“And the routine I’d have to use just to go in and out of it.” It had seemed like a lot of bother at the time, but now that the Creep had found him, maybe it wasn’t. “I’ll think about it.”
“Do that, Mr. Chance. Was anything damaged?”
“No,” he said.
“Then how do you know—”
“He left something.”
“He?”
“In English,” Rick said, “‘he’ is the generic pronoun.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Is everything else all right?”
“No windows are broken,” he said.
“We know that.” She sounded so businesslike. It exasperated him, as if they were discussing something other than his new house, the place that was supposed to be his sanctuary. “We’d get that reading.”
“Then you’d call the police?”
“Of course. But if you want a higher level of attention, we can set up your system to call the police for every perimeter alert. However, I must warn you that the police get easily irritated. If your perimeter alerts are frequent and the police find nothing, they won’t be easy to contact when you do have a problem.”
“I know that,” Rick said through clenched teeth. That was the reason he’d not taken that part of the service in the first place.
“Would you like to upgrade at this time?”
“No.” He’d take care of it himself.
“I do think you should report this incident to the police, Mr. Chance. It sounds as if you do have a problem.”
Of course it does, he thought. Because I do. Why do you think I hired you people?
“Mr. Chance?”
“I appreciate the advice,” he said, and hung up. For a long moment he stared at the maple countertops, the new tile he’d had the contractor put in, the flat-topped stove, and the refrigerator with a state-of-the-art computer system that allowed it to talk to him if he left the door open too long or if the temperature was wrong and started spoiling food.
What did he really have here worth protecting? His stuff. But stuff could be replaced. His privacy. But the Creep had already invaded that.
Rick sighed. He had three options: he could barricade this place up like a fortress; he could whine to the police; or he could go after the Creep himself.
He glanced at the closed windows, the shades down, protecting him. Was the Creep watching even now? Did he see Rick’s shadow playing against the shades? Rick’s skin crawled. How could one person make his life such a living hell?
He opened the magic refrigerator and stared at the beer, longing for one. But he’d had enough for one night. Instead he grabbed the milk and drank it straight from the carton, then wiped his mouth. Maybe a small meal would calm him. The food at the Yacht Club hadn’t been that good.
The Yacht Club, and Tasha. He should be thinking about her, thinking about tomorrow. Instead he was obsessing about a bastard he didn’t even know.
Rick closed the refrigerator door before the thing could yell at him, went into the bedroom, and flicked on the light. His tuxedo was hanging from the closet door, pressed and ready to go.
His entry back into his family’s good graces hadn’t gone that well either. They hadn’t liked the fact that he had moved back to Portland, and they clearly hadn’t forgiven him for all the things he’d supposedly done.
He wondered why he was even a part of this wedding. He and Gerald really hadn’t spoken for years. No one had even been in his house, with its remodeled interior, its solid wood furniture, and comfortable coverings. Maybe he hadn’t invited his family because he wanted them to think little of him. Maybe he liked cultivating the image.
Or maybe he really, really valued his privacy.
Which brought him back to the Creep outside.
That bath oil basket was the first volley in the Portland side of a war. Rick was going to volley back. As soon as this wedding was over, he’d buy some cameras and place them around the garage doors, and the window.
He’d catch the guy on film, track him, and then put an end to this nonsense once and for all.
SEVEN
MAYBE IF TASHA had been sitting in the congregation, she would have thought the wedding beautiful. But as she stood in the front, listening to her cousin recite her vows in a shaking voice, Tasha had the horrible feeling that she was one of several frosting flowers on a particularly ugly sheet cake. The dress itched and rubbed in all the wrong places, she kept banging the hoop on anything within a fifty-mile radius, and the shoes were higher than she was used to.
By the time the wedding party had recessed, stood in the greeting line, and straggled to their cars, Tasha’s calves ached. She wished she would stop moving, but she couldn’t.
She had agreed to ride with Howie to the reception because she didn’t want her Mustang decorated for the bridal procession. When she saw what happened to the procession cars, she was glad she’d made that decision. Someone had covered Howie’s black BMW with streamers, a big sign reading Honk at Newlyweds in Limo with a giant arrow pointing behind them, and several bright pink bows that matched her hideous dress.
The hooped skirt didn’t fit into the car, and she had to wrestle the thing into submission every time she wanted to sit down. She and Howie had beaten the dress back just so he could steer, and then he’d had to help her out of the car when they got to the rented hall near the Rose Garden.
Apparently a lot of people who weren’t invited to the wedding had been invited to the reception. People poured out of the building, and applauded the bridal party as it arrived. All the guests watched as Tasha struggled to find her feet so that she could shove them to the pavement when she got out of the car.
Howie, bless him, kept pushing down the top of her skirt so that it wouldn’t flare up and reveal the lace panties she had so inadvisably decided to wear underneath. The only consolation she had was that she knew all the other bridesmaids were suffering the same indignity.
Brooke’s skirt was hooped as well, and had a train that looked like it belonged to another dress. But somehow Brooke carried it off. She swept out of the car like a princess, and let Gerald guide her to the door, to the continued applause of all of their guests.
