The Tough Guy and the Toddler

by Diane Pershing

  Suddenly he saw it through Jordan’s eyes. His Dodge sure didn’t belong here among the lush, perfect grounds with their elegant trees and beds of flowers and bushes that had been trimmed and tamed to within an inch of their lives. Hell, not even the gravel on this part of the driveway would dare to get too messy.

  Dom was a messy kind of guy. Not dirty, just messy. And he was comfortable with—even proud of—his blue collar roots. He was a beer and spaghetti—never pasta—man. He’d never been one of those jokers who lusted after big bucks and fancy cars and servants. Not ever.

  But tonight, standing here with this woman, the truth was he felt like a slob, a tired, worn-out slob. The sooner he got away from here, the better.

  Jordan pushed the button, and the gate slid open silently. Dom walked to his car and she followed him. When he got to the driver’s side, he rested one hand on the door frame and turned to gaze at her. She seemed composed, and he wondered if he was imagining the flicker of nerves he sensed beneath her skin.

  “Well—” he said, then shrugged.

  She offered her hand. “Thank you so much for coming.”

  He took her hand in his. Soft, smooth skin. His fingers and the pads of his palm were callused, and much larger than hers. He continued to gaze at her, still not sure what the next move was but wanting to see something in her eyes that he had no name for.

  In the light from the overhead street lamp, shadows hollowed her cheekbones. Her complexion looked ghostly, but her face was so perfectly formed, it was easy to see why the camera loved it Smooth face, smooth skin, smooth hands. She belonged here. She was part of all the smooth perfection of her surroundings.

  Realizing he was still holding her hand, he dropped it quickly. “Should I apologize?” he found himself asking—the words came out before he even knew they were being formed.

  “For what?”

  “Kissing you.”

  A brief flash of humor crossed the alabaster face. “I believe I kissed you back.”

  “Yeah, you sure did,” he said with a small smile, then frowned. “But you were pretty upset, not in a real good place, and, well, maybe—”

  “Maybe you took advantage of me?” she interjected sardonically.

  When he shrugged, she set her hand on his arm, lightly, the way she had a couple of times that evening. “Thank you for asking, but I needed what you gave me, Dom,” she said quietly, that husky voice of hers rich with emotion. Removing her hand, she placed it over her heart. “I can’t tell you how much you helped me tonight. It’s been such a long time since I’ve been able to pour out my heart to someone.”

  “So the kiss was my reward?” He winced the minute he said it, wanted to take the words and shove them back down his throat.

  She looked startled. “Excuse me?”

  Terrific. He sounded like some petulant kid who had been spurned by the prom queen. “Look, forget it. I’m wiped out. I don’t know what the hell I’m saying.”

  She seemed on the verge of answering him, but didn’t. And really, he thought, there was nothing more to say. It had been one of those what-the-hell moments, was all. She’d needed comfort, he’d needed to get his hormones stoked. It had been one stupid kiss, nothing else. In the scheme of things—as his dad had used to say when one of the kids came running home with a black eye or a tale of betrayal by a friend—in the scheme of things, it didn’t signify a whole hell of a lot.

  So, yeah, big deal, he could handle it.

  He inserted the key into the car door. Then, remembering why she’d summoned him in the first place, he turned to her again. “Look, about the letter—”

  “I’m going to tear it up,” she said quickly. “It would be nothing but foolish to expect to see my son again.” With a small, vulnerable smile, she added, “And I have a horror of appearing foolish.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Okay, then. Good night.”

  He opened his car door, but was stopped again by the light touch of her hand on his arm. “Dom?”

  Again he turned. “Yeah?”

  “We probably won’t meet again....” She left it dangling. He could pick it up and run with it or leave it where it was. There was something in her expression that he couldn’t read, and just then, he didn’t want to.

  Close the door, his inner voice commanded. Get out of here. Run.

  He nodded. “Yeah, we probably won’t, so—” He shrugged, not sure just what to say. “Have a good life,” was what he came up with.

  His remark made her flinch slightly, then she recovered. “You too,” she said softly.

