If A Man Answers

by Merline Lovelace

  “Ms. Duncan?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’m Officer Dennis Rodriguez. My backup, Officer Corrigan, is in his patrol car, notifying central dispatch.”

  “Thank God you got here so quickly. What did you find next door?”

  “He found me, Ms. Duncan,” a deep voice snarled. “Alive, unshot, and, at this point, thoroughly ticked off by your stupid stunt.”

  Molly jerked back, startled by the half-naked male who stepped forward to confront her. Unsnapped jeans rode low on his hips. A white towel dangled around his neck. Sweat glistened on his heavily muscled torso.

  Her nerves snapping like live electrical wires, Molly dragged her stunned gaze from that acre or so of smooth, muscled chest to the face that went with it. Too rugged for handsomeness, too square-jawed for charm, it was the kind of face that would make any woman back up a step, even when it wasn’t tight with anger...which at this point, it definitely was ! Below a thick pelt of sweat-slicked hair so dark a brown it looked black in this light, his slanting brows slashed to a V. Slate gray eyes lasered into Molly.

  “Is this your idea of a joke?” he demanded in a scorching drawl.

  No trace of New Jersey there, she thought, torn between relief and confusion. Her neighbor definitely hailed from west of the Hudson. Somewhere in the Southwest, she thought. Arizona, or maybe he was one of that rare genus, a Nevada native.

  Obviously, this wasn’t the man who answered her call a while ago. Frowning, she responded to his irate demand.

  “No, of course it isn’t a joke.”

  His big fists gripped the ends of the towel, knuckles white. “If you insist on continuing this damned feud you started, you should at least have the guts to do it in person.”

  “The feud I started?” Molly practically sputtered with indignation. “Let’s get something straight here. I wasn’t the one who put my garbage cans smack in the middle of someone else’s driveway. Nor was I pulling some stupid stunt when I called the police tonight. I heard shots and thought you’d been wounded or killed. Next time,” she promised darkly, “I won’t bother to report it.”

  “Next time,” her neighbor fired back, “you might consider laying off the beer and maybe you won’t hear strange noises in your head.”

  Hastily, the uniformed police officer intervened.

  “Could we take this inside, folks? I need to ask Ms. Duncan a few questions.”

  Tight-lipped, she led the way down the tiled entry hall to the archway that opened onto the living area. A flick of a wall switch bathed the high-ceilinged, open-beamed room in soft, recessed light. It also illuminated the fact that the room’s furnishings consisted of a single rattan chair cushioned in cool desert mauves, a gnarled cypress stump that did duty as an end table, and a scattering of oversized pillows.

  When she’d walked away from her ex-fiancé, Molly had subleased her Boston co-op fully furnished. Eager for a new beginning in Vegas, she’d emptied her bank account to make the down payment on this house. She’d almost saved up enough to splurge on the leather sectional sofa and chair she had her eye on. After that, she intended to work on a table and chairs for the dining room. Right now, though, she made do with cardboard boxes, gnarled tree stumps and a tall stool pulled up to the kitchen counter.

  With a wave of one hand, she gave the two men a choice of chair or pillow. Both opted to stand. Officer Rodriguez pulled out a notebook and pen.

  “Will you tell me exactly what you heard, Ms. Duncan?”

  “I heard the most god-awful wailing coming from next door,” she replied with a searing glance at her neighbor. “I’ve been hearing it for the past two or three hours.”

  The Major appeared taken aback for a moment, then his scowl deepened. “I take it you’re referring to my Buck Randall CDs?”

  “If that’s who’s putting out that tinny, wheezing noise night after night, yes.”

  Henderson shook his head in disgust. Even Rodriguez looked faintly disapproving. Obviously, this country crooner was a local favorite.

  “If my music’s been bothering you, why the hell didn’t you call and let me know?”

  “I did,” Molly retorted, her Boston-Irish temper up. “Twice. The first time, some whipped cream and chocolate-voiced woman promised to pass you my message. The second time, no one answered the phone. Why don’t you get an answering machine?” she muttered irritably.