The bridesmaids trickled behind, swatting at their skirts, adjusting their large brimmed hats, and tripping on the damned skimpy shoes. The groomsmen’s biggest duty seemed to be preventing their partners from falling on their hooped butts.
The reception was on the fifth floor and there was no elevator, so by the time Tasha arrived, sweat prickled her back. Maybe she became a cop because it was easier than going the debutante route. The dress and the shoes were a torture worse than any criminal could dish out.
But she did stop as she entered the large room and not just because she needed to catch her breath. Glass surrounded her on three sides, presenting a view of Portland that was nothing short of spectacular. Mount Hood stood majestically in the distance, the Columbia glittered below, and the city itself stretched across the hillsides like a painting.
The room—which was closer to a ballroom than anything else—had statues, potted plants, and expensive wicker furniture scattered throughout. The caterers had set up toward the back, and two bars stood in the corners, with most of the guests milling around those.
Gifts stood on a table near the door, and on the floor near the door, and against the wall near the door. Such a scattering of white wrapping paper and silver bows Tasha had never seen before.
A chamber orchestra played softly in the corner, but a band was setting up on the other side of the room. Soon there would be dancing.
Again.
Tasha groaned, and let Howie lead her to a seat. The wicker creaked beneath her weight and her skirt flew up like an umbrella accidentally popping open. She tamed the skirt, then held her hands on it firmly, trying to make it stay in place.
Howie took one look at her, and smiled gently. “I’d better get your food. Anything you can’t eat?
”
“Nope,” she said, wondering if it showed.
He disappeared and she scanned the room for Rick. She’d been doing that all day. She’d seen him briefly before the ceremony, ushering some old lady toward the groom’s side of the sanctuary. Rick in a tuxedo was delicious. The tux, which was a tasteful black, accented his broad shoulders and narrow hips. The cummerbund drew attention to his muscular torso. Finally she understood the purpose of the cummerbund. On most men, it simply looked like a sagging piece of fabric masquerading as a girdle. On Rick, it was an accessory. A handsome one.
He hadn’t seen her looking at him, and as she walked down the aisle after the ceremony, his gaze was on the bride and groom. He looked sad. Tasha hadn’t seen him since.
There had to be three hundred people in this large room, and still it seemed empty. The chamber orchestra was playing “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring,” which Brooke had used as her recessional. Everything was about as perfect as a family wedding could be.
Howie came back and set two plates before her. One heaped with food-food, and the other with desserts. The food-food was, for the most part, unrecognizable: puffs-this, and pastries-that, and sauce-covered whatchamacallits strewn with nuts. The desserts, on the other hand, were recognizable and they made her mouth water.
She thanked him, and he smiled, then went back to fill his own plate.
A hand brushed her shoulder. She looked up and saw Rick behind her. He smiled, and there was nothing gentle in that look. It sent a tingle all the way through her.
“Somehow you manage to pull that dress off,” he said.
She grinned. “I would like to pull this dress off.”
“Then you would be the talk of the wedding.”
His words reminded her of her promise to Brooke. “We said we wouldn’t flirt today.”
He nodded. That sad look was there, just a hint of it, near his eyes. “I just wanted to take a moment to tell you that you look beautiful.”
“Despite the dress?”
“And the hat.” His fingers brushed it too. “A dance later? After the bride and groom are gone?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure I can make it that long.”
His grin seemed automatic. Something was bothering him. “You’ll have to. No one’s allowed to leave until they do.”
“Who designed this torture?” she asked. “Martha Stewart?”
“Emily Post, I think.” Then he looked toward the food table. His profile was just as rugged as the rest of him. “Oops. Here comes your date. I hope I see you later.”
And then he was gone, before she could ask him if he was all right.
Howie was balancing three plates of food for himself. She had to help him set them down, and as she took her hands off her skirt, it popped up, nearly knocking him over.
“That thing could be used as a weapon,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said, “but if it is, it’s a legal weapon.”
“Requiring registration?” His eyes twinkled. So nice. So safe.
She smiled at him. “Nope. No registration. Just a huge down payment. And to think I could’ve gotten a house for this price.”
“I’m pretty sure if you have to, you could use that skirt as a tent.” Howie sat down beside her and dug into the food. She kept one hand on her skirt, and ate with the other. The food was delicious, even if it was mysterious.
She had planned to leave the dessert alone in favor of wedding cake, but her resolve wavered after she’d heard fifteen new toasts to the bride and groom. One more tribute to Brookie and Gerry’s perfect union, and Tasha thought she’d down a bottle of champagne all by herself.
It took an hour to get through the meal and toasts, another half hour to cut the cake and get the pictures, and then it was embarrassment time as the single women lined up for the tossing of the bouquet.
Tasha didn’t want it. Even if she believed in that superstition, which she didn’t, she didn’t want a basketball-sized grouping of roses, carnations, and baby’s breath launched in her direction. And she knew that Brooke was going to aim for her.
So as everyone waited for the single women to gather like sheep for a sheering, Tasha blended into the background, as best someone dressed in a pink tent could.
