by Jillian Kidd
“Mmmhmm. Rude. Go ahead and sit down. I guess I’ll let you eat with me.”
He pulled out a chair, and I took the seat where DeMarcus had been sitting moments before. Crossing my legs, I looked at the menu and tried to resist the urge to reach over and ruffle his hair. I generally didn’t touch Jackson much, but when I was with him I felt playful. Safe. It was odd, considering we’d only known each other a couple of years and had only gotten together about a dozen times. It felt like I’d known him longer. Still, I felt strange about touching him. Almost as if I’d step over some line I personally didn’t want to cross. Didn’t make much sense, because he and I were buddies, not strangers. Was I concerned that he’d be uncomfortable? Or was I more worried that he wouldn’t be?
Funny, I thought. In all the time we’ve known each other, we haven’t as much as shaken hands. Definitely not a hug. And certainly never a kiss.
A little embarrassed at the sudden inappropriate thoughts, I looked out the window at the stretching carpet of clouds. Why in the world was I thinking about touching and kissing? Jenny must have gotten into my head too much. I could blame her. But in all actuality, this airy flirty feeling was a bit of a breath of fresh air. Before now, all I ever thought about was touching and kissing Damon. Maybe it was a little sign that I was getting over him. Maybe I was getting happier, and my libido was coming back. Jackson just happened to be at the right place at the right moment—could’ve been anyone. Depression lifting at last!
“The shoes are my favorite touch,” he said, pointing to them. He wore black, fingerless gloves. “Nice height, not too flashy, shows off legs more than the actual shoes. Shayne wore some ridiculous stilettos the other night that must’ve been eight inches tall, and the straps went up to her knees. I was more worried about her falling and breaking her ankle than anything else.”
“You know, Jackson, if I didn’t know you, I’d think you were gay with your sense of style and luck with women.”
“Who knows?” He shrugged with a sigh. “I might be. Let me check someone out, give it a little bi-curious thought.”
He stared at a fairly good-looking waiter taking the order of the table next to us. He squinted, really concentrating, then sighed.
“Nope,” he said. “Sorry, not a gay bone in my body.”
“You are a total goofball.” I fixed the loose strap on my dress and smoothed out a wrinkle in the tablecloth. “So you said Shayne? Is she your most recent girlfriend?”
“Mina, I’m hurt. You speak as if I’m some sort of player.”
“You do date a lot of women,” I said.
“Not seriously. And it’s more of them chasing me until I finally give in and go out with them than me pursuing them. Whatever happened to the chase?”
“It’s still there, only reversed. So you went on some dates with this Shayne girl? She’s what, a model?”
“No, actually, a Swedish tennis player this time. Doesn’t really matter, though, because by the end of the same evening she wore those horrible shoes, she was throwing one of them at my head and ‘breaking up’ with me, even though we’d only been out twice. You see, I was so rudely ignoring her when I said hello to some friends we ran into. I had a five minute conversation with them and ‘forgot she existed.’ Shame on me. I should’ve shut out the world and focused on her lopsided implants.”
Trying not to scream with laughter, I covered my mouth and shook my head. It felt good to laugh. I did feel kind of sorry for Jackson; it seemed like every time we met up, it was in the aftermath of another of his messy break-ups.
“I have an idea,” he said, slowly taking off his sunglasses and revealing two sky-blue eyes lined in naturally dark black lashes. They were always such a strikingly stark contrast to his dark hair and tanned skin. “Maybe we could pretend to be together, and then these crazies would leave me alone.”
Was it his pretty—all right, gorgeous—eyes that gave me that funny jolt in my core? Or was it his first mention of dating, albeit jokingly? Either way, I found myself slightly fluttery inside. Boy, I was feeling strange tonight, wasn’t I?
“Then again, Damon might not appreciate it,” he quickly added, then leaned back to peruse his menu. “Heard anything from him?”
“Actually, no,” I said, the flitting butterflies falling lifeless to the pit of my stomach. “We still haven’t talked since that last conversation.”
“Ah, the one with Miss Mystery with the long black hair?”
