Big Guns Out of Uniform

by Nicole Camden

  But out of her dark suit, Nick’s next-door neighbor was just a slip of a girl, with a wild mane of black curls and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. Hell, she didn’t look old enough to vote. No, worse—she looked like jailbait. And good Lord above, thought Nick, watching as she crossed from her yard into his, Dr. Delia Sydney was just about the prettiest thing he’d seen since crazy old Bud Basham’s cat had a litter of kittens in the driver’s seat of his Triumph.

  Just then, Tiger Lily herself came slinking through the spindles of the porch railing that edged the open end of his shed, her orange fur glistening in the morning sun. Nick bent down to scratch her rump as she twined around his left ankle. But he kept one eye on Dr. Delia.

  “Hi,” she said, stepping hesitantly around the railing and into the shed. “I thought you might like a cup of coffee. It’s black—is that okay?”

  “I love black,” he said, looking at her hair and searching for something clever to say. “Thanks.”

  “Oh,” she said, noticing the cat. “There’s Tiger Lily!”

  “Yeah, I have visitation rights,” he said, giving the cat another scratch. “Basham and I fished her out of that culvert across the road. I guess I kinda let him have her.”

  Sudden knowledge lit Delia’s eyes, and Nick noticed yet again how pale and arctic blue they were. “Oh, my God, was that you?” she said, nodding toward the disassembled Triumph. “Is that the car? The one Bud calls the Cat Mobile?”

  Nick grinned. “Yeah, but cats are real neat,” he said. “There wasn’t much to clean up.”

  Tiger Lily leapt onto the workbench that ran across the back of the shed, curled up on an old newspaper, and began to lick one of her front paws. Nick sipped the coffee again, then plucked a socket wrench from one of the drawers of a tall red tool cabinet. “So,” he said, turning around and giving the wrench a neat little spin. “Sleep well? Or did the thought of my performing surgery on your car give you nightmares?”

  Delia sat down on a rickety chair by the railing and rolled her eyes. “God, no, going to the garage gives me nightmares. I think my service manager is the Antichrist.”

  Nick spun the wrench again, and decided to go for it. “Can I ask you something?” he said. “Something personal? I mean, I’ve looked under your hood and all, so I guess we’re already kind of intimate, right?”

  She turned faintly pink—for about the fourth time in their very short acquaintance. “Yes, sure,” she said. “Ask.”

  “How old are you, Dr. Delia?”

  Delia pursed her lips. “Older than I look.”

  Nick laid the wrench down and leaned back against the door of the Triumph. “You know, I don’t think so.”

  Delia sighed. “Thirty-one, going on fifty,” she said.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said, studying her. “How in the hell did you get through school and…and accomplish so much?” Nick made an expansive gesture with one hand.

  She actually clasped her hands between her knees, a little-girl-lost gesture if ever he’d seen one, and cops knew body language. “I was kind of a child prodigy,” she said softly.

  “A what?” Shit, he’d been afraid of that.

  “You know, one of those smart kids—kids so smart they’re weird, right?—so they pushed me out of high school and into college when I was, oh, about fifteen.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Nick. “And you finished college at, what, seventeen? Grad school at nineteen?”

  “Something like that.”

  While he tried to think of something else to say—something besides God, I’d love to see how your knees would look hooked over my shoulders, which was the first thing that came to mind—Nick loosened the distributor cap on the Volvo. Then methodically he began to extract the spark plugs, only four of which were working. Number five looked like a chestnut roasted by an open fire. Jesus H. Christ, Dr. Delia was either the world’s worst skinflint, or she was poor as a church mouse, and Nick was now betting on the latter.

  “Is it bad?” came a small voice from the chair.

  Nick bent over and rested his head on the radiator cap. “Sugar, I don’t even have the heart to tell you how bad,” he said. “Let me put it off a bit, okay?”

  “Sure.” Dr. Delia started to fiddle with her hair. “So, how old are you?” she suddenly blurted.

  Nick straightened up and tossed the last bad plug in his trash barrel. “Thirty-six going on seventy, it feels like,” he said, just as his lower back tried to spasm. “Ouch.”

