A Week from Friday
By
Georgia Bockoven
Contents
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"The perfect cure for a lover's exhaustion…"
Janet held a chocolate chip cookie out to Eric, then laughed as he bit into it ferociously.
"These are good, even if I did make them myself," he murmured, smacking his lips. "But I spy a few errant crumbs…" Bending over., he touched his tongue to the swell of her breasts. Warming to his task he found another crumb, then nudged the blanket aside, searching for more. "We have to be careful they don't wind up in the sheets."
"I agree," Janet breathed, luxuriating in the caresses spreading over her like sunshine. His moist kisses trailed to her navel, and she moaned with desire. "But I don't think baking is your finest talent…"
This one's for Mary Gulden,
one of those rare people
who made everyone she met feel special.
GEORGIA BOCKOVEN
is also the author of these titles in
Temptation
TRACINGS ON A WINDOW
A GIFT OF WILD FLOWERS
First published in Great Britain
in 1986
by Mills & Boon Limited
© Georgia Bockoven 1986
ISBN 0 263 75570 3
1
"You want me to do what?" Janet Franklin twisted sideways in an effort to move faster down the crowded hallway. Her friend, Casey Ellington, hurried after her, clutching an armful of books to her chest.
"Please, Janet!" Casey wailed. "I've been working on this guy for months."
"Why can't you go out with him tomorrow night? Then you could steal the car yourself tonight." Out of the corner of her eye, Janet saw an indignant look flash across Casey's round face as her four-foot-eleven-inch friend bulldozed her way through the crowd that had started to separate them.
"I don't steal cars," Casey hissed, coming up to Janet's elbow. "I repossess them. There's a big difference."
"To you, maybe, but I doubt that's how the guys who think they own the cars feel."
Casey sighed dramatically. "And here I thought you would jump at the chance to make two hundred dollars."
Janet pulled Casey over to the wall to get out of the flowing crush of people. Her eyes narrowed. "Two hundred dollars? For repossessing one car?" That was enough money to pay for next semester's books with a little left over. When Casey nodded, Janet felt herself weakening. "Tell me what I would have to do."
"Thanks, Janet. I knew you wouldn't let me down."
"Wait a minute, I haven't said I'd do it yet." But Casey ignored her disclaimer.
"Meet me in the cafeteria at the student union after class, and I'll fill you in on all the details." Before Janet could say anything more, Casey started back the way she had come, quickly disappearing into the crowd.
Janet gazed down the hallway a few seconds longer before climbing the stairs to her biology class. As usual, she was the last to arrive. She threaded her way through the room to her table and gave her lab partner. Earthquake, a thankful smile for getting there early enough to set up the equipment they would be using that day. While a little on the strange side, with his Mohawk haircut and a message for the day written on either side of his shaved scalp, Earthquake had a brilliant scientific mind and was a godsend to Janet, who had only marginal talent for science and, moreover, invariably gagged through every dissection.
Two years ago, Earthquake had come west to Stanford from an exclusive New England prep school. His transformation from preppy to punk had occurred shortly after his arrival in California—much to the consternation of his straight-arrow parents. His colorful name—which his parents steadfastly refused to acknowledge—had been adopted in celebration of his new life-style.
Despite the years and social mores that separated them, Janet and Earthquake had developed a friendship that was based on a genuine liking for each other. She patiently tolerated his jabs about her being twenty-seven and—when she struggled with a new concept— about her being handicapped by mental infirmities, and he begrudgingly put up with her smugness when she consistently scored higher on tests than he did.
Sitting down on the next stool, she slipped her books underneath the table and reached into her purse to pull out a rubber band. With a few deft movements, she quickly had her shoulder-length black hair gathered into a ponytail and out of her way. Her blue eyes sparkling mischievously, she turned to Earthquake and took his chin in her hand. "Turn sideways," she commanded. "I want to read today's pithy pronouncement. I need an omen to tell me what to do about a job I'm considering."
He dutifully turned his head. "Sorry," he said with an air of disdain. "Today's message is for dreamers. If you want your tea leaves read, check the cafeteria. There may be someone lurking around who can help you." For the first time she noticed that he had dyed his normally platinum stripe of hair to look like a rainbow. Above his ear, in black ink, he had written, Somewhere Over, with an arrow pointing up.
Janet grimaced as she shook her head. "Not one of your better efforts." She studied his hair, bending forward to get a closer look. "How did you get all those colors on there so evenly?"
"Trade secret."
She laughed. "Oh? And whose trade might that be?"
"Get with it, Janet." He reached over to give her ponytail a playful tug. "Even Macy's has a punk department nowadays."
"First Macy's and then the world? Is that the plan?"
His indignant answer was cut off in midsentence when the professor entered the room.
Janet took possession of the last empty table in the cafeteria, scattering her books across the top and placing her hand peremptorily on the single extra chair. She glanced at her watch—eleven forty-five. She had less than an hour to go to the library and to drive home. If Casey didn't come soon, she was going to have to repossess the car herself.
"There you are."
Janet swung around to see her friend coming toward her, carrying a trayful of food. She frowned. "Casey, I can't—"
"It's my treat."
