“I didn’t exactly come here in style,” he said. “Certainly not in something that suits a tux and a pink chiffon whatever.”
He wanted to impress her. That was the problem. He didn’t think his car was impressive enough for the daughter of one of Portland’s oldest and wealthiest families.
“That’s all right,” she said. “I may be wearing a pink chiffon whatever, but I’m barefoot.”
He glanced at her, surprised, then grinned. “Oh, yeah. I forgot. All that talk of the Rose Festival, and I suddenly felt like I was in high school again.”
“God forbid,” she said. “Those are days I never want to relive.”
“Me, either.” He spoke quietly, as if there were more to it than simple teenage angst. “Well, come with me. Are you going to be okay barefoot on that asphalt, or do you want me to drive over?”
“My feet are tough,” she said, although her nylons weren’t. They were shredded. She wondered how bad his car was. She probably should discuss plans now, so that he didn’t think she was trying to avoid being seen in his vehicle. “I tell you what. We probably should pick a place to meet. You can drop me at the church, and I’ll drive myself over.”
He nodded, as if he’d expected the caution. “I’m going to wait, though, to make sure that Reverend Brown knows the family rules.”
“All right.”
He led her through rows of cars to the most battered truck she had ever seen. Once upon a time it had been white, but that had been a lot of dents, mud and rust ago. She was glad she had spoken up when she had, otherwise he really would have thought she hated his truck.
Actually, she liked its lack of pretension.
“Well, here it is,” he said. “My faithful steed.”
“Does it have a name?”
He looked at her sharply.
She shrugged. “All vehicles with personality should have names.”
He got a strange expression, then put a hand on the truck as if it were an old and good friend. “Porthos.”
“Excuse me?”
“The truck’s name. It’s Porthos.”
“I was expecting, you know, Hank or something.”
He pulled his door open, and got inside. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“It doesn’t disappoint.” She waited for him to unlock her door, then realized that the lock was broken. It leaned haphazardly against the window. She pulled the door open, gathered her skirt as best she could, and stepped on the running board. The metal felt cool against her bare foot. “I like cars with literary references, especially references that suit.”
“You know the Three Musketeers?” He looked pleased.
“Of course I do.” She slid on the seat, then cursed. Her skirt rose in front of her like centerfold of a pop-up book. She wrestled the fabric down, then held it in place.
Rick was trying not to laugh. “I never realized clothing could be so much trouble.”
“Oh, this is nothing,” Tasha said. “You should see the dress my mother picked out for my confirmation.”
He looked at her, then raised his eyebrows. “Um, Tasha. The shift is on the floor.”
Buried in pink. She slid closer to the passenger door, thankful that the truck—although battered—was extremely clean. “Better?”
“Much.” He started the truck. It roared to life, as if it had been waiting for the opportunity to leave.
“So,” she said, as he drove out of the lot. “If you get a Jag will you name it Aramis?”
He glanced at her. He looked pleased. “How did you know?”
“Logical,” she said. “Porthos is good-hearted but loud and uncouth. Aramis is cool and sleek and so handsome that no woman can resist him. But he’s also a priest, so you have to get a car that’s a religion. If you’re going to carry this out, though, your Athos car will have to be dark and brooding and yet the perfect hero—which would be, what?, some kind of Mercedes, maybe? And I have no idea what kind of car you’d name D’Artagnan.”
“Something that’s a little bit country and a little bit rock n roll,” he said, retracing their way to the church. The truck rattled as it bounced along Portland’s streets.
She laughed.
“You’re the first woman I’ve ever met who knew the reference,” he said.
“You have to thank Richard Lester for that.”
“The director?”
She nodded. “If it weren’t for his movies, I wouldn’t have read the books.”
“Hardly anyone’s seen the Lester Three Musketeers. They’ve only seen that John Malkovich abomination.”
“The Three and the Four Musketeers,” she said. “Perfectly cast. Michael York, Oliver Reed, Richard Chamberlain—”
“Raquel Welch, Faye Dunaway...”
She laughed. “See? You agree.”
“Of course I do. Where do you think I found out about Alexander Dumas? It wasn’t at Lincoln High School.”
He pulled into the parking lot of the church. Her Mustang was the only car in the lot, and she suddenly worried that Reverend Brown hadn’t gotten the memo.
“Is the Mustang yours?” Rick asked with something like awe. There weren’t many classic Mustangs around any more.
“Yep.”
He pulled in alongside it. “And does it have a name?”
“Lover Boy,” she said, then clapped her hands over her mouth.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I usually don’t tell people that,” she said, letting her hands drop.
“It does imply an unusual relationship with your vehicle.”
“A Mustang is a horse,” she said. “Lover Boy is a horse name.”
“You couldn’t have gone with something classic like Secretariat?”
“My car is not a three-year-old,” she said archly. “And he doesn’t need to race to get his triple crown.”
“I see,” Rick said, then he shut off the engine. “I’m staying here until Reverend Brown lets you in.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, opening her door. “The church isn’t locked.”
