The hairs on the nape of his neck snapped to attention at the way she’d dragged muscles into a breathy stretch of innuendo. Not what he’d expected in a mom. Tate flexed his shoulder blades and stood, wanting her hands off. “No, ma’am, I don’t play ball.” And I’m not here to play with you.
The bundle of nervous energy down the hall had taken a nervous stand, but he wasn’t barking, just shaking like a leaf and tracking Tate’s every move with those sharp, pointy eyes. When a door cracked open to his left, Pepe turned tail, and, quick as a mosquito on the tundra with his belly full of warm, red blood, he scurried out of sight. The door closed softly behind him. Must be the girl’s room.
“Hurry up, Winslow!” Mrs. Parrish shrieked. “Your date’s already here. What’s taking you so long?”
The blast from that female bullhorn was enough to wake the dead. So much for form and etiquette. Maybe Tate had worried for nothing. If the daughter was anything like the mother, he could wrap this escapade up quick and neat, endure a dance or two, a cup of punch, and be home by ten.
The rest of the house was small, at least what he could see of it. Maybe twelve hundred square feet. Single level. The front door faced south, the kitchen windows faced north. Two points of egress, both aligned in a straight shot through the front room to the kitchen. A narrow hall to the east with three doors, two closed, one open. Probably a bathroom. Master bedroom. The girl’s room. Nothing special.
“Can I get you something, Tate? Anything?” Mrs. Parrish assumed familiarity where there was none, using his given name like she owned it, her voice laced with syrup. “A beer? A gin and tonic?” She lifted her shoulders and succeeded in dropping the collar of that flimsy knit top farther down her bare arm, exposing more shoulder. More skin.
“No thanks. I’ll wait.” Tate studied the living room décor instead of his hostess with the mostest. IKEA perfect, down to the corner sectional couch, the birch slider tables at each end, and the over-sized paper lampshade on a clear glass bottle on the one table. A single factory printed picture of a European castle, Neuschwanstein in Germany if he remembered right, decorated the wall. His home wasn’t furnished any fancier, and damn, he’d rather be there.
Dropping the plush toy to the rocking chair next to him, he lowered his frame to the edge of the couch. Automatically, he dropped his arms to his knees and interlocked his fingers. This place suffocated the life out of him. There were too many walls. Not enough windows. He hated not being able to sit where he could track both exits. Tate needed more air.
Damned if Mama Bear didn’t lift the stuffed toy and cuddle it to her chest as she took over the rocker. Giggling girlishly, she dipped her chin into the top of the toy’s silky fur head as if he’d brought it for her. That was an odd ruse for a woman her age, to act coy and to flirt with her daughter’s date.
The grinning Halloween Jack-O-Lanterns at the tips of her manicured nails stabbed the polar bear like rakes. Everything about her was garishly out of place for a worried mom about to lose her only child to cancer. Maybe those nails were her reward for suffering? For watching her daughter wither away? Who knew.
A breathy sigh trembled out of her. “She’s dying, you know. Pretty soon it’ll be just little old me and that rat-faced dog she loves.”
Tate loosened his fingers and let them hang. Looking down at his feet, he mentally cursed his current boss for putting him in this awkward position of having to make small talk. Tate would’ve given his right nut to still be working for his old boss, Alex Stewart. He never would’ve pushed Tate into this—this—date.
“That’s why I’m here. The prom.” Duh. Mama Bear already knew that, but Tate didn’t know what else to say. The venom in her voice when she’d sent that poor little guy flying down the hall, clashed with her current declaration of sadness. Besides, Tucker had made it clear. Tonight, Tate had to act the part of a clever Chippendale escort, and he had to do it with style and finesse. No grunting was allowed.
That was the problem with working for the FBI’s newly established Psychic Unit. Why on earth Tate found himself working there baffled him. He’d been more than content working for Alex, the owner of the best covert surveillance team on the East Coast as far as Tate was concerned. He’d liked the guys and gals on The TEAM, every last one of them. Them, he understood. The assignments too. But the FBI?