Then her mother saw her. Tasha’s mother, a petite blond who still had her girlish figure, raised her plucked eyebrows in a very familiar command: Get over there.
Tasha ignored it, so her mother left her father who looked bewildered at the edge of the crowd. Her mother moved quickly through the people, arriving at Tasha’s side before she could make an escape, and grabbed Tasha’s arm, pulling her none too gently toward the bevy of single women.
“It won’t hurt you to try a little,” her mother whispered.
“I am trying,” Tasha said. “I’m wearing the damn dress.”
“Don’t curse. It’s not becoming.”
“Neither is the dress,” Tasha muttered.
Her mother left her at the edge of the women, and then waited until Brooke noticed them. Brooke smiled and turned around. Tasha wanted to make a mad dash for the back of the bevy, but she didn’t. Her mother was blocking her way.
Brooke may have been ladylike, but she had a hell of an arm. She tossed the bouquet directly at Tasha. The bevy of single women moved as one toward Tasha, and Tasha, keeping her hands at her sides, moved away from them like a quarterback making a desperation play.
The bouquet landed precisely where Tasha had been a moment before, caught by the eight-year-old flower girl who squealed with delight. The other women, many of them old enough to know better, moaned in disappointment. Tasha’s mother glared, but Tasha pretended not to notice.
She was getting very good at pretending not to notice.
“Very deft. I didn’t know a woman wearing eighty pounds of fabric could move that quickly.”
Rick. He was right behind her again. Was he following her? The idea both thrilled and worried Tasha—especially considering that her mother was watching. Sometimes it amazed Tasha that she could manhandle convicted murderers, but she was terrified of her own mother.
“Anyone can move that fast with the right motivation,” Tasha said, and then she headed toward the punch table, simultaneously hoping that Rick wasn’t following her and praying that he was.
She passed the eight-year-old flower girl who was explaining to the four-year-old ring bearer—her little brother—that catching the bouquet meant she would get the man of her dreams.
“Daddy?” the little boy asked, obviously unclear on the concept.
“No,” the little girl said, clutching the bouquet to her flat chest. “Prince Charming.”
“The cartoon guy?” the little boy asked.
Tasha continued forward, grinning. Maybe the ring bearer wasn’t as clueless as he had initially seemed.
“Tasha!” Her mother had found her and grabbed her arm. “There was no need for that display.”
“Mom, abusing your daughter in public is a display. Dodging flying flowers is only common sense.”
“Make fun if you will,” her mother said, “but you’re disappointing everyone.”
Tasha stopped. Screw it. If her mother wanted a scene, she’d get it. “Oh? And just who would ‘everyone’ be?”
Her mother must have heard something in Tasha’s tone because she pursed her lips. “Brooke has just had a marvelous wedding—”
“Yes,” Tasha said softly, glad no one seemed to be looking in their direction. “And it’s Brooke’s day, not mine. I’m doing the best I can here, all right? Just because you would rather have had Brooke for a daughter than me doesn’t mean you have to take everything out on me. I love Brooke and I’m pleased she’s happy, and I wouldn’t wear bright pink for anyone else. So get off my back.”
Her mother teared just enough to moisten her pupils, but not enough to smear her eyeliner. “That’s not fair.”
“No, Mother,” Tasha said. “You’re not fair. And you’re going to have
to realize that no matter how hard you push, you are never going to have the daughter that you want. You’re stuck with me, and I’m not changing who I am.”
The tears had moved to the edge of the eyeliner. Tasha pulled her arm out of her mother’s grasp and moved away before she committed the ultimate sin—ruining her mother’s perfect make-up.
Instead of heading toward the punch table, now Tasha went to the open bar. Howie arrived a few steps ahead of her. He ordered wine for himself and for her, then handed her the glass.
“I always wished I could talk to my mother like that,” he said.
She brought her head up. “You heard that?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “I was kinda standing guard so no one else could get close. I don’t think anyone else even noticed except maybe that usher, the one who cut in on us—”
“Rick.”
“Whatever. They’ve got stories about him, huh? Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I thought it was cool the way you defended yourself.”
“Thanks.” Tasha felt slightly confused. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the supportive comments from Howie or if it was because of what he had said about Rick. Stories? What stories? She didn’t really want to ask because she didn’t want to seem too interested. Even though she was. Too interested, that is.
“I’m sorry,” Howie said. “I embarrassed you.”
“No.” Tasha sipped her wine. She wished he had bought her something stronger, something she could just down. But she knew better than to do that. Drunk and disorderly at Brooke’s wedding would be much worse than failing to catch the bouquet. “I don’t normally talk to my mother like that either.”
“Well, maybe it was time.” Howie smiled at her. Then he pushed his glasses up his nose and peered over her shoulder. “The band’s going to start up soon. I’m afraid we’ll have to dance again.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Sorry about that.”
He focused on her, surprise evident on his round face. “No, no. I didn’t mean it like that—”
“I did,” she said. “You’re a good dancer. I’m not. I’m sorry you have to suffer through my klutziness.”
The Perfect Man Page 4