  She saw his hand go to the small of his back. “Are you all right?” she asked, jumping out of her chair. She closed the distance between them, looking anxious enough to offer him a back rub.

  Please, please, oh, God, please.

  “It’s nothing,” he lied. “Nothing a good soak in the old hot tub won’t fix.”

  And then, to his amazement, Dr. Delia circled behind him, set her hands on his shoulders, and squeezed. “Gosh, you’re tense,” she said. “You need to relax. And I can tell just by touching you that you need a good massage.”

  “Mmm.” Nick squeezed his eyes shut and wondered if his dreams were about to come true. “You offering, Dr. Delia?”

  Delia didn’t seem to take the question amiss. Her thumbs, surprisingly strong, were digging deep into the muscles of his shoulders now. “Well, I guess I could,” she said uncertainly. “But it would only be Swedish. I’m an amateur. I can’t do deep tissue work, and really that’s what you need.”

  “I like it Swedish,” he choked, eyes still shut. Hell, I’d like it Lebanese, he thought. Just don’t stop.

  “Bend over and let me feel,” she commanded, tugging his T-shirt out of his jeans.

  “Dr. Delia, I’ve been just dying for you to ask.” He planted his hands on the front of the Volvo and leaned forward.

  Delia laughed, but she kept feeling her way down his spine, her touch clinical, her tiny thumbs digging into places he didn’t know he had. Lower. And lower. And oh, God, it felt good. Almost orgasmi—

  “Shit!” Pain shot down his leg, and Nick jerked like a nervous horse. “Oh, Holy Mother, what’d you hit?”

  Delia was quiet for a minute, her strokes lightly soothing. “Well, I’m no orthopedist,” she said, her voice no less husky, though it was matter-of-fact. “But you’ve got a little disk degeneration down here, don’t you?”

  Nick snorted. “Maybe,” he admitted. “But I manage.”

  Her voice was chiding. “What did you do?”

  “Hurt it in the Army,” he answered. “But let’s keep that our little secret, Doc.”

  Delia was making soft little circles with the heel of her hand now. Around and around, along the ridge of his hip bone. The pain was gone, his skin was warming, and his every nerve ending was coming to life. Some other things were on the verge of coming to life, too.

  As if she’d read his mind, Delia suddenly stopped. “I’m sorry,” she said, jerking his shirt back down. “I’m afraid I can’t handle you.”

  “Try,” he begged, choking out the word.

  Dr. Delia seemed to miss his point. She stepped around and shook her head. “I’m just a psychologist,” she said. “And a professor at that. We don’t have any real skills, you know.” She paused and shot him a heart-melting grin. “I’m going to make you an appointment with a neuromuscular therapist I know.”

  “Well, I’m not sure…”

  “Did you like what I was doing to you?” she asked in her sultry voice.

  “Hell, yes.”

  “Then you’re going to simply adore Hans.” Delia patted him on the shoulder. “Trust me, Mr. Woodruff, he’s much better than I am.”

  “Nick,” he rasped, stabbing his shirt back in. “Women who remove my clothes, even partially, have to call me Nick. It’s a quirk of mine.”

  Delia grinned at him again. “Okay, Nick,” she said, as if trying out the word for the first time.

  Slowly she returned to her chair, the brown cotton skirt swishing about her ankles. It was one
of those earthy-looking skirts, and she’d paired it up with a baggy peasant blouse and a pair of clogs, like one of those overweight dowds you’d see shopping over at the Chapel Hill health-food store. But Delia was no dowd, not even in that getup. And she was one of those rare women who could probably load on an extra thirty pounds and still look sexy.

  Jesus H. Christ. Didn’t he have it bad.

  Delia kept watching Nick Woodruff as she returned to her chair. He was flirting with her, she thought. Or teasing, at least? Today, he didn’t seem mean at all. And she liked him, Delia realized. Woodruff didn’t seem very complex, but nor was he shallow. There was a clean, in-your-face honesty about the man that pleased her. It was a refreshing change from the academic types she was usually surrounded with. And he certainly was more…well, more male.