  “Right. So you can leave obnoxious messages on it about my garbage cans instead of taping them to my front door?”

  Refusing to respond to that deliberate provocation, Molly continued. “After listening to this Boots Randolph...”

  “Buck Randall,” the two men chorused.

  “...Buck Randall for two agonizing hours, I got up, turned on the light and dialed Major Henderson’s number. A man answered.” She jerked her head at her neighbor. “I thought it was him.”

  “And then what happened?”

  She ran through the sequence of events, shivering a bit when she got to the part about the eerie silence after the shooting.

  “Is it possible that you dialed the wrong number?” Rodriguez asked when she finished.

  “Yes, it’s possible,” she admitted, having already come to that conclusion herself. “The numbers were a bit blurry.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” the Major said with a little snort. “You put out more empties in the morning than a waterfront dive. And that’s not chicken soup I smell coming from the kitchen.”

  What he smelled was her grandmother’s recipe for beer-bran mush. Molly had brewed up a fresh batch earlier this evening, but she was damned if she was going to explain that fact to Major Sam Henderson. Her jaw tight, she finished her report.

  “Then I dialed 911 and reported what I thought was a shooting.”

  “Well, if there was a shooting, it didn’t occur at Major Henderson’s residence,” Rodriguez concluded, stating the obvious. “There was a shooting,” Molly insisted. “I heard it.”

  The police officer flipped his notebook shut. “We’ll get the phone company to verify the number you dialed and make a few calls of our own, just to see who or what turns up.”

  Molly started to point out that dead persons don’t answer the phone, but kept her mouth shut. She was already beginning to feel more like the perpetrator of a hoax than the reporter of a possible crime.

  Rodriguez headed for the entryway. “It could have been kids. Pulling a late-night prank.”

  She followed more slowly, shaking her head. “Those weren’t kids I heard.”

  “Well, if we find out anything, we’ll let you know.”

  “Please do. It was so real.” As balmy as it was, the desert air raised a chill on her arms. “So frightening.”

  Nodding, the police officer headed for the black-and-white squad car. The Major followed him out, but turned halfway down the paved walk. He searched Molly’s face, his own cast in shadows.

  “Look, I’m sorry about the music.”

  The gruff apology surprised her. After the way he’d all but called her a drunk, however, Molly wasn’t about to accept it with any degree of graciousness.

  “You should be.”

  “I didn’t realize the sound carried so clearly across our yards...and I didn’t get your previous message.”

  His tone implied that he had doubts she’d ever left it. Molly bristled all over again.

  “I’ll keep the volume turned down in the future.”

  “Thank you.”

  Curling his hands around the towel ends, he studied her a moment longer. “You all right?”

  The reluctance behind the question came through loud and clear. Obviously, he didn’t want to get involved with someone he considered a drunk or a neurotic, at the very least.

  “No,” Molly replied acidly, “As a matter of fact, I’m not all right. I’m tired, I have an early appointment in the morning, and I just heard someone get shot...I think,” she finished on a mutter.

  By this time, she wasn’t quite sure what sh
e’d heard. All she wanted to do was to climb back into bed, pull the covers over her head and try to blank this whole, nightmarish incident from her mind.

  With a curt good-night, she turned and slammed the door.

  Sam walked barefooted across the concrete driveways that divided the front of his property from that of his prickly, pesky neighbor.

  The headache he’d been trying to drive out of his mind with a punishing workout before the cops had pounded on his door had now doubled in intensity. Instead of lancing through the back of his head with knife-like precision, the damned thing roared around in his skull like a high performance jet in full thrust.

  Damn! As if ejecting helmet-first through a malfunctioning aircraft canopy and being placed on a temporary disability retirement list weren’t bad enough. Now, just when he needed time and space and quiet to figure out what the hell he was going to do if the medical evaluation board put him out to pasture permanently, he had to move in next door to a beer-guzzling wacko.