  He got into his car, gunned the motor and took off.

  Cynthia was waiting for her by the door when Jordan returned to the house. “Why were you crying in front of that man? Why were you showing him the family albums?”

  “It just happened, Cynthia.” Absentmindedly, Jordan checked her appearance in the antique mirror by the mail table. “We got to talking, and I told him all about Michael—and Reynolds,” she added quickly. “And then I showed him pictures.”

  “But why? Why bring all that up again?”

  Her mother-in-law was honestly stumped. Jordan could see it by the pained look in her gray-blue eyes as she asked the question. She wished she had Cynthia’s capacity for shutting down feelings, for putting all of life’s hurts into a little box and burying it somewhere in her soul and then just getting on with her day-to-day existence.

  But she was not made that way. She didn’t let go easily.

  “It just came up, that’s all. I’m sorry if I upset you. Look, why don’t you go on to bed. It’s late.”

  Her mother-in-law continued to gaze at her, obviously wondering about her. She’d seen that question in Cynthia’s eyes before. Who is this person I have been stuck with? Why aren’t Reynolds and my grandson here instead of her?

  For that brief moment, Jordan felt sorry for the older woman who hadn’t deserved to be left alone any more than Jordan had. Impulsively, she kissed Cynthia on the cheek. “See you in she morning,” she said. “It’s my day off—would you like to go shopping?”

  “Oh.” A look of surprise crossed her face. “Well yes, that would be nice. I’m supposed to meet Mabel Arness for lunch—will you join us?”

  Usually Jordan said no to invitations like this one. Lunch with any of Cynthia’s friends meant listening to idle chatter and mudslinging. Tonight, she accepted. “I’d love to. Sleep tight.”

  She ran up the stairs to her room. After she closed the door behind her, she threw herself on her bed with relief. Clutching a lace-edged pillow to her breast, she stared at the high cream-colored, plaster ceilings with their curlicued molding. Lord, lord, lord, she thought as she finally allowed all her delayed reactions to flood through her.

  There was a mass of them—all complicated—and she felt almost giddy from the onslaught.

  Hope had been raised by the letter, but was soon dashed by reality. Tears of grief she’d been holding in for so long had been released in the presence of a stranger. With that same stranger’s kiss and her own passionate arousal, her womanly reflexes had come to life for the first time in a long time. Such a very long tune.

  Wanting to sink into the ground when Cynthia knocked, but covering it up. That familiar childhood shyness as she walked Dom to the car, not sure what to say to him. Her surprise at the brief hint of vulnerability he’d allowed to slip out.

  The yearning to feel his mouth on hers again. The shock of his rejection. “Have a good life,” he’d said, as though nothing special had happened to him, the way it had happened for her.

  Yes, a torrent of sensations, both physical and emotional, had been released tonight. So many emotions. Too many. She felt drained, depleted of energy.

  Weary, she rose from her bed and padded over the thick carpet toward her bathroom. It was time to wash up and get into bed. Time to put an end to all this introspection and fantasizing. No more emotional roller coasters for her. Time to get on with her life.

  “Te
rrific, Nancy,” Jordan said into the phone. “See you at four.” She hung up and called to Lisa, who was straightening up the sweater shelves. “Got her.”

  Lisa glanced at her, one blond eyebrow raised. “Got who?”

  “The complete pile of rejects from Nancy Tremaine’s closet.” Jordan grinned. She knew what the word “rejects” meant to Nancy—barely used, top designers, year-old and in perfect shape. The jackpot. “You’ll salivate when you see what she considers out of style.”

  Lisa grinned. “Nancy Tremaine. Mrs. Gilbert Tremaine, Junior. Wow. Glad you’re here, Jordan. Love your contacts. Nothing like the personal touch.”

  Lisa’s praise warmed her, and again she was so glad fate had brought the two women together.

  Several months before, after Jordan had attended a foreign film in West Los Angeles—one of her secret passions—she’d wandered into Riches and Rags, which was just down the block on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was a for-profit store, but even so, she’d been expecting something only slightly better than a charity thrift shop and had been pleasantly surprised to find such beautiful clothing, so lovingly displayed.

