MAD DOG AND ANNIE

by Virginia Kantra

  She winced at the provocation in her voice. But Maddox stood very still. Solid. As if she could batter him with her anger and he'd never hit her back.

  "I don't know yet," he said. "Why don't you show me the problem first?"

  She drew a shaky breath. "I have a hole in my…" She still didn't know what to call it.

  He took a step closer. She flinched. He froze. And then he leaned in casually, taking off his sunglasses to look over her shoulder. "Radiator hose."

  "Radiator hose," she repeated, committing it to memory. "Can you—can it be repaired?"

  "I can rig it. But it needs to be replaced. Both of them need to be replaced. The lower one's ready to crack. See?"

  She looked, but it didn't matter. She didn't have the money to replace things on her car. And she had other, more urgent concerns. "I need to pick up Mitchell."

  "Where is he?"

  "Jaycee Park."

  He considered the distance. Considered the hose. "I can probably get you that far."

  "And home?" she asked anxiously.

  He smiled suddenly, a brief, hard smile that caught her under the ribs. "I'll get you home."

  She didn't want him thinking she was nagging for herself. "It's just that Mitchell worries if I'm late."

  "Watching out for mom?"

  She smiled, grateful for his easy acceptance. "Yes."

  Mitchell was protective. More than that, he needed the routines they'd developed to pretend that everything was under control, that everything was all right. Rob used to mock Ann's almost superstitious adherence to their son's bedtime ritual. Her smile twisted. Though if she deviated from Rob's schedule, Rob's agenda, all hell broke loose.

  Maddox lifted an eyebrow. "We'd better get you on your way, then."

  She was embarrassed at being caught out dreaming like the goony girl he'd known in high school. "I … yes. Thank you."

  He strolled back to his car, masculine power compacted into a pair of worn jeans. She looked away. Her face felt warm.

  The sun, she thought. It struck through her thin blouse, rose up from the road in waves. A truck rumbled by on the other side of the road, dragging dust and exhaust in its wake.

  "Here we go."

  Maddox was back, exuding heat and competence. In one hand, he carried a gallon jug of water, and in the other…

  "Duct tape?" she asked. "You carry it with you?"

  "In my trunk, yeah." Straight-faced, he added, "Doesn't everybody?"

  She almost laughed. Didn't, because she was afraid he would take offense. What if he hadn't meant it as a joke? Rob didn't like it when she found him funny. Though she hadn't found much to laugh about in her marriage for a long time.

  "I will from now on," she said instead.

  "Now, there's a picture." But Maddox didn't say it meanly. His voice was warm and amused.

  She watched as he dried the hose with his handkerchief and bound it with the tape.

  "That should hold you for a while," he said, setting down the jug of water. "Ten minutes or so. Don't sit in the carpool line too long."

  "I won't," she promised.

  He wiped his hands on the handkerchief he'd used for the hose. He had big, square hands and thick wrists. His fingernails were short and clean. Not huffed, like Rob's.

  She looked up from his hands to find his hooded gaze on her face. Her blood drummed in her ears.

  "Well." She floundered. She wanted to thank him. She wanted to apologize for throwing him out of her house last night. But her feelings were all mixed up with her therapist's caution not to take responsibility for things that weren't her fault.

  She mustered her courage. "I'm sorry if I was rude last night."

  He roiled his shoulders, shrugging off her apology. "Guess we ticked you off."

  We. Maddox and Rob.

  Rob had said—Rob made it appear—as if Maddox had sought her out to get her to change her story. And that she would not do. Her husband had tried to kill her best friend. She was sickeningly sure of that.

  She was much less certain what Maddox was guilty of.

  He unhooked the thin metal support and slammed the hood. He'd fixed her car. She would only be a little late picking up Mitchell because Maddox had stopped to help.

  She cleared her throat. "I don't blame you for listening to Rob."

  That earned her a dark, hot look. "No?"

  She felt lapped by fire, but she did not drop her gaze. "No. How could I?" She smiled crookedly. "I listened to him myself for years."