She sounded a lot more confident than she felt. She slipped out of the cab and onto the cool pavement.
“Where are we meeting?”
“Jakes?” he said.
“On a Saturday night? Maybe we shouldn’t go somewhere so trendy.”
“All right. You ever been to Stars in the Hollywood district?”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling. Stars wasn’t trendy, but it was good. It was a fairly new, undiscovered restaurant with excellent meals and even better desserts. “That sounds perfect. I’ll meet you there in fifteen.”
“You can’t change in fifteen minutes, let alone get across town—”
“You forget. I got a Mustang.” And then she slammed the truck’s door closed.
The pavement here was covered with small rocks, and it took all of her dignity to keep from limping. She got on the grass as soon as she could, then went to the side door of the church, the door Brooke had sworn would be unlocked until the last bridesmaid picked up her things.
It was. Tasha heaved a small sigh of relief.
The truck started and pulled up alongside her. “Make it a half an hour,” Rick said. “I’ve got to change too.”
“I could have made it in fifteen minutes.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t want you to get a ticket.”
“That’s not likely,” she said, but he was already pulling away. She watched the truck disappear down the road. Man, she liked him. She hadn’t felt this good about anyone in a long, long time.
She smiled to herself and then went inside the church to turn into a person again.
TEN
BEEBE HEARD THE truck before he saw it: the roar of the old engine, the unmistakable sign of a muffler on its very last days. He knew the sound intimately—and could tell just from the volume of the roar how far away the truck was.
He had to get out of the garage and quickly. The last thing he wanted was Rick Chance to catch him tryin
g to break into the house.
Not that Beebe was actually trying to break in. He knew about the security system—how could he not with the company’s logo pasted on every door? Who would want a business logo all over his house, even if it was discreetly placed? Such things didn’t ward off every burglar. Surely there were thieves as clever as he was.
Then again, maybe not.
He slipped out the side door and jogged to the neighbor’s house. Fortunately for him, these people were never home. He’d used their rhododendrons as a stakeout more than once. And this afternoon, they would provide him cover until he could return to his own car.
He crouched on the mulch beneath the rhodies, and reached inside his shirt pocket. Then he removed the tiny binoculars he always carried with him.
Maybe this time he would see Jessamyn. She had to come out of that house sometime. Chance couldn’t keep her imprisoned forever.
The roar of the truck seemed even louder than usual. Chance pulled into the driveway. He didn’t even bother to open the garage door—unusual, since he seemed to be a creature of habit. Instead he shut off the truck and hopped out.
Chance was wearing a tuxedo.
How very strange. A tuxedo in the middle of the day. Something was going on.
Beebe rose on elbows, creeping forward just a bit. Maybe this day was the day Jessamyn would come out. Maybe Chance was going to take her somewhere special. The last time Chance had worn that tuxedo—in Chicago eighteen months ago—Jessamyn had been on his arm. She had been beautiful. Her red curls cascaded down her back, and she wore a blue dress that hugged her slender form.
But they hadn’t enjoyed themselves that night. When they came home, she had her arms crossed and her make-up was smeared as if she had been crying. When she had gone into the house with him, she clutched her purse to her chest as if she were afraid someone was going to take it away from her.
Beebe had called from his cell phone—a brief call, asking for her, wanting to know if she was all right. And Chance had hung up on him, saying there was no Jessamyn in the house.
Chance had always stood between him and Jessamyn.
That would stop soon. As soon as Beebe got into the house, he’d get her out of there. And Chance would pay.
The front door opened, and Chance came out. He had changed into jeans, a polo shirt, and deck shoes. He locked the front door like he always did.
Someday Chance would make a careless mistake, but this wasn’t the day.
Beebe sighed, and let the binoculars drop. He hadn’t caught a glimpse of her. From this angle, all he’d been able to see was the entry of the house. He had to find a better place to spy. If he found that, he might even be able to see the code for the security keypad.
A shiver of delight ran through him. He should have thought of that sooner. All he needed was the code, and he could get inside.
He could free Jessamyn.
ELEVEN
RICK PULLED UP in front of Stars, wishing for the first time in years that he had a more respectable vehicle than Porthos. The truck had served him well, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you drove a beautiful woman in, especially a woman who owned a classic Mustang.
The Mustang was already parked in the narrow lot. He shook his head as he got out of the truck. She still had to defy speed limits to get here. He’d never known a woman who could change clothes that quickly and still have time to drive across Portland.
But Tasha was full of surprises, and he found that he was enjoying them. He was pleased that she had decided to have dinner with him, but he was also worried about it.
The trip home had reminded him of the Creep. There weren’t any new baskets or love notes, but he felt the Creep’s presence all the same. All the way to Stars, Rick had been wondering if he should get involved with anyone before the Creep got caught.