  He still couldn’t quite buy her story about hearing a shooting. It wouldn’t surprise him if she’d called the cops just to harass him. She’d been on his case since the day he moved in, starting with her snippy note about the garbage can, then threatening to take him to court over her weedy bushes... which she’d planted on his property, for Pete’s sake!

  No doubt about it. Despite those mile-long legs and flashing green eyes, the woman was trouble.

  Too bad. In another time, or with another woman, he might have found a way to satisfy this crazy urge to rake his fingers through that tumble of wheatcolored, shoulder-length hair. Or maybe tasted that sulky mouth, which might have been luscious if she hadn’t kept it all tight and unsmiling. He certainly would have teased a smile into those green eyes that went from nervous to indignant to confused as the interview progressed. Of course, Sam thought with a snort, all those Coors she’d been tipping might have something to do with that haze of confusion.

  She hadn’t sounded drunk, though. Hadn’t acted it, either.

  Frowning, he slammed his front door and twisted the dead bolt. Maybe the woman had heard a shooting. Or what someone wanted her to think was a shooting. Maybe she’d really called the police to come to his rescue, instead of sending them to his door to harass him, as he’d first assumed.

  He shook his head at the memory of his less than appreciative response, then winced as the abrupt movement sent fingers of white-hot fire from one side of his skull to the other.

  Dammit, he’d sort it all out tomorrow. Maybe even apologize to his neighbor... and mean it this time. Someone had to call a truce in the ridiculous war that had sprung up between them. First, though, he had to get through the rest of the night.

  Mindful of her acid comment about his choice in music, Sam crossed to the built-in bookshelves that took up one wall of his great room and turned down the volume on the CD player. Buck Randall’s tribute to the night dropped to a ribbon of mournful sound.

  He tossed his towel at the couch shoved up against the wall to make room for the universal gym he had installed shortly after he moved in. His feet sinking into the protective rubber pad under the steel structure, he stretched out on the narrow bench. He grasped the handlebar, grunted, and slowly worked his way back into the rhythm of the punishing routine the police had interrupted. It took a while, but eventually the intense strain on his body blanked both the pain and the tantalizing image of his neighbor from his head.

  He finished his workout an hour later, then showered and prowled the house for a while before hitting the sack. He dozed off just before dawn, only to awaken to the sound of tires squealing down the driveway next door. Sam winced, thinking of the new ruts he’d find in the tiny strip of desert landscape that separated his drive from his neighbor’s.

  He’d better forget about trying to effect a truce, he told himself wryly. Forget about going next door with another apology. The less he had to do with the ditzy, tumble-haired Ms. Molly Duncan, the better. He didn’t need to complicate his life any further with the kind of baggage she carted around with her.

  He finally drifted off to sleep, unaware that his ditzy, tumble-haired neighbor would come crashing through her damned oleanders that very night and throw herself and a whole bagful of complications right into Sam’s arms.

  Chapter 2

  Molly’s Tuesday morning started off bad and went downhill from there. After tossing and turning for what was left of the night, she hit the snooze button on the clock radio a few too many times. Full consciousness didn’t occur until a newscaster came on and finally broke through her grogginess. She listened to his patter for a few drowsy seconds until he announced the time. Jerking her head out of the pillow, she stared at the clock in disbelief.

  “Six-thirty! Oh, no!”

  Throwing off the covers, Molly dashed to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Thankfully, her honey blond, shoulder-length waves didn’t require anything more than a quick run through with a brush and a hand-scrunch or two. She slapped on a matte foundation to cover her freckles and protect her skin from the fierce Nevada sun, dabbed a mascara wand at her lashes, swiped on some lipstick and spun out of the bathroom.

  After a quick search of her closet, she pulled on strappy black sandals and yanked a silky chiffon black-and-white polka-dot dress off the hanger. Tying the sash on the run, she snatched up a black scarf and her purse and raced out of the bedroom. Downstairs, she threw a look of intense longing at the coffeepot on her way to the garage. She had no time for coffee. No time for anything if she was going to make her seven o’clock meeting with the president of Sato Motors International.

