“You sound testy,” Brooke said.
“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this kind of talking-to. Did you want me to spend more time with Howie?”
“Tash, Howie’s stable. He’s rich, and he’s really nice. He’ll take care of you.”
“I don’t want to be taken care of, Brooke.” Tasha slipped her arm out of her cousin’s grasp. “How come no one in this family understands that? I take care of myself.”
“Tash, you know what I mean.”
“You’ve been saying that for the entire conversation, and I’ve been saying, ‘No, I don’t.’ What does that tell you, Brooke? I’m dense. I can’t figure this stuff out sometimes.”
“Clearly,” Brooke said softly.
“Brooke, I know you mean well, but—”
“Tash, you’re going to have to get married some day. You’re right at that age, and you’re too naïve by half... .”
Naïve? Tasha thought. She was a police officer, for heavens’ sake. If anyone was naïve, it was Brooke.
“. . . you’ll get hurt, and I don’t want to be responsible for it.”
Tasha had missed some of that diatribe. “How would you be responsible for it?”
Brooke bowed her beautiful head. “Gerald didn’t want to invite Rick. He’s the family black sheep, you know. But I wanted everyone in both families in my wedding. You know how important family is. I really pushed for it. It would be awful if it backfired in my face.”
“Seems to me,” Tasha said, “that if I got involved with him and he was half as bad as you say, it would backfire in my face.”
“You know what I mean!” Brooke said.
Tasha sighed. Ironically, this time she did. Brooke really cared about Tasha. Brooke didn’t understand her, but she cared.
“Brookie,” Tasha said, using her cousin’s childhood nickname. “I’ll spend as much of tomorrow with Howie as I can. And I’ll be good. It’s your special day. But I can take care of myself. They train us how to do that at my job.”
“Not emotionally,” Brooke said.
“Even emotionally,” Tasha said. “You don’t have to worry about me this weekend. You have enough to worry about. Like the fact that the guests are getting confused and the band’s antsy. Don’t you want some of that lovely music you’re probably paying for?”
“Oh, damn,” Brooke said and hurried off toward the band. Gerald was still standing there, looking concerned.
Tasha turned to the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender gave her a tall glass with foam that spilled over her hand.
“I’ll get that,” a voice said behind her.
Rick. She already recognized his voice, and the feel of him against her back.
He ordered a beer for himself, then took out his wallet, only to have the bartender tell him it was part of the dinner. Still, he put a five in the bartender’s nearly empty tip jar.
To impress her? Tasha wondered. Or because he was just that kind of man?
The band started up. Tasha could feel Brooke’s gaze on her.
“How bad was it?” Rick asked, moving her to the side of the bar.
“Bad enough that Brooke would be mad if we went back out on the dance floor.”
“Because she wants you with Howie?”
“Because she says you’re not right for me.”
He sipped his beer, seemingly unperturbed. “Let me guess. She called me a deadbeat.”
“Yes.”
“The black sheep of the family.”
“Yes.”
“A womanizer.”
“Yes.”
“And?” he asked. “What else?”
“Macho.”
He nearly snorted his next sip of beer. “Since when did that become a crime?”
“It’s a new century,” Tasha said. “Apparently the old ways are no longer our ways.”
He grinned. “How much of this stuff do you believe?”
“What I believe doesn’t matter,” Tasha said. “My cousin believes that if I spend time with you tonight and tomorrow it’ll ruin her wedding. So I have to respect her wishes.”
His grin faded. He glanced at Gerald and Brooke, who were dancing, but were watching them.
“Fair enough,” he said. “This is their weekend. They get to call the shots.”
He set his beer down, then took her beer and set it beside his. For a moment, she thought he was going to lead her to the dance floor—the true black sheep, thumbing his nose at everyone. Instead he took both of her hands in his.
He ran his thumbs over her knuckles. The movement sent little shivers through her. His gaze caught and held hers.
“For what it’s worth, Tasha,” he said. “You were the highlight of my evening, maybe even the highlight of my week.”
“There go those words again,” she said, teasing gently. “You bend them to your own purposes.”
“No purpose involved,” he said, “except to thank you for making what would have been an ordeal a lot of fun.”
He squeezed her hands, and then let them go.
“I should thank you, too,” she said, but he was already walking toward the door. He didn’t even say goodbye to Brooke and Gerald.
She wondered if she would have been as understanding if someone had said all those things about her.
FOUR
RICK PULLED HIS beat-up truck into the garage and punched the remote. The door eased down behind him. He shut off the ignition and listened to the engine tick.
If Gerald hadn’t wanted Rick at his wedding, why had he invited him? And what was wrong with flirting with the most beautiful woman there?
Tasha had been a dream—a vision. Rick had often imagined the perfect woman, but he’d never seen her in the flesh before. She was even wearing a fantasy outfit—a form-fitting green dress that flowed around her legs, a dress so thin that he could feel the texture of her skin beneath it.