“That same one.”
“Hmm. Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” His voice had a serious edge to it. “You seemed to be really into him. I was hoping he’d get his act together soon and get home, so you two could reunite and I could finally meet him. Give you both my blessing.”
His voice had a cryptic edge to it. Before I could try and decipher it, his face gave way to another dimpled smile.
“Oh, look here,” he said. “The dumplings. They have the dumplings.” He threw his head back and lifted a hand like a fire-and-brimstone preacher. “Hallelujah, they have the dumplings!”
Thank heavens he’d changed the subject so I didn’t have to.
“What dumplings?” I said, scanning the menu, trying to find what he was talking about.
Before I could locate it, he snatched the menu from my hands and said, “We’re both getting them. It’s the chef’s greatest creation. You’ll die and go to heaven after your first bite. Even just smelling them. Holy crap, just thinking about ordering them is about to make me faint. Waiter!”
He waved over a tall, blond waiter and ordered for both of us. Jackson asked if I wanted anything to drink. He was already nursing a Belgian beer. I requested a glass of wine. I was feeling it tonight. I was in great company, I was coming to terms with Damon’s absence (well, for the most part), and I was one catch away from going Global. Certainly an evening to celebrate.
“Glad I’m not allergic to dumplings,” I muttered. “What if I had wanted something else?”
“No, you will die when you eat these,” he said, flabbergasted. “You will just die. Nothing else on the menu matters.”
“But who will take care of Rogue if I die?”
“Aww,” he said, leaning back with a warm smile. “I would! He could play with Daisy. They could have pups. Little weenie dog family. How is Rogue?”
We’d taken our dogs to the park one afternoon for a walk, and Rogue really took to him and his dachshund. It was almost a pity that we couldn’t do that more often. Rogue didn’t like most other dogs—he tried to roughhouse too much with them. Daisy had proved his equal, and both animals had run themselves silly on their stubby legs, giving Jackson and me a good workout in the process. But it was when the paparazzi started to chase us that we’d gotten exhausted. We’d outrun them and barely escaped in our respective cars. Luckily I’d been wearing a winter cap with my hair hidden inside, and I had sunshades on my face. My blurry picture appeared on Entertainment News TV for a couple of days. Nobody could figure out who I was or how he knew me. The hype petered out when Jackson had started dating Flilipia Gregora, supermodel, about a week later.
“Oh, Rogue’s doing great,” I said. “I got him one of those speakollers, and I can’t figure out if I like it yet. Is Daisy doing all right?”
“Yeah, she’s been staying with Mom while I’m touring around,” he said, waving away that tiny comment about his work.
The waiter placed my glass of wine in front of me, and I sipped on the golden liquid. Very nice. Tangy, but not too tart.
“I understand about having to get dog-sitters,” I said. “I had to leave Rogue with my brother when I got my last catch.”
“Oh? What number are you on now?”
“Twenty-four.”
He gasped. “One away! Look at you, my crime-fighting friend! Are you excited?”
“Very,” I smiled. Fun, the way we fed off of one another’s energy. “Very, very, very.”
We both finished our drinks and ordered another round. We talked about everything under
the sun, from local news to plant care tips to some of the weird dreams we had. When I told him about my recurring Roberto dream, the slight buzz I’d gotten from the wine waned.
“Sounds freaky,” he said, his eyes probing mine. “So you think the guy might still be in town and dangerous?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably not. But I just don’t know.”
“Be careful. I’d hate to lose you.”
Before I could interpret the soft tone in which he said that last statement, DeMarcus appeared and leaned over him, whispering, “Couple girls want your autograph. Want me to get rid of ’em?”
“Oh, nah,” Jackson said, craning his neck to see the fans. “Send them over.” He glanced at me. “If you don’t mind, Mina?”
“Not at all. Go right ahead.”
Two slightly drunk young women (pretty, I noted, with a slightly surprising sense of insecurity) with pens and zebra-striped notebooks in hand offered their paper for their idol to sign. Jackson was gracious, as he always was with fans, and I gave them a moment to talk.