  Right now he looked like some sort of caged animal prowling around in the narrow shed, as if there was just too much of him to be contained. In his tight white T-shirt, he looked like a dark-haired version of that sexy actor in Dirty Dancing—if that guy had been pumped full of steroids. His jaw was hard, his chin square, and to top that off, he had a pair of hooded bedroom eyes to die for.

  Woodruff wore jeans that were snug around what looked like a nice, tight butt, the cotton worn soft at the fly and the knees. Yep, the man was definitely packing—and something a little more exciting than a loaded gun, she’d wager.

  Shooting his snug butt one last glance, Delia folded her skirt neatly around her legs and sat back down in her chair. “So, Nick,” she said very quietly. “I hear you shot somebody yesterday.”

  Woodruff turned to his tall toolbox, slid open a drawer, then tossed in a wrench with a bang. “Yeah.”

  Delia waited, but Woodruff said nothing more. “I see,” she responded. “That might make a man’s shoulders a tad tight, mightn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Delia hesitated. “It must have been an emotionally difficult experience, too. Do you…well, want to talk about it?”

  Woodruff turned slowly from the toolbox, wiping his hands on a rag. “Nothing difficult about it, Doc,” he said. “The bastard had a blade jabbed against my partner’s carotid artery. And no, I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  Delia studied him. “But maybe you should,” she suggested. “It can be cathartic.”

  “Ex-Lax can be cathartic,” he said. “That doesn’t mean I need a dose. Besides, this isn’t that new-age barter shit we’ve got going here, Doc.”

  “Barter?” Delia asked. “What do you mean?”

  Woodruff smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, you know, I fix your car, you weave me a basket or psychoanalyze me?” he said. “I mean, if you’ll reconsider that massage, I’ll sure take it. But screw the therapy, Doc. Shooting at people—if it’s necessary—is what I get paid to do.”

  “Oh,” she said softly. “I see.”

  “Good,” he said, bending over the engine again. “’Cause I think that’s enough chitchat about the office. Now, darlin’, when’s the last time you had your timing belt replaced?”

  Delia wanted to argue, but she sensed it would be unwise. “I don’t even know what a timing belt is,” she admitted.

  Woodruff reached deep into the bowels of the Volvo and gave something a good yank. “Shit,” he muttered.

  Delia sighed. “How bad?” she demanded. “Come on, I’m a big girl, I can take it.”

  His arms braced wide on the sides of the engine compartment, Woodruff turned his head, then winked at her. “Can you now, darlin’?” he asked. “That’s good to know.”

  “Be serious.”

  “Oh, this is serious,” he admitted. “Your mechanic was right. You need an overhaul. And you’ve got a head gasket that’s oozing oil faster than Trent Lott. Plus, all your belts are about to start squealing, fraying, or just plain snapping. It also looks like the water pump’s leaking, and you’ve got two broken motor mounts—probably because the damned thing’s been idling so rough it’s rattled itself loose. And let’s not even talk about that exhaust system.”

  Delia felt herself wither inside. “Sounds terminal.”

  “Nah.” Woodruff brightened. “Should be just enough work to keep a jackleg mechanic like me out of trouble for…oh, about two weeks.”

  “But you’ll need belts and parts and…and things,” she interjected. “It’ll be expensive, won’t it?”

  Woodruff shook his head. “Labor intensive, but not that expensive—unless you need a new water pump. That’ll run you about eighty bucks. The rest of it, all totaled, maybe two-fifty?”

  “Oh.” Relief flooded her. “Oh, that’s good.”

  With motions that were loose and easy, Woodruff ambled across the shed and propped one hip on a tall stool by the workbench. “Still, you gotta think long-term, here, Doc,” he warned, sipping from his coffee. “You need a new car. We can beat and kick another year out of this one, maybe. But that’s it.”

  “Right. I know. I’ve been looking.”

  He swilled more coffee, the muscles in his throat working up and down. “So, how long you been driving this P.O.S.?” he asked.

  “P.O.S.?”

  Woodruff shook his head disbelievingly. “Never mind. How long?”

  Delia shrugged. “I bought it used after graduate school.”

  Woodruff opened his arms wide. “Then it’s time to buy your fantasy car, Dr. Delia,” he crooned. “Now dig into the secret recesses of your brain and tell old Saint Nick. What gets your motor running, mechanically speaking?” He winked again.