"That wasn't what I was going to say…" But it could have been. Janet's tight budget was common knowledge among her friends. She had never tried, or seen any reason, to pretend that things were any better financially than they were. Even with a major portion of her tuition covered by grants and with the rest paid for by loans, supporting herself and an ancient Volkswagen required an incredible ongoing monetary juggling routine.
"I know, I know… you have to be home by one o'clock so you can baby-sit Carol's kid. That still gives you time enough to eat something."
"But—"
"But nothing. You eat; I'll talk." Casey purposely eyed Janet, covering her from head to toe with a sweeping glance. "Even with all those clothes on, I can tell you've lost weight again. It's elegant to be tall and thin, Jan, but your bones shouldn't rattle when you walk."
"Thanks a lot. How am I supposed to feel after this pep talk? Up? Down? Encouraged that I have a friend who cares…or depressed because I'm not long for this world?"
"It was just a casual observation; don't get in a huff." She took a salad, a sandwich and milk off the tray and handed them to Janet.
"We have to make this fast, Casey. I told Carol I would try to get home a little early today." She opened the milk and stuck in a straw. "First tell me something about this outfit you're working for. Then we'll get on to whether I'm actually going to steal that car for you tonight."
Shaking her head, Casey let out a long sigh. "You're sure making a
big deal out of a simple favor." When it became obvious Janet was not going to ease off on her demands, Casey went on. "Louie is a subcontractor to over half of the banks in San Francisco—which means that whenever someone defaults on a car loan, the banks call Louie. For years he handled all the work himself, but when the economy took a downturn and half the world stopped paying on their loans, he had to hire help. He prefers using women for repossessions because he thinks they aren't as likely as a man to arouse suspicion if they fumble around a little trying to get into a car."
Janet swallowed a bite of her ham and cheese sandwich. "I don't know about this, Casey. It sounds dangerous. What happens if the guy who owns the car catches you?"
"That's the best part about working for Louie. He studies the habits of the owners before he ever sends anyone out. For instance, the car you're to take tonight belongs to a guy who goes jogging around the Presidio three times a week. All you have to do is be there when he takes off, and you have at least half an hour to work."
"How—"
"With these." She pulled a ring of keys from her purse.
Janet's eyes widened. "There must be a hundred keys—"
"It's not as bad as it looks. I've never had to go through more than twenty before I found the right one."
"Okay, let's say I get the car. What then?"
"You drive to the corner of Market and Second Street; Louie takes it from there. You can catch either a bus or a cab back to your own car and head home two hundred dollars richer."
It sounded easy. So why the strange feeling in the pit of her stomach? "Casey, are you absolutely sure this is on the up and up?"
Her friend looked wounded. "Do you think I would be involved in anything that wasn't?"
"You've done some crazy things—"
"I've done crazy things? You throw pretty big rocks for someone who lives in such a great big glass house. When was the last time you saw me dressed up like a gorilla… or a chicken? Have I ever caught pneumonia standing around in a fog wearing a skimpy swimming suit, trying to pass out hors d'oeuvres to yachtsmen who had sense enough to stay home? Have you ever—"
"That's enough… you've made your point." A year and a half earlier, Janet's ongoing effort to make ends meet had led her to the Anything Goes Agency. It was an ideal job for someone in her position—flexible hours, good pay and terrific tips. Granted, she had done some strange things to earn her money—everything from dressing up as a clown and delivering balloons to a man painting the Golden Gate Bridge, to demonstrating a "revolutionary" new vegetable peeler at a trade show in the Cow Palace. But working for the agency was ideally suited to her needs, as was the limousine chauffeuring job. She still held both jobs.
Casey sat back in her chair, a triumphant smile reaching her large brown eyes and making them dance. "You'll do the job, right?"
"I suppose…" The money was just too good to pass up. She'd deal with the lingering doubts later.
"I owe you one, Jan. This could be the most important date of my life—I think I'm falling in love."
Janet mentally groaned as she looked at her beaming friend. Casey was forever falling in love. She took the napkin from her lap, folded it and put it back on the tray. Could she ever have been that young and naive? Of course she had. Why else would she be where she was now—divorced, broke and, at twenty-seven years old, only a sophomore in college?
By the time Janet reached the Presidio at six-thirty that night, a dense fog had worked its way into the old parklike military base. She was early, having planned for a rush hour traffic jam that never occurred. Beyond her field of vision, she heard the sounds of the last of the commuter's cars as they headed for the Golden Gate Bridge and home. The freeway and a few hundred yards of shoreline were all that separated the parking lot where she waited from San Francisco Bay. Behind her, on the shoreline, were pine and eucalyptus trees and rolling grasslands.
Unlike most military bases, the fifteen-hundred-acre Presidio was open to civilian traffic. Founded the year the colonies declared independence from England, the base was now more important historically than functionally.