  He didn't laugh, didn't answer right away. Slow, his teachers said all those years ago, but Ann knew better. Maddox was deliberate. She'd only seen him lose control once, and the memory still had the power to make her shiver. Now he reached forward, slowly, and deliberately tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. His eyes never left hers. His hand was warm. His callused fingertips trailed up her cheek and along the curve of her ear.

  Her nerve broke.

  "I have to go," she babbled without looking at her watch.

  "Annie—"

  She shook her head. His fingers brushed her neck and fell away. "I can't be late. The camp charges ten dollars for every fifteen minutes past four-thirty. I have to go."

  She sidled around the hood of her car, her heart beating, beating high in her throat like a lark rising in the morning. She fumbled with the door. Her hands were shaking so bad she could barely insert her keys in the ignition.

  Maddox stepped back from the car. She fixed her attention on the temperature gauge, but she could feel him watching her, his gaze heavy and golden as the sun pressing through the windshield.

  She was stupid. So stupid. Hadn't she learned by now that she was only attracted to men who were bad for her?

  Yes, he'd stopped to help her. Yes, he'd fixed her car, his hands knowing on the engine and gentle on her cheek. But by the time she negotiated the end of the car-pool line and found a space to park and ran into the day camp office, the big round clock above the filing cabinet read four-forty-two.

  So she was late after all.

  The blond, ponytailed counselor smiled up from her desk. "Mrs. Cross! I was just about to call your husband."

  Ann's heart squeezed. "Why? Mitchell…?"

  "Is fine," the counselor assured her.

  "Then … I don't understand. Did you expect him to pick Mitchell up?"

  "Oh, no. He explained the first time that he couldn't do that. But he asked us to let him know any time you were late so he could pay the late charges."

  Something was wrong. Rob had flatly refused to pay any part of Mitchell's camp fees. The boy belonged at home, he insisted. Ann belonged at home, taking care of their son. He'd never pay late charges for day care so that Ann could work.

  Unless he had no intention of paying.

  Unless he simply wanted to keep track of the days she was late, so he had evidence of her general unfitness as Mitchell's mother.

  Panic ballooned inside her. She swallowed it.

  "I don't want you to call him," she said as calmly as she could.

  "Well, gee, Mrs. Cross—"

  "I'm responsible for Mitchell's camp bill. I'm responsible for picking him up. And I'll take care of the charges if I'm late. Is that clear?"

  The pretty counselor looked wounded. "Well, sure, Mrs. Cross. I just thought I was doing you, like, a favor."

  Ann fought the urge to apologize. Rob had obviously already charmed this college girl—she couldn't be more than twenty—to his side. Rob got everybody on his side. Ann couldn't afford to forget that.

  "Thank you," she said. "But I don't need any favors." She wrote a check for ten dollars, which she also couldn't afford, to cover the late fee. And then she loaded her hot son into her broken car and nursed both through the drive home.

  * * *

  Ann tucked the phone beneath her ear and reached for a pencil. "How much?" she asked.

  The mechanic told her. Her stomach rolled in dismay. "For both hoses? What if you only replace one?"

>   While the mechanic explained all the reasons why that wouldn't be a good idea, Ann scribbled and nodded and tried to figure what she could do without so that she could afford the repairs to her car. Mitchell drifted into the kitchen, wan with heat.

  "All right," Ann said. "Is that the total? Could you possibly do it tonight?"

  "What's for dinner?" Mitchell asked.

  She held up one finger to hush him. "What about tomorrow? I see. No. No, I'll have to call you back."

  "I'm hungry. What's for dinner?"

  He looked hot. She felt limp. After being at the restaurant all day, she didn't even want to think about cooking. "How about a salad?" she suggested.

  Mitchell pulled a face.

  "Well, let me think about it." She scanned the short listing in the yellow pages, wondering who to call next. Rob had always taken care of the car. Both cars. He couldn't fix them, but he knew people who could.

  Mitchell leaned against the window. "There's a man in our driveway."

  "What?" she asked, distracted.