Stars didn’t seem that busy, even though it was early for a Saturday. It was on a tree-lined street just off the interstate. The restaurant had once been a supper club that the new owners had converted into a bistro. He had discovered it by accident. When he had been a boy, there had been a diner on this street, with the world’s best hamburgers. He’d returned here shortly after he came back to Portland, hoping the diner was still around. It wasn’t, of course, so he stopped in Stars. And he hadn’t missed the diner since.
He stepped inside and inhaled the scent of fresh baked bread, coffee, and some delectable mix of spices that probably was the night’s specials. Tasha was sitting at a booth toward the back, her chin resting on the back of her hand as she stared out the window. She had taken her blonde hair out of its fancy chignon and let it fall against her shoulders, and she had scrubbed the makeup off her face. She wore a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out and the name of a local gym across the front.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He hadn’t lied to her about that.
Still, Rick hesitated. The Creep was ever present in his thoughts. What was he doing bringing an innocent into that? He’d have to tell her—if she was interested in anything more than a simple meal.
Tasha hadn’t noticed him yet. She was still staring wistfully out the window. How little he knew about her. She seemed so solid, so strong, and so interesting. They had fit well together. He’d never clicked like that with anyone before.
“Sir? How many?” The hostess stood behind the cash register, hand poised on the stack of menus in their holder.
Busted. Tasha had turned in his direction and smiled. He smiled back.
“I’m with her,” he said and crossed the restaurant to her.
She had an iced tea and was already halfway through it.
“How long have you been here?” Rick asked as he slid into the booth. The hostess had followed him, handing him a menu. He noted that she hadn’t handed one to Tasha.
“Oh, fifteen minutes.” She grinned.
“You have not.”
“She has,” the hostess said.
“I suppose she’s ordered,” he said.
The hostess shook her head. “Said she already knew what she wanted.”
“Well, so do I,” he said, handing the menu back.
The hostess took it. “Your waitress will be right over.”
“Show-off,” he said as the hostess left.
“I told you I could make it in fifteen minutes.”
“That wasn’t the point. The point was to get here safely.” He winced at his tone. He sounded like her father.
He suddenly felt awkward with her, as if the banter since they met was a product of the wedding instead of being together.
She smiled at him. The smile warmed him.
“And here I thought the point was to escape that dreadful reception,” she said.
He leaned back in the booth. It was padded and very comfortable. There weren’t many people in the restaurant yet, and no one sitting close. He liked the privacy.
“I think most people would have thought that was a nice reception.”
“Did you?”
“I’m not most people.”
“I’m beginning to realize that,” she said. “But it looked like you made up with your family.”
“My sister,” he said.
At that moment, the waitress, a college student by the look of her trim form and multitudinous tattoos, arrived. Both he and Tasha ordered and the waitress disappeared without a word.
“Your sister?” Tasha asked as if the waitress hadn’t interrupted them. “The tall, stately woman?”
He nodded, remembering how nice it was to connect with Jane again. How much he had missed her.
“Were your parents there?”
He started. “My parents are dead.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” His words were soft. His parents had been a presence all day. Then, realizing he’d been abrupt, he added, “They died in a plane crash ten years ago.”
“My god,” she said. “One of those big crashes?”
“A priva
te plane. In the Coastal Mountain Range.”
“And here I’ve been complaining about my family to you this whole time. That makes everything seem very trivial.”
“It’s not trivial,” Rick said. “I wish I still had them to complain about.”
“Think they would have approved of Brooke?”
“Oh, I don’t know. My parents were very adventurous people. Outdoorsy and athletic. They wouldn’t have understood Gerald’s business, I know that much.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “I was a reader and my mother was constantly pulling books out of my hand, ordering me to go outside.”
“Wow,” Tasha said. “My mother was constantly trying to keep me inside.”
He smiled. “Maybe we were assigned the wrong parents.”
“Or maybe children are supposed to be different, just to keep parents on their toes.” Even though Tasha’s tone was light, her expression was pensive.
The waitress stopped at the table. She had two steaming earthenware bowls of clam chowder. She placed them on the table and ran, as if she were afraid she’d gotten the order wrong and didn’t want to correct it.
Rick picked up his spoon. “Did you keep your parents on their toes today?”
“I yelled at my mother.” Tasha folded her hands in her lap, like a child expecting to be slapped.
“About what?” He felt his back stiffen, hoping it wasn’t about him.
“About the fact that I’m not Brooke.” Tasha sighed. “I’m doomed to disappoint her.”
“Brooke?”
“My mother. She wanted some dainty daughter who wore frills and she got a girl who fell out of trees and played varsity basketball.”
“You were on the basketball team?” Rick looked at her in admiration.
“Yeah,” Tasha said. “Just far enough into Title 9 to be able to participate in girls’ basketball, but just early enough to miss all the scholarships. Although they did try to recruit me for the European tour.”
“You were good.”
“I was good.” Tasha finally picked up her spoon.
“What stopped you?”
“The same thing that stops most young athletes. Injuries.”
The Perfect Man Page 6