Mentioning the Roberto dream had made me more aware of my surroundings. I hadn’t noticed it before, but there was something odd about the group of men about five tables down from us. There were four of them sitting there, all with shortly buzzed hair, all in suits. They ate their food and nodded as one of them pointed to an electric planner calendar on the table.
But one of the men wasn’t watching the calendar.
He was blankly staring at me.
We met eyes for a second that seemed like forever. An eerie chill went down my spine. Why? I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t seen that man before, had I? It wasn’t Roberto. Neither were any of the men at the table. Perhaps I was being overcautious. Strange, though, to have my nerves shaken like that, especially after I’d had a couple glasses of wine. Maybe he was being flirtatious. Although I casually looked away, pretending to take no major notice of him, I saw out of the corner of my eye that he continued to stare.
A sudden mouthwatering scent of dumplings filled my senses and my stomach audibly growled. Turning my attention to the plates being set before us, I lifted my brows, taking in the aesthetic arrangement of the entre with its dash of green vegetables and swirls of dark sauce.
“Ah, here they are,” Jackson said, smacking his lips. “Dig in, my friend. Smell good?”
I nodded my head. “Oh, yes. If they taste as great as they smell, I might just die indeed.”
I looked back up at the table of men, and the one who had been staring had finally stopped. He cut at his entrée and contributed to a conversation I couldn’t hear. For the time being, I forgot about him and the way that he had stared so blankly in my direction for that unnerving length of time.
If I had been smart, I would have eaten my dinner and found some excuse to leave immediately after.
Unfortunately, I forgot all about him by my third glass of wine.
I never saw the quick flash of his camera as he took a picture of me, smiling and tipsy and laughing at yet another tale of Jackson’s dating nightmares.
It was a mistake I’d end up regretting before the night was through.
11
“At least let me leave the tip,” I said.
Jackson shook his head, pulled a couple bills from his leather wallet, and placed them underneath his practically licked-clean dumpling plate.
“No, let me. I’m old-fashioned,” he said.
“Oh, come on, you aren’t trying to woo me or prove yourself.” I began digging in my purse for some ones. “You paid for dinner. At least let me get the tip.”
“No, Miss Feminist. Just humor me.” He looked up into my eyes. “I’d hate to have to arm-wrestle you in front of all these people.”
I shrugged, leaning back in my chair, my body and spirits warm from the food, his smile, and the wine, which was steadily working its way out of my system now that I had a full stomach. The sky had gone dark, and stars twinkled as the Sky Café made its prompt 11:00 p.m. descent.
The sphere vibrated slightly as it reattached to Reunion Tower. The colorful lights of downtown Dallas filled the massive windows, the cars on the highways moving like glittery arteries through the heart of the city.
Slowly the people of the restaurant filtered out, taking turns filling up the elevator. DeMarcus didn’t spare a lot of time before he cleared the way for Jackson and me. The bodyguard and the hostess kept everyone else away. Only the three of us would be allowed on this particular elevator trip.
“Get ready, buddy,” DeMarcus said. “I think word got out.”
“What fun,” Jackson casually said.
As the light feeling of vertigo trickled up my body with our fast downward movement, I studied Jackson. He lived a dangerous life, too, always being on the lookout for crazy fans that might want to chop off a piece of his hair or curse at him for not performing their favorite song at a concert, or fans’ boyfriends decking him out of jealousy.
He leaned against the glass wall with arms crossed and sunglasses perched on his head, looking very much like a confident star on top of the world.
I felt a sudden pull, an odd desire to take his hand and just see what it felt like.
He turned to me, lowering his sunshades down over his eyes, and smiled. The elevator door opened, and DeMarcus stepped out first. Almost as if they’d been psychic, the flash of cameras snapped and DeMarcus’s booming voice ordered the couple of paparazzi men to kindly put them away, that they’d get the opportunity for a short interview as long as there were no pictures taken until the end.
“Get out of here,” DeMarcus muttered to me. “Unless you want your picture snapped.”