Not so much. From the moment he’d moved into that concrete monstrosity at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Ninth Street in D.C., he’d been the odd man out. A misfit. A squared-off chunk of dirty glacial ice stuck in a crystal martini glass with two cozy olives, a pickled onion, and a prick. Ky and his wife, Eden, being the olives; Isaiah Zaroyin, the onion; and his new boss, Tucker Chase, the prick. Un-frickin’-believable.
Director Chase could make a wild bear think twice about attacking, and in the middle of combat, that was an admirable trait. But for a boss in charge of national security? No way. Alex had more class in his pinkie than Chase had in his hefty, testosterone-stoked body. The men were polar opposites, a legend and a wannabe, and damn it, Tate didn’t want to deal with the political drama that came along with setting up this latest federal entity. He wanted out in the field, preferably far away from D.C. At least, a lot farther than Silver Spring and Mama Bear Parrish.
But since the day Eden Winchester insisted Tate had psychic ability, there he was. The truth was that he wasn’t psychic. Gullible was more like it, or he’d never have considered Chase’s proposition to join the FBI. If anything, Tate had, what was it called, an affinity for reading animals? That was all.
It wasn’t like he could read their minds or anything, and he certainly couldn’t predict the future like Isaiah Zaroyin seemed able to do. But Tate did have to admit that he understood animals better than people. He liked working with Ky and Eden, so, yeah. Like a good troop, he’d dutifully accepted the reassignment to FBI-land. That was the day Chase got all teary-eyed when he’d nicknamed the psychic unit Deuces Wild after his kid. Whatever.
“Your boss pays you well for doing stuff like this?” Mrs. Parrish asked, her head cocked, her eyes wide and innocent looking. “You know, escorting sick kids to zoos and stuff?”
Tate stifled a grunt, the first of the evening. “He pays me enough.”
She hugged that fluffy polar bear tighter, squeezing the fluff out of it. “Like how much?”
He looked her in the eye. “Enough.”
“So what are you? Indian? Mexican? From South America?”
The nerve of this woman. “American,” he answered. She didn’t need to know his mother was Inuit, his father Caucasian. If ethnicity was a game changer, she should’ve stated her preferences on the waiver she’d signed.
“You want me to pluck your brows while you wait?”
He honestly had to look twice at that rude question—through said bushy eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“No offense, but I’m an aesthetician, and I’m trained to know what people need to make them more aesthetically appealing. Those brows of yours are good enough for a caveman, but it’s hard to see your sexy brown eyes and…” She fluttered her fingers at him before she sighed and focused on her nails. “Never mind. Just trying to make conversation, but let me know if you’re interested before you leave, okay? I can give you a full treatment down at my spa, and trust me. I’ll take good care of you.”
I’ll just bet you will. This woman was blatantly trolling for a man, but Tate was not that guy. He went back to looking at his shoes. Whoever the guy was who’d dreamed up patent leather for men was an ass. Tate thought he looked like a spit-and-polished mannequin on display.
“How long do you think you’ll be? Out tonight, I mean. ’Til midnight? Later?” Was that hope in her voice?
Tate shook his head. “No, ma’am. I’ll have her home by ten.” Not a minute later.
“Are you serious?” Her brows lifted like McDonald’s golden arches when she glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. “That’s no date.” Sarcasm whipped out of her. “T
hat’s not even enough time for a decent prom. Don’t you know anything about girls?”
Apparently not. Tate swallowed hard. Most mothers wanted their young ladies in early, didn’t they? They were overly protective and downright bossy, weren’t they? He took another stab at it. “Eleven?”
The stuffed toy fell on its back to the carpet. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Agent Higgins, how about two a.m.? Can you count that high? Or three? Don’t you know a prom is all about firsts, not curfews? It’s about magic and dreams and…” She rolled her eyes and shook her head as if she were talking to an idiot. Which, in a way, she was. “Damn it. The later you keep her out, the more free time I’ll have. I could cruise down to Land’s End for a drink and be back before Winslow knows I’m gone. Come on, man up. Give the girl what she wants. It’s her one and only prom.”
He balked. Magic? Dreams? First whats? This was him, remember, the guy who didn’t like people to begin with, and chatting up women he didn’t know even less. Dinner and a dance or two was enough time wasted on a blind date in his book. Forget the dreams. He was not Prince Charming. What the hell’s keeping Cinderella-What’s-Her-Name?