  "That guy who was here the other night? When dad picked me up? He's in our driveway."

  Ann stomped to the window and, sure enough, there was Maddox Palmer with his head under the hood of her car and a streak of oil on the butt of his jeans.

  Her heart tripped, like she was fifteen again and he'd come cruising by her parents' farm. Only she wasn't fifteen. When she got her heart back under control, she was surprised to discover she wasn't flattered or anxious or grateful that Maddox was in her driveway making free with her car.

  She was… Ann frowned. Well, really, she was pretty darn sure she was angry.

  She cherished it, that lovely little lump of anger, as she marched out her kitchen door and parked herself right by the hood of her car, where he couldn't ignore her.

  "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. She could see what he was doing, but it made her feel good to ask.

  Maddox lifted his head, not smiling, but with a glow at the back of his eyes that could have been appreciation. Or maybe he was laughing at her. "Fixing your car."

  "Why?"

  "Because you're having trouble with it." A corner of his mouth quirked. "Didn't you ever hear you should call a policeman when you're in trouble?"

  She crossed her arms against the temptation of that curving lip. "I called a repairman. My experience is that the police are not all that helpful."

  He narrowed his eyes. "When you were arrested, you mean."

  She meant when Rob hit her, but she chickened out of saying so. "I don't think your father likes me very much," she said instead.

  "Darlin', the chief doesn't like anybody much. Including me. Though I guess you agreeing to testify against Robbo doesn't help."

  His wry tone confused her. "Whose side are you on?" He bent over the engine, presenting her with the long line of his back and that inviting smudge on his hip pocket. "I'm not on anybody's side."

  "But you're here."

  "I'm just doing you a favor."

  I don't need any favors, she'd told Mitchell's camp counselor. But she did. She needed her car repaired.

  "I don't want to owe you."

  "So…" He looked over his shoulder, a gleam in his heavy-lidded eyes that about stopped her breath. "Make me an offer."

  Oh, heavens. She twisted her hands together. "Jimmy's charges fifty dollars for two hoses and a half hour labor."

  He shook his head. "I don't want your money."

  "Dinner," she said suddenly. "You can stay for dinner."

  "Tonight?"

  "Yes."

  "What are you having?" He sounded amused again.

  "Does it matter? Not peanut butter."

  He laughed. "Right. Okay, dinner. That'll be nice."

  "Don't say that."

  "Say what?"

  "Nice. I am the poster child of nice," Ann said flatly. "I am inoffensive to the point of being a doormat."

  He turned and regarded her thoughtfully. "Oh, I don't know," he drawled. "You've been pretty tough on me since I got back."

  She was struck. Cheered. "I have, haven't I?"

  Maddox almost grinned. Damned if he'd known another woman so tickled at the possibility that she might be a bitch. Which she wasn't really, not Annie, with her quick, shy smile and her low, warm voice and her remembering how he was getting tired of peanut butter.

  No, Annie was nice, all right. It was good that she was growing a little backbone. When they were kids, she was too tenderhearted, too afraid of giving offense. Maybe now she'd put up some resistance when some low-life punk high on beer and hormones got her out in his car along the river road and went a little crazy on her, smooth and soft and willing in the darkness…

  Don't go there, boy.

  He cleared his throat. "So, who's been wiping his feet on your back?"

  "Mmm?" she said. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, and for a second he wondered if she was thinking what he was, if she remembered.

  "The doormat thing?" he prompted.

  Her gaze cleared. She looked so appalled he figured she remembered, sure enough, and it wasn't good.

  "I didn't mean… Nobody," she said hastily.

  "My father?"

  "He's just doing his job," Ann said, which was what the chief claimed, but Maddox thought it was generous of her to say under the circumstances.

  He drummed his fingers against the fender of her car. "Rob?"

  She turned white. "I need to start dinner. Thirty minutes?"

  "Running away?"

  She put up her sharp little chin. "Changing the subject. I don't discuss my marriage."

  "Fine. It's not up to me to judge."

  "Since you can't possibly know anything about it, I think that's fair. You haven't exactly kept in touch."