He let out a small sigh. Better not to think of it. The edict had come down from on high: Spend time with Tasha and spoil the wedding. And, no matter what his family thought, he was not the kind of man who would do that.
He opened the car door and stepped into the dimly lit garage. It smelled faintly of gas, old oil, and dust. The previous owners hadn’t used the garage much, and he hadn’t been here long enough to make it his own. The shop sat in the back, workbench ready with all of his tools, but he hadn’t touched them since he moved.
He hadn’t touched much of anything. All he had done was work and unpack. Doing both of those had taken more time than he actually had. Tonight was the first night he had done anything social since he had come to Portland, and he’d been lucky enough to meet a beautiful woman.
Even if he was forbidden from spending time with her tomorrow.
He’d get her phone number, and see if their flirtation could last beyond the stress of a family gathering.
Feeling resolved, he crossed the still-too-clean garage floor, headed for the stoop—and froze.
In front of the door leading into the house was a basket wrapped in a dusty rose cellophane. He felt his blood pressure go up. He hadn’t expected anything like this. Not here. He thought he’d left all of that in Chicago, left all of it in the past.
He took the last few strides to the door, and crouched, staring into the basket. Perfumed bath soaps, oils, lotions, and a variety of towels and washcloths, all thick and a tasteful light pink. This had cost a lot of money. Seventy-five to a hundred dollars at least.
His old friend was announcing himself in style.
Rick scanned for the card. He knew there had to be one. It took him a minute to find it in all the ribbon that tied the cellophane closed. He plucked the card off, breaking the ribbon.
The envelope read Jessamyn in flowing script.
Familiar script.
Dammit, the Creep was back. Or more accurately, the Creep had moved here too.
Rick slid a finger under the edge of the envelope, ripping it open. He pulled out the card. The cover was a pict
ure of a rose, newly opened, and photographed slightly out of focus.
He opened the card.
My Jess:
He believes he can take you away from me. But he can’t. I love you more than he does. I always will.
I am waiting for you—
And, as usual, the card was unsigned.
Rick cursed, and flung the card into the metal garbage can beside the door. Then he picked up the basket and threw it inside too. It landed with a loud clang, but that wasn’t satisfying enough. He picked up the can, opened the garage’s side door, and carried the can to the curb.
If that harassing twerp was spying on the house, he’d know that his little gift wasn’t appreciated.
Rick resisted the urge to kick the garbage can. He turned around and went back into the garage, this time locking the side door behind him. Then he grabbed the emergency flashlight he’d hung near the door, and checked all of his possessions.
None of the boxes had been moved. All of his tools were in place. There was a smudge mark near the woodpile left by the previous owners, the pile that Rick had been planning to move to outside so that it wouldn’t draw termites.
He crouched near the smudge, saw the ridges of a shoe print, but didn’t know what kind. Not enough for him to even judge size. Damn the man. He was elusive.
Rick scanned the rest of the garage, but saw no other signs of his visitor. Then he hung the flashlight back in its place, and went inside the house to call the alarm company. He knew better than to call the police, at least for something this small. He’d gone through hell in Chicago, and ended up with a terrible reputation. He wasn’t going to go through that here.
He wanted a life.
And dammit, he was going to have one, no matter what.
***
Beebe put down his binoculars, hands shaking with rage.
He saw the hideous truck with its Illinois plates return, saw Jessamyn’s husband stalk out of the garage with the garbage can, heard it thunk even though he was watching from three blocks away, and knew that she hadn’t gotten his gift yet again.
He hadn’t seen her yet. This house was bigger, though, and Chance spent a lot of time in the basement, where he blocked all the windows with dark black-out curtains, even where the plants had grown up around the house.
Such torture she suffered.
Beebe had gone to the only window he could get close to, shouted for Jess when he knew her husband was gone, but she hadn’t answered. He’d tried to peer inside, but he could see nothing around the curtain. She might not have even been in that room.
She might have been in another part of the house, another part of her prison, waiting for him to set her free.
He nearly freed her in Chicago. He’d free her here.
He had to.
Her life depended on it.
FIVE
HOWIE INSISTED ON walking her to her car. Tasha didn’t mind. If he wanted to be polite, she would let him.
She was, after all, on her best behavior.
She had parked in the outdoor lot near the yacht club. The club’s lights reflected on the water, revealing all those expensive boats. The cars in the lot were expensive too.
Even hers.
“Big day tomorrow,” Howie said when they reached her red Mustang. It had been her high school graduation gift from her parents, and the only luxury she owned. It cost her. She could barely afford parts on her salary, and it used more gas than she liked.
But it was the one thing that her family had ever given her that suited her, and she treasured it for that reason.
“Big day,” Tasha repeated, fishing for her keys.
“Should be fun,” Howie said. He was smiling at her again. She had spent the rest of the evening talking to him. He’d wanted to dance, but she didn’t like dancing with men who were shorter than she was.
Especially not after dancing with someone as perfect for her height as Rick Chance had been.
“It should be fun,” Tasha agreed in a chipper voice that she barely recognized. She unlocked the car door.