With his body still in the way, it was almost as if there was a wall separating me from the people on the other side. He kept his hand on the slot where the elevator door tried to slide shut several times but failed. He and one of the cameramen were in the middle of striking a monetary deal when Jackson leaned over me, with his hand pressed flat against the wall above my shoulder.
There it was all at once: the heat of his nearness, the slight masculine scent of his body with a hint of Old Spice. My friend was tip-toeing on a dangerous line, and we both knew it.
“You should come to my concert next week,” he said softly, a gentle purr. “Give me a chance.”
Give me a chance.
Those words carried so many different connotations that I felt dizzy. Or was it his sky-blue eyes, and the way they tempted me in a fresh new way as they stared into me above the top of his dark lenses? As quickly as the feeling came, I suppressed it back down into the deepest depths of me. I couldn’t think things like this about Jackson. It was only a spark of lust, and if I acted on it, a chain reaction of things could happen.
For instance, Jackson could only be playing around, and then I’d feel stupid.
If I was picking up the right vibe, however, and we crossed that line, things could get complicated. We could end up breaking up and stop being friends. Also, if we dated openly, I could be thrown into the public eye, thus hurting my fairly secret identity as a bounty hunter.
Not to mention Damon could come back.
Evict. Evict.
“I think DeMarcus is ready for you,” I said.
Jackson hesitated, glancing down at my lips, then back up into my eyes. My heart vibrated in a wave of adrenaline. Then he pushed away from the wall and thanked me again for dinner.
“You’ve got a free seat at my concert,” he said. “Anytime.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now’s your chance to sneak out.”
He gave DeMarcus’s shoulder a slight push, and the big man’s arm dropped, letting the star into the small crowd of people. Digital voice recorders were shoved in his face, and all focus was on him as DeMarcus provided just enough shield for me to get away. My heels clopped against the floor as I walked in quick strides, trying to shake the nonsense that I’d just felt when Jackson had been so close to touching me.
Stup
id, really. It was something that couldn’t and shouldn’t work, at least not like that. Jackson was a fun time. If Damon wasn’t going to fill that void in my heart, even though I’d thought he was the one, then I’d need someone like Damon. Another bounty hunter, someone who understood my work, someone older and more serious and—
A man in a suit opened the door for me, and I stepped outside, brushing past him so closely that I caught a whiff of his strong pine-scented cologne. He had a jagged scar on the bridge of his nose that looked as if it might have been from a bite. It took me a second to recognize him: He was the man who had stared at me in the restaurant.
Crap.
I let myself continue my stride for a few more paces, and then when I heard laughter at the hotel’s door, I turned around as if to see who might be making the commotion.
But what I really wanted to see was if I was being followed.
And sure enough I was—by Mr. Stare and one of his damned suit-wearing cohorts.
Great, I thought. Your little lust game in your head got you stupid, Mina, and that is yet another reason not to think about dating while you’re so close to going Global. Now you’ve got someone following you. That’s never good.
The cement ground was covered in recent light rain, the musty smell of it in the air.
I had my laser gun, but for now I didn’t want them to think I was dangerous. Better to play the damsel in distress (or in my case, ignorance), than let them know I was packing. They’d have their guard way down if they thought I wasn’t a threat.
I stalled for a moment, leaning against a streetlamp to fix my shoe that really had nothing wrong with it. I slid my fingers under the strap and dusted off imaginary grime from the toe.
My best bet was to turn around and go back inside. If I stayed around people, I’d have a better chance of escaping these guys. Just who were they, and why were they after me? Did they mistake me for someone else? Were they some secret form of the paparazzi set on beating information out of me about Jackson and then taking some nude pictures just for the heck of it?
A female security guard stood post in her box at the entrance of the parking lot where my Honda sat waiting for me. It would be a very bad idea for me to get into my car. My pursuers would then be able to track me down to my home via my license plate, and I didn’t need that headache. Smiling at the security guard, I flashed my plastic parking ticket. She nodded to me. As I passed her box, the cheering and laughing of some TV sitcom roared on a mini screen inside.
