, but Caro was a dreamer. When she looked at the windows, he knew she was mentally putting up curtains. When she opened a cupboard, he knew she was mentally stocking it. Thanksgiving turkeys were being carved on the counter, dishes put away on a hurried morning, coffee being poured at an invisible table after a long day’s work… Caro was doing all of that, just standing there with her hands in her pockets, her spaniel-brown eyes sparkling, her lips parted in a grin. “I can’t stand it,” she said.

  “I know you can’t.”

  “I love it, Alan!” Her eyes narrowed. “But we haven’t seen the bedrooms. They’re probably dreadful little cracker boxes…”

  She was off, Alan following her. The stairway was in; she took the steps two at a time. “Watch it up there,” he cautioned, knowing darn well he’d promised himself to drill caution right out of his character, but this was different. The upstairs was little more than bare beams.

  Balancing on those bare beams, Carroll carefully made her way from room to room upstairs. “Two bathrooms,” she called back. “Master bedroom with a huge closet; good heavens, you could put a bed in there. The view from the second bedroom’s kind of blah, but, oh, Alan…”

  She paused between two rough boards at the opening to the last bedroom. It was tiny, with an alcove window and a view of the far hills. A crib belonged in that alcove. Anyone who didn’t put a crib in there would have to be crazy. A crib with a soft yellow ruffle and a cuddly bear and a mobile that played Brahms. The carpet would be white—when she was dreaming she didn’t have to be practical—and next to the crib she would place a big, old-fashioned rocker with arms, the kind that was really meant to rock a baby…

  Alan’s arms slipped around her from behind. His chin nestled on the top of her head, coaxing her back to the warmth of his chest. “What are you seeing?” he murmured.

  “Just…a baby’s room.” She half turned to look at him, still snuggled in his arms. “The thing is, Alan, what if the wrong people got hold of this house? What if they did something idiotic like make this room into a den?”

  She said the word as if it were a cuss. Amused, Alan said gently, “You liked the Cape Cod–style house we looked at last week just as much.”

  “I couldn’t have.”

  “You did. And remember when I asked you to keep an open mind this morning? Come on, Caro…”

  He helped her down the stairs and outside. She stole one last glance at the house as he urged her into the car. A few miles later, the sportscar sped under an ancient, wood-covered bridge that creaked and groaned; abruptly they were in wilder country.

  Carroll glanced at Alan, unsure where they could possibly be headed, but there was no clue to their destination in Alan’s slash of a smile. “Patience,” he urged.

  He wasn’t sure if he was urging patience for himself or for her. He, too, had seen that imaginary baby in the alcove. Their baby. Cradled in Carroll’s arms. And he had to whip that image out of his mind before it settled there. That was last week’s way of thinking—babies and colonial houses and marriage.

  That was dull thinking, the kind of thing nice, boring, sedate, fuddy-duddies dreamed of. Not men with extravagant imaginations and adventurous characters and flexible values. Alan wanted more for Carroll than a stereotyped future, and he was just coming to understand that maybe he wanted more for himself as well.

  In time, he pulled onto a sloped gravel path and parked at the crest of a knoll. Beyond birds and squirrels, there wasn’t a sign of life. Ahead of them loomed a massive old red barn, with a Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign painted on the roll-open doors. Carroll looked at him bewilderedly.

  “Now wait, just wait…” Alan climbed out of the car and reached in the back for the box and blanket he’d crammed into the tiny storage space. “Follow me. And don’t jump to any conclusions until I’ve explained. Here.”

  Alan tossed her the wool blanket. She caught it and trailed after him as he jammed a shoulder into the barn door and pushed. With a haunted
creak, it opened.

  “Now come on in…”

  The barn was dark. It smelled like old leather and old wood and cold. Two lofts overlooked the main floor, which was empty except for a pile of loose straw—hay? Who knew the difference?—in one corner. On the first level, there was ample space to hold a county fair. The beamed ceiling stretched as high as the sky, and a sparrow—evidently confused—was winging back and forth from one beam to another.

  “Alan,” Carroll started hesitantly. This was it? The second “house” they were going to look at? This was it?

  Chapter 3

  Alan nudged a glass of champagne into Carroll’s hand. She would have thanked him if her vocal cords had been functional. As it was, the power of speech had deserted her. So had Alan. He was spreading the wool blanket on the pile of straw. The champagne had appeared from the box he’d just opened, and next to the wine stood a tin of beluga caviar and a box of wafer-thin crackers.

  She gulped three sips of the sparkling wine, stared at Alan and swallowed another gulp. Champagne and caviar for lunch?

  He seriously had in mind living in a barn?

  Was this Alan, or did he have a twin brother recently escaped from a mental institution?

  She took another sip of wine, and would certainly have finished the glass if Alan hadn’t taken it from her. In its place, he handed her a cracker mounded high with Russian black roe. “Now,” he said with satisfaction, “we can talk.”

  “I think we’d better,” she said faintly.

  “But not standing up. First we get comfortable.”

  He motioned her down to the blanket. As far as comfort went, the wool blanket was scratchy and the straw unyielding, but none of this was of immediate concern to Carroll. Alan stretched out next to her and propped himself up on an elbow. In contrast to the startled alarm in her own eyes, Alan’s reflected the cool blue of a fathomless pond.

 

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