  "Did I have a reason to? As I remember it, you got married pretty damn quick after I left town."

  "Two years," she said quietly.

  "You were eighteen!"

  "Are you telling me now you were waiting for me to grow up? Because I don't believe it. You never wrote. You never even called."

  "You were still in high school."

  "Oh, please. Like that made a difference. You didn't have time for me when we were m high school, either."

  Because he wanted her too much. Because she was fifteen to his eighteen, and it was up to him to keep his head, to protect her. And since he couldn't think straight when she was around, the best he could do was stay away from her, like a recovering drunk avoiding bars.

  "I didn't want to hurt you."

  She gave him a straight look. "I got over it," she said.

  The screen door squealed, and then it was too late to explain he'd meant something different. Ann's son slipped out of the house, shoulders tight and eyes watchful.

  Maddox frowned. He'd seen street kids stand like that waiting for something bad to go down.

  "When's dinner?" the boy asked.

  Ann turned to her son, her eyes crinkling as she smiled. The change made Maddox dizzy, made the blood rush from his head to places it didn't belong.

  "Is that rude or just wanting to know?" she asked.

  The kid's sullen expression melted. "Can it be hungry?"

  "Hungry is acceptable," Ann allowed. "Forty minutes? Mr. Palmer is staying."

  His gaze flicked to Maddox. Maddox didn't blame the kid for feeling doubtful. He was having second thoughts himself. The last thing he needed was to get involved with a witness. The last thing he wanted was to fall for his former teammate's wife.

  But as Ann returned to the house, his eyes tracked her straight, slim back, the shining curve of her hair.

  The kid stayed behind. "Did you hurt her?"

  Maddox narrowed his eyes. "What?"

  Mitchell's face was red, but his eyes were hard and adult. His thin hands closed into fists. "I heard you talking. Before. Did you hurt her?"

  Maddox remembered. I didn't want to hurt you.

  I got over it.

  And the boy had heard.
Hell.

  Trying to buy time, Maddox took a step away from the car and shook out a cigarette. He put it in his mouth. Took it out and looked at it. He wasn't supposed to smoke around the kid.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  "I hurt your mother's feelings," he said. "A long time ago now. Did she tell you we knew each other a long time ago?"

  "She said you rode the same bus."

  "Yeah, we did. We were friends, kind of, even if she was younger than me. And a girl, at that," he drawled, hoping to coax the kid's humor.

  But the boy didn't smile. "Did you hit her?"

  "Hell, no," Maddox snapped, startled.

  He saw the way the kid braced himself, and something inside him went "uh-oh." He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to know. But a cop who didn't learn to pay attention to that small warning voice was just plain stupid. Or dead.

  He tapped the cigarette against the box. "Is that what you thought?" he asked quietly. "That I hit your mom?"

  The kid nodded jerkily, still stiff for a blow.

  The back of Maddox's neck crawled. He heard Rob's rueful, easy confession the day they'd walked the links together: You know I've always had a temper.

  Aw, man. Aw, hell. The carton crumpled in his hand as the reason for Ann's jumpiness clicked. Maddox choked down his anger, forcing words through his suddenly constricted throat.

  "Well, I didn't. I never would. I never will. Okay?"

  The boy met his eyes blankly. Not accepting what he said, Maddox thought, but considering it. It was a start.

  "You figure you were looking out for her, asking me about it." He made it a statement, not a question.

  The kid's head jerked again. Yes. He was obviously terrified. Compassion moved in Maddox, and then respect. Terrified, but determined.

  "Good for you," he said.

  Confusion widened those green eyes. Ann's eyes, in the boy's red face. "Sir?"

  "That was the right thing to do," Maddox said, speaking man to man. "Your mother should be proud of you. You should be proud of yourself."

  "It—I—" the boy stammered.

  "Real proud. You're doing a good job taking care of her." At least the nine-year-old was trying, which was more than Maddox could say for anybody else around Ann. Including, he thought with a spurt of disgust, himself. "You want to give me a hand getting these hoses in?"