“I’m glad we’re going to spend time together,” he said, and he sounded so hopeful that she sighed.
“Howie,” she said, “I know that Brooke and Gerald think we’re perfect for each other, but I’m not interested in dating right now.”
“Not at all?” He raised his eyebrows, and she knew he was thinking of Rick. So was she. She hadn’t stopped thinking about Rick since she met him.
“Not at all,” Tasha said. “Did they tell you what I do?”
“Brooke said you had gotten a job to prove to your family that you could be independent.”
“I’ll bet she said that I proved my point and was ready to be taken away from all that.”
Howie bobbed his head like an eager three-year-old.
“Brooke thinks I should be taken away from all that,” Tasha said. “But I’m not ready to be.”
“I don’t mind women who work.” Then he shook his head. “That came out wrong.”
“It’s all right. I know what you mean.” Tasha had a hunch Gerald wanted his wife to work too, and she knew that Brooke was all too ready to stay at home. “But they didn’t tell you what I do, did they?”
“No,” Howie said. Confusion was making its way into his voice.
She leaned against the car. The metal was cool against her skin. “I’m a cop, Howie.”
“A what?” He sounded stunned.
“A police officer. A detective, actually.” Her voice was gentle. “And it’s more than a job to me. It’s a way of life.”
“You don’t look like a cop,” Howie said.
How many men had said that to her over the years? Usually she demanded they tell her what a cop looked like, and all too often they stammered something about a big, solid woman, a woman who cared more about muscles than men, or said that a woman shouldn’t be a cop at all. Then they’d get embarrassed as they realized that they’d insulted her, and they’d try to apologize, usually making it worse.
But Howie didn’t deserve that. He was a nice man who’d been mislead by her cousin. Brooke had given him expectations, and it was Tasha’s job to let him down as easily as possible.
“Howie,” she said, “it takes a special person to be friends with a cop, let alone date one. We have to put our jobs first, and a lot of times our jobs put us in danger. They also let us see a part of humanity that no one can look at without being affected. We bring our work home with us, spend too much time brooding, and then clam up when a well-meaning friend asks us how we are.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t. I didn’t know how it would be until I went to the academy, and even then, I didn’t completely understand it. I said I wasn’t ready to date anyone, and that’s because it’s just as hard from my side as it would be from yours.”
“Gotcha,” he said, then patted her hand. He gave her a rueful smile. “I’m glad Brooke put us together tomorrow. I think we’ll make it a day to remember.”
“I’m sure we will,” Tasha said. She wanted to get into her car.
“I’ll wait,” he said, “make sure you get out of here okay.”
She smiled at him, and this time, she was sure he blushed.
“I mean, you know how to defend yourself and all, but it’s a habit—”
“It’s a good habit, Howie,” she said, opening her door, and climbing into the driver’s seat. “I’ll see you at the church tomorrow. Sleep well.”
She closed the door before she heard his answer. She turned the key, heard the great engine roar, and backed out of her parking spot at a speed that wasn’t prudent. As she drove away, she looked into the rearview mirror.
Howie stood below a street lamp, making sure she got out of the parking lot okay. The light caught his wispy blond hair, making it seem almost white. He looked lonely and a little sad.
She wished she could be attracted to a man like him. A nice man who wanted nothing more than some attention and respect. Who wanted to
build a good home for his family, who probably had decency down to a science.
Maybe Brooke was right. Maybe Tasha did pick the wrong men.
Because she had a hunch Rick didn’t think about good homes, nice women, and creating a family.
She wondered what he was doing right now. He was probably in some trendy bar, nursing a beer. He was probably having a good time just to spite them all.
She knew if she weren’t so tired, she would be doing the same.
SIX
RICK PACED IN his remodeled kitchen, the cordless phone pressed against his ear. He walked across the polished hardwood floor to the security keypad, stared at the digitized map of his house and grounds, and frowned at the blinking red area.
“I have it now, Mr. Chance,” the woman on the other end said. She had identified herself only as Leanne, and he had written that down, anticipating problems early. “There was a perimeter alert at 9:15 on the southeast basement window and—”
“Alert?” he snapped. “Someone was trying to get into my window and you people call it an alert?”
“Sir, we—”
“Did you call the police?”
“No, sir. If you remember when we set up your system, we explained that perimeter alerts happen all the time. A cat could have brushed against the window. A branch could have fallen. It probably wasn’t an intruder. Intruders don’t brush against buildings. They try to enter them.”
She verged on patronizing, but he probably deserved it. They had explained that to him.
“What if I go outside tomorrow and find footprints there?” he asked.
“Then we misjudged.”
“Well, you misjudged,” he said. “Someone got into my garage.”
“Are you all right?” She was all business now.
“Fine,” he said. “And nothing was stolen. But someone was here tonight.”
“We can secure the garage, Mr. Chance,” she said, still using that businesslike tone. “I’m sure your salesperson explained that as well—”
The Perfect Man Page 3