“Come on, big guy.” Joyce reverted to a coy shrug of her shoulder. “You’d do that for me, wouldn’t you? Moms need a night out once in a while too. What would it hurt? No one has to know.”
Interesting. This woman gave off all the signals of a feline on the prowl, not the worried, over-protective mother of a terminally ill child. But what did he know? “I’ll see what I can do.”
A dazzling smile broke over her face. “Oh, my boy, you are too good to me. I knew I could talk you into it. Thanks so much!”
Again with the boy. Whatever. He cocked his head toward the hall. Waiting.
“Just remember, if you take her to a nice restaurant, no red meat. Winslow can’t handle anything that takes days for her poor stomach to digest, understood?”
Didn’t that figure? Him, the big game hunter, going out with a vegetarian? This date kept getting better and better. Not. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, where were we?” Joyce turned all cozy once more. “Oh, I know. We were talking money. So I take it you’re into investments and bonds and securities, stuff like that. I saw your ride. A Corvette’s pricey. You must be fairly well off. How can you afford the insurance? What else do you own? Cars, I mean.”
“It’s borrowed.” Which was true. The Corvette belonged to Ky. He’d bought it for his wife, Eden, after the birth of their baby boy, Kyler Lee. It was one of those things married guys did when they were over-the-moon in love with their woman and their life was good. It hadn’t always been that way for Ky. He deserved every bit of what he had now.
Mrs. Parrish crossed her ankles and tucked her high-heeled toes under the rocking chair. She tilted forward, her fingers clutching the arms of that chair and her tanned thighs on display. “Oh, that’s nice. What’s it cost?”
How would I know? “Enough.”
“You’re a sniper, aren’t you? A SEAL?”
Navy SEALs were all the rage on TV and in the movies. Not with Tate. His boss was a SEAL, and possibly the most annoying man he’d ever met. Point made. “USMC,” he offered, then explained, “Marine Corps,” in case she wasn’t military savvy.
Not that she cared as quickly as she switched tracks. “I need a smoke. Would you mind joining me on the patio, so we can keep chatting? I don’t want to smell up my house. It’s not good for Winslow’s lungs. They’ve been compromised for years.”
“I’ll wait.”
She rolled her eyes, smiling in that annoying, beguiling way she had. “Oh, come on. What would it hurt? We’ve got time. The people from Channel Thirteen won’t be here for another half hour.”
That brought his head up. The people from… what the hell?
Damn, she was sly. Still batting her eyes. Going for clever. “You didn’t know? Oh, yessss!” Damned if her ass didn’t wiggle along with her cleavage. How do women do that?
“This whole Dreams-Come-True prom-thing was my idea. I’ll do anything to keep Winslow’s story in the news, and this will put her center stage for a couple days, right where she belongs. Everyone watches Channel Thirteen. She’ll be famous.” All five trick-or-treat fingertips fanned her cleavage. “My baby’s going to be on the eleven o’clock news! Tonight! And who knows? They might get a shot of me in the clip too. Wouldn’t that be something?” She offered another butt wiggle, fluttering her eyelashes. “What do you think? How do I look?”
“Fine,” he mumbled. Just damned fine. Where’s the girl?
The fanning continued. So did the prattle. Tate looked down at his glossy dress shoes and started counting to ten. At five, he loosened his tie as much as he dared without taking it off. That might excite Mama Bear. He rolled his neck, wishing he was fishing. Or hunting. Or scaling some lofty, icy peak where Kodiak bears roamed and annoying women were afraid to go.
At ten, he started on twenty.
Chapter Three
Winslow hugged Pepe under her chin so he could look out her window with her to see the fancy car parked at her curb. “It’s certainly bright enough,” she told him. If that belonged to her blind date, the shiny red Corvette promised a fun ride to the dance she didn’t want to attend.
Pepe offered a wiggle and one quick wet kiss to the end of her nose.
Winslow had rescued him from her mother’s charming insensitivity the minute she’d come back from the tower and climbed in through her bedroom window. Already dressed in the black gossamer nightmare that her mother had dragged home from the thrift store, she was as ready as she was going to be. It was a good thing the prom had been scheduled late in October. This dress would turn a fairy princess—which Winslow was not—into a ghoul.