Janet had always loved coming to this incongruously peaceful place of forest and wildlife nestled within California's second largest city. She didn't mind waiting. It had been so long since she'd spent any time at the Presidio that she found she was actually looking forward to the quarter-mile walk to the lower parking lot, where she was to wait for the navy-blue Shelby Cobra to arrive. Because she hadn't any idea what a Cobra looked like, she had stopped by the library to peruse several classic-car magazines. After studying a few of the pictures, she decided she didn't much care for the low-slung two-seater. If the choice had been hers, she would have spent the money on a new Mercedes sports car.
After another self-indulgent ten minutes, which she spent absorbing the beauty of her muted surroundings and remembering the bicycle trips she had made through the area with Robert when they were married, she reached for the book lying on the bucket seat beside her. Sometime before seven-thirty the next morning, she had to read Measure for Measure and prepare herself to intelligently discuss the double entendres Shakespeare had used throughout the play. Stifling a yawn, she opened the book.
It soon became obvious that she would get little studying done. Between glancing at her watch and then lingeringly at the fog-shrouded woods, she had read less than five pages in fifteen minutes. Snapping the book shut with a satisfying thud, she opened the Volkswagen's creaking door and stepped outside. How marvelous the air smelled—the distinctive eucalyptus mixed with the sea and with a touch of pine and moist earth.
But the mist was cold, and she was soon hugging herself to ward off the chill. Hoping to appear inconspicuous, she had worn a gray utilitarian sweat suit, and it was suddenly feeling like a skimpy layer of nylon. She pulled the hood up and tied the strings so that it fit snugly around her face before she took off over the hill.
Tall wet grass brushed against her legs and cushioned her footsteps as she passed through the swirling mists. To make sure the Cobra's owner didn't spot her watching him, she had originally planned to do her observing at a safe distance from the parking lot. But the fog had grown so thick that she was forced to find a hiding place behind a pine tree that was less than ten yards from where she'd been told he always parked his car.
She didn't have long to wait. Twin tunnels of light swung around the curve and moved in her direction. Her heart lurched when the light caught and reflected off the minute particles of water suspended around her, and she flattened herself against the pine and felt its rough bark dig into her cheek.
What was she doing here? If she wasn't the sneak thief she tried to tell herself she wasn't, then why did she feel like one? She took several deep calming breaths, reminding herself as she did so that what she was doing was not only legal, it was moral. If someone would not willingly return what no longer belonged to them, then it was certainly proper to see that the rightful owner regained possession.
What a load of horse manure. What if the poor guy had been stricken with a debilitating disease that had made him lose his job, and his car was his only means of transportation to and from the doctor? Or what if he had lost everything else he owned when the law office he had set up in a ghetto went under? What if— The lights went out. Slowly she moved her head until one eye peeked around the tree trunk. When she saw her intended victim in the dim light of the street lamp, she caught her lip between her teeth.
He was so big. If something went wrong and he caught her trying to steal his car, she wouldn't stand a chance. She thought about the simple karate moves Earthquake had insisted on teaching her last month before they had gone into a seedy neighborhood to pass out antinuclear pamphlets. She rolled her eyes in disgust. The moves just might work all right—if she could get her attacker to stand perfectly still while she set up the takedown. Then again, if he should decide not to cooperate, there was always the chance that he might counter her efforts with a carefully thought-out flick of his w
rist and send her sailing across the bay to Oakland.
The man walked past the front of the car and put his foot on a wooden railing to begin a series of stretching exercises. Janet tried to make herself smaller. He was so close that she could almost touch him. She knew it was insanity to continue watching, yet she couldn't stop. A spider observing a hornet flying toward its web might feel as she did—frightened, yet mesmerized by the possibilities of the encounter.
Suddenly he straightened and looked around. Janet sucked in her breath. For the briefest instant their eyes met; she saw intelligence and wit in the dark depths of his as he returned her gaze. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears while she waited for him to call out to her, demanding to know why she was spying on him. But there was only silence. She must have imagined something had passed between them.
After several seconds his forehead wrinkled in a frown, and he rubbed the back of his neck before glancing around again. He walked back to the car, dug his keys out of the inside pocket of his sweat suit, locked the door and took off at an easy, loping jog.
Janet stepped around the tree to watch him leave. His stride appeared slightly off balance, as if one of his shoes Were a size too small or he had a cramp in his leg. As soon as the dense fog absorbed him, she moved over to the car. Her hands trembled as she held the large ring of keys in front of her. Arbitrarily she chose one to begin with. It took three tries to connect the chosen key to the keyhole and two jabs to realize it wasn't going to go in no matter how hard she pushed.
She looked down at the silver-colored key she held clamped between her finger and thumb, and the enormity of what she was about to do struck her anew. Was she out of her mind? What had ever induced her to agree to do something so stupid? With growing panic she tried the next key. Now that she was actually in the process of stealing the Incredible Hulk's car, the two hundred dollars no longer seemed such a gigantic amount. She went on to the next key. Never again, she vowed. If Casey should ever so much as hint that she wanted her to steal another car, she was going to run for the nearest exit. A self-deprecatory smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. Who was she trying to kid? All Casey would have to do would be to catch her at the end of the month, when two hundred dollars sounded like two thousand, and she would steal a Mack truck.
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