  Delia’s face warmed, and not from the coffee. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Aw, come on! Everyone’s got a dream machine.”

  Delia closed her eyes. “An S80, then,” she whispered, feeling just like a kid on Santa’s lap. “A black one—turbocharged—with the fancy wheels.”

  Woodruff guffawed, and Delia opened her eyes.

  “You’re shitting me, right?” he said. “Your fantasy car is another Volvo? A four-door sedan?”

  “But think about the safety!”

  Nick eyed her skeptically over his thermal mug. “Now, why is it, Dr. Delia, I get the very distinct impression there’s been way too much safety in your life already?”

  “I like Volvos,” she insisted. “I like being safe. I’ve made up my mind. Talk about something else.”

  “Okay, let’s start again,” he agreed. “So, Dr. Delia…no boyfriend?” He watched, a little guiltily, as that pretty pink blush lit her face again.

  “Boyfriend?” she said on a laugh. “That sounds…quaint. But I don’t think I’ve had a boyfriend since my undergraduate days.”

  Nick slid off the stool. “Dr. Delia, you are so not what I expected,” he said, abruptly deciding to go for it. “How many boyfriends did you have in college, anyway? No—let’s put it this way—how many relationships did you have prior to marrying that asshole husband of yours? And yeah, I know he was an asshole, ’cause Basham already told me.”

  “Well, I was a grad student!” she protested. “I had other priorities.”

  Nick stepped a little closer. “How many?”

  Delia blinked. “I’m not sure it’s any of your business, but four, maybe five?”

  A faint smile curled Nick’s mouth. “Yeah, maybe, but you didn’t sleep with many of ’em, did you?”

  Delia was truly indignant. “Well, I was hardly a virgin when I got married, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  He laughed. “Sugar, there are all kinds of virgins.”

  “Well, I had experience!” she said. “Enough, anyway.”

  Logically, Delia knew she was right, too. But her experience hadn’t kept her husband from straying, had it? Sometimes she felt like such a fraud.

  She had dropped her gaze and turned away again. Nick slipped his finger under her chin and gently turned her face back to his. “And they were lucky, lucky guys, Dr. Delia,” he said, softening his tone. “But something tells me you don’t see it that way.”

&nb
sp; Delia blinked again, feeling suddenly on the verge of tears. “Well, Sergeant Woodruff, you know what they say,” she snapped. “Those that can, do. And those that can’t, teach.”

  In response, Nick Woodruff leaned down and braced his well-muscled arms on the porch railing, imprisoning her shoulders between them. “Then teach me something, Dr. Delia,” he whispered, his mouth suddenly hovering over hers.

  Delia felt her eyes widen and her breath hitch. And then his lips melted over hers, warm and pliant. He slanted his mouth and nibbled, coaxing her to return the kiss. She did, turning her face fully into his. Lightly he stroked the seam of her lips with his tongue, but went no further. It was a kiss of exquisite tenderness, and it shocked her that so big and brutal a man could be that gentle.

  When he broke away, he lifted his mouth just an inch. “Well, Dr. Delia, you sure do kiss just fine,” he murmured, brushing his lips beneath her right eye. “You know what I think the problem is?”

  “I wasn’t conducting a survey,” said Delia. “But go ahead, take a crack at it.”

  Nick laughed softly. “I think your ex was a fool, and probably no damn good in bed,” he said. “And before that, I just don’t think you’d ever been with a man who had the experience to appreciate and pay proper homage to your many fine assets.”

  Delia cut her eyes up at him. “Now, there’s a theory.”

  “Could be right, too,” said Nick, still leaning over her. “Now, I’m not saying your textbook knowledge isn’t first-rate, ’cause I’m a regular listener, Doc, and you know your stuff. But every once in a while, even a pro needs a little hands-on experience, right?”

  Delia closed her eyes, rocked back in her chair, and let her head fall back against the porch railing. “Oh, God, you Southern boys are so full of it!” she said. “Why do I get the feeling this car repair is going to cost me a lot more than two hundred and fifty bucks?”