  After walking around the store for a while, she’d gotten to chatting with Lisa Davidson, the shop’s owner, a woman of her own age. On impulse, Jordan had offered to work there part-time and to use her connections to purchase the discarded wardrobes of some of her Beverly Hills circle. At the time, she thought it would be a hobby of sorts, something she could do to get her mind off herself. However, in the three months since she’d been there, she and Lisa had begun discussions on Jordan becoming a partner.

  Clothing had been a passion of Jordan’s even in Wyoming. She’d always played dress up, using discarded rags and bits of fabric to create costumes for her brother and her. Riches and Rags, with its colorful apparel racks, walls hung with scarves and hats and belts, its two large windows looking out onto busy Santa Monica Boulevard, gave her a sense of belonging and ease she never experienced under Cynthia’s roof.

  The bell jangled, and two designer-jeans-clad young women walked in. Jordan checked to see if they needed any help, told the elderly lady pawing through the Last Chance blouse pile she was available for assistance, then went to the front counter. The invoices were filed, the mailing list updated and, for the present, at least, no one needed her attention. There was, for this single brief moment, nothing for her to do.

  Which meant her mind shifted to Dominic D’Annunzio again, as it had, off and on, in the five days since he’d been to the house. There had been no new notes about Michael, but she hadn’t torn up the letter and picture as she’d promised to do. Instead, she carried them with her in her purse, reluctant somehow to put out the small flame of hope they’d aroused. She was foolish, she knew it. Dom would counsel her to put all that firmly behind her.

  However, putting Dom behind her, as she’d intended to do—as he’d made it clear he wanted her to do—seemed to be more of a challenge.

  His face kept invading her head at odd moments. The memory of that kiss could still make her knees melt. What was it about this street-savvy cop that attracted her? His strength, she supposed. Not just physical strength, although his hands had gripped her forcefully. Her hands had been impressed by the rock-hard firmness of his chest and the ripple of muscles down his back. He could crush her with one squeeze, she supposed.

  No, the strength she was talking about came from the aura of power she sensed from him. Power and dependability. Without knowing him well at all, she knew he was a powerful, dependable, capable, strong man. And strength of character was one thing she completely lacked. Michael had been all that was good about her....

  No! Jordan admonished herself, looking around the busy shop and wondering if she’d said it out loud. No, she repeated silently. She was not to think that way anymore. Since childhood, she’d been tearing herself down, and it had to stop. The grief therapist she’d gone to last year had passed along pretty good advice—when the old tapes of self-doubt and self-loathing began to play in her head, she was to counter them by finding something of worth about herself and concentrating on that.

  Something of worth, Jordan said silently, as she picked up a feather duster and swiped it along the counter. Yes, she had some admirable qualities, she knew that. She was always on time, took responsibility seriously. She didn’t steal or cheat at cards. Pretty boring stuff, she thought with a smile, but starting small was okay. What else? She was a loyal friend. When she loved, she loved fiercely.

  Loved fiercely. She stopped the movement of the feather duster in midair. Barely realizing what she was doing, her free hand flew to her mouth. Dom’s kiss had been fierce. Possessive. Knowing. Her fingertips traced the path his lips had taken. How could she ever forget the way his tongue and hands and mouth had kindled a fire in her she didn’t know existed?

  “Daydreaming on the job, are we?”

  Lisa came bustling to the counter, ready to ring up a customer. Startled out of her reverie, Jordan jumped, which made Lisa grin mischievously. She was just under five feet and slender, with a nice, unremarkable face and a mane of riotous golden curls. The curse of the frizz, Lisa called it, but, to Jordan, her employer-friend’s hair perfectly reflected her glowing inner vitality.

  “I’m sorry,” Jordan said shamefacedly, moving to one side to give Lisa room. “I’m afraid I was drifting a little.”