Setting Pepe on her unmade bed, she pushed her feet into her single forbidden luxury, her brown Valentina UGGs. Ahh. Instant comfort. A woman could get used to them. Second hand? Of course. Scuffed? Absolutely. But Winslow loved the warmth the Shearling cuffs offered. Her mom would complain when she saw them instead of the black, glittery heels, she’d bought, but Winslow’s feet were always cold. She needed something to keep her warm. Besides, their sunbeam treads left pretty designs behind when she walked in the snow.
If it snowed...
If she lived long enough to see another winter. Maryland winters could be unpredictable, but a girl on her first date could hope for a little magic, if only from the weather.
She stuffed the strappy heels her mother would no doubt prefer she stumble around in, back into their box and under her bed. Winslow wanted this one night to be about her, not her mom. She wanted it for herself. If Mom wants to go to the prom, she can wear those torturous shoes herself.
Now for her hair, or lack of it. Just because the guy sitting out in the living room didn’t need to be seen with an anorexic skeletal woman right out of The Nightmare Before Christmas, Winslow sat at her second-hand vanity behind her bedroom door and selected her wig off its styrofoam head. She had two wigs, both cheap, but better than nothing. While one was reddish brown and short, she liked the dark-brown, longer one best. It was closer to her natural color and it highlighted her eyes, for what that was worth, as sunken and darkly shadowed as they were. But guys were supposed to like long hair, and that was what tonight was all about, being liked. For a change...
Peering into the cracked mirror, she studied her reflection. This prom thing was such a mistake. She had nothing to offer any guy. Anyone could see that. No hair. Nearly invisible brows. No matter how hard she pinched her cheeks, they stayed sallow and pale because, well, they were sallow and pale. That was Winslow—sickly and dying.
Why had she ever gone along with this idea? Oh yeah, brain check. Because she hadn’t known about it until good old Mom sprang it on her over a bowl of cold cereal yesterday when she’d finally been able to eat.
She growled at her failure to stand up to her mother yet again, but what did it matter? Life had given her lemons, not health or the strength to fight Mo
mmy Dearest. With what little time she had left, Winslow meant to make as much lemonade as possible.
Black synthetic strands slithered over her bald dome as she secured the wig in place. Just once, she’d like her real hair to grow this long. A sigh escaped, or maybe it was a huff of annoyance. She hadn’t had real hair in months. Her trusty bandana would’ve been more comfortable, but hey. Everything wasn’t about her, was it? This night was about that guy in her living room. He deserved a decent looking date.
And just because that guy didn’t need to feel like Jack Skellington at the prom with a ghostly woman on his arm, Winslow applied a thin line of Maybelline kohl to her eyelids. It almost made her look as if she had lashes like those models in the magazines. Her fingers shook so hard she had to re-do the first attempt at making a proper line, then dab off the excess kohl with a cotton swab. Darn. That climb up the water tower had worn her out. This might be a quick date.
Next she applied black mascara to what was left of her lashes and a dab of pink blush to her dry cheeks. She added clear lip-gloss to her mouth, not tint. No one needed too much fake color. There. The woman in the mirror almost looked normal. Wasn’t that the worst? Almost? As in almost a woman? Almost pretty? Almost alive?
Pepe growled as a vehicle rumbled by, its brakes screeching.
“What’s up?” she asked her most faithful companion, happy for the distraction. “Did you hear something outside, my brave Honey Munchkin? Let’s see who’s here.”
Lifting Pepe back into her arms, Winslow tucked him under her chin and peered past the sheer drapes at her window. Oh, my gosh! Mom wouldn’t do that to me, would she?
But oh, yes. Mommy Dearest most certainly had. Channel Thirteen’s news van had just pulled up to the curb. All the doors opened. Cameramen jumped out. So did that pretty blonde reporter from the eleven o’clock news, Shawna Truborn, along with five other guys. Shawna fluffed her pretty blond hair and marched up the walk while her crew set to work unloading lights and equipment.
Joker Joker (The Deuces Wild Series Book 2) Page 2