  Early September heat already shimmered above the concrete as Molly shoved her car key in the ignition. With a twist of the ignition key, she squealed out of the garage and peeled down the drive. In the process, she took the curve onto the cul-de-sac a bit too wide. The tires threw up a spray of lava rock from the landscaped area that separated her drive from the Major’s.

  Wincing, Molly flicked a quick glance at her neighbor’s house. The shades were drawn, thank goodness, and the place showed no signs of life. After snide cracks Sam Henderson had made about her driving last night, she hated to hand him any more ammunition to use in their continuing battle.

  Although...

  For a moment there, Molly had sensed a slight lessening of hostilities. She had to admit that his apology had surprised her. Okay, everything about the man surprised her, from his nocturnal habits to his gruff personality. What a shame that a bod like his was wasted on someone with such a touchy disposition.

  A mental image formed of the Major as she’d last seen him, bathed in streetlight, muscles gleaming, jeans riding low on his hips. At the memory of his raw maleness, an unexpected dart of heat arrowed right through Molly’s stomach. Startled, she dug her nails into the leather-wrapped steering wheel. It took a conscious effort of will to relax them.

  For heaven’s sake, she didn’t even like the man! If he continued in his pigheaded determination to dig up his whole backyard...and her bushes with it... they might well end up in court. She had no business imagining what his rugged face would look like without that tight scowl, or recalling the dark hair that swirled down his stomach to disappear inside his jeans. Shaking her head to dislodge the persistent image, Molly concentrated on zigzagging down the hill that led from her housing development.

  The open stretch of road at the bottom of the hill tempted her to nudge the speed limit just a bit. The flat desert landscape wouldn’t remain empty for long, Molly saw with a twinge of regret. Already huge round concrete culverts lined either side of the road, waiting to be buried. The steel girders of a new high school rose from the desert floor. With a fleeting regret for the loss of this stretch of wild, desolate beauty, she whizzed past saguaro cacti and silvery tumbleweeds.

  Fourteen minutes later, her little white Trans Am convertible screeched to a halt at the pillared entrance to the Addagio, the Strip’s newest and most expensive resort and ca
sino. Re-created to look like a fourteenth-century Venetian palazzo, the complex covered several city blocks. Tossing the keys to the parking valet, Molly hurried through a lobby filled with replicas of gorgeous antiques and glittering neon. After confirming her appointment with the concierge, she stepped into a private elevator that accessed the penthouse suite. The elegant, paneled cage whirred her upward.

  A quick peek at her watch had her sagging against the wall in relief. She’d made it, with two minutes to spare! A few quick jabs with her fingers restored her hair to a casual disorder. Several deep, calming breaths restored her poise.

  Mr. Sato and his entourage were waiting for her in the magnificent suite. The sitting room alone contained more square footage than the entire downstairs of Molly’s house. Even more spectacular was the 270-degree view of Las Vegas and the surrounding mountains in early morning sunlight. The view at night, she knew from previous visits, had to be seen to be believed.

  The men rose at her entrance. Smiling, she greeted Mr. Sato in fluent Japanese, then switched to English for the benefit of the hotel’s vice president for sales.

  “I see you’re ready to begin your presentation, Mr. Hamilton.”

  “As soon as we finish breakfast, Ms. Duncan. Would you care to sample the buffet?”

  Molly’s stomach somersaulted in delight as she took a quick trip into the dining room. The Addagio had pulled out all stops in its effort to impress Mr. Sato and company. They certainly impressed her. The artfully presented array of hot and cold dishes constituted a major test of her willpower. With real regret, she limited herself to just two of the mouthwatering pastries, a plate of fruit and the most delicious sushi she’d ever eaten. She’d developed a taste for the cold rice cakes during her junior year in college, which she’d spent in an exchange program at the University of Tokyo.

  As soon as the attentive wait staff had cleared the dishes and refilled everyone’s cups, Mr. Hamilton began his presentation. Without seeming too eager, the sales director made it clear that the Addagio wanted to host Sato Motors International’s annual convention for the year 2001. They were well aware of the millions that SMI’s well-paid employees would drop in the casino before, during and after their convention.