  “Nothing wrong with that.” She ran the customer’s credit card through the scanner. “I do it all the time.” Lisa’s brown eyes danced as she went on. “Hey, you’ve earned all the dream time you want Between Helen Wasserman and Nancy Tremaine, our stock is primo. We need to come up with some big-time way of thanking both of them. Not just the usual note this time. Flowers, maybe, huh?”

  Jordan nodded, but her mind had vaulted off into a different direction than thanking clothing donors. She’d never really thanked Dom for all the time he’d given her, had she? She’d said the words, of course, but still, shouldn’t she do more? She prided herself on her manners. Saying a proper thank-you was the civilized way to behave.

  On the other hand—and she had to ask herself the question—was this some feeble excuse she’d just come up with to make contact with Dom agam? Hmm. She considered this. Maybe. Quite possibly.

  As the shop bell jangled and new customers entered, Jordan decided she would have to think about this a little more.

  “Hey, Santos,” Dom yelled at the new kid as he passed Dom’s cubicle, “where’d you get the tie? It’s like a solar eclipse—look right at it and you go blind.”

  “Come on, Dom,” the latest, and youngest, member of the detective squad said. “My girl gave it to me. She says with my coloring I can wear bright stuff.”

  Chuckling, Dom tipped his desk chair back and clasped his hands behind his head. “Yeah, well, bright is one thing. You could shoot that tie into the sky on July fourth, and the whole world would see it.”

  Several more smart-ass remarks about his tie trailed Santos as he made his way up the aisle of cubicles. To his credit, the kid took the kidding good-naturedly.

  From his adjacent desk, Steve glanced at Dom. “At least he’s got a new tie. You’re still wearing those church bazaar rejects.”

  “Hey, don’t knock it,” Dom said, fingering his brown tie with small green polka dots. “This baby only cost me three bucks.”

  “You got robbed.” Steve pushed back his chair and got up. “I’m getting some java—you want any?”

  “Nah.”

  Work, Dom said to himself, studying his desk. He needed to get to work. He sifted through the mess of files on his desk with some vague thought of alphabetizing them when his hand came to rest on the one he’d hand-labeled Carlisle. His own personal Jordan Carlisle file.

  He opened it. There, on top, was that publicity photo from Jordan’s modeling days. Glamorous. Her shiny mouth curved in a small smile that hinted at sex without spelling it out. As he stared at the photo, he could practically taste her, even felt his tongue rolling arou
nd his mouth, craving just one more sip. Now that he’d sampled her, he wanted more.

  As though on automatic, his gaze shifted to the upper right-hand side of his desk, to the framed picture of Theresa he kept there. She, too, was smiling at him, but her smile was open and friendly, no secrets.

  Theresa Maeve Flynn, she’d been before they married. Never a beauty, but lovable, with a major-league Irish temper. A little on the plump side, always dieting and complaining about her hips, even when he told her he loved the extra flesh. She’d stuck with him through his training, married him, made the move with him to the west coast, where he’d wanted to live since coming here on a family vacation to Disneyland.

  They’d both left their families behind. A loyal cop’s wife, she’d never complained about being so far away from those she loved, although their phone bills to the east coast were pretty high. His job consumed him, but they’d both assumed there would be kids to fill Theresa’s days. Then a series of miscarriages had weakened her. She’d died from the final one.

  And he hadn’t been there—he’d been out on a drug bust the night she died. A stab of self-loathing hit him, the way it did most times when he thought about that night and the months preceding it. He was a good cop, but not a good man. He raked his fingers through his hair. There it was again, that synonym for self-loathing. Guilt.

  Something about Jordan and his attraction to her brought up the guilt he felt about Theresa. It wasn’t one of those “I feel unfaithful to my late wife when I’m with you” kind of things. Hell, he wished it were that simple—if it was, he could deal with it. Nah, it was more complicated than that, and he wasn’t at his best figuring out complex emotions.

  All he knew was being with Jordan, kissing Jordan had felt terrific everywhere except in his head. He’d been with several women since Theresa’s death, but kissing Jordan Carlisle had been different. There had been some element to it other than pure lust. And that made it complicated.