If I Loved You

by Kress, Alyssa

  Triumph was not what he felt, however. Instead, a shaky nervousness unsettled him.

  He hadn't expected their car chase to change the chemistry. But something had changed up on the street there. Outside their prey's door, full of simple joy, he'd looked into Pattie's eyes and suddenly, unexpectedly...liked her.

  Zane chewed the inside of his cheek as he negotiated the curves in the road. This was not good. Not good at all. He didn't want to like her. Liking her made the whole situation...unacceptable.

  "Oh, shoot," Pattie suddenly said. "I have a totally shattered window waiting at home for me, don't I?"

  Zane grunted in reply. His knee-jerk reflex was to offer to take care of the thing for her.

  God, he was a doormat, ready to drop right into the kind of relationship he'd had with Maeve. Handling every problem, big or small.

  But Pattie didn't appear to expect Zane to jump in and do anything for her. She had her cell phone out and up to her ear. "I'll have to think up some story to tell Michael."

  "Not the truth," Zane warned in alarm.

  Pattie sent him a disgusted look. "Please."

  Zane turned back toward the road. Okay, maybe he wasn't as close to leading this investigation as he'd presumed. Pattie didn't exactly look to him for guidance.

  "Michael?" Pattie had apparently gotten through to her landlord. "A vandal. Yeah. Did you hear it?" She was silent as she listened to the other end, then gave a brief, unhappy laugh. "Right. I know. Repairing it won't be easy. The only guy who knows how to fix these old windows is always booked up. So, do you have any plywood to nail over it while we wait?"

  Michael's voice was loud enough that Zane could hear something about "crazy L.A." and "any idea?" Michael was apparently asking Pattie if she knew who'd wrecked his vintage mullioned window.

  "No idea," Pattie told her landlord. Zane noted she wasn't bad at lying through her teeth. "So, will you nail up the plywood? No, we're not there right now. We stepped out...to calm Tristan down."

  She had a decent explanation for their movements and had only hesitated briefly on an answer, not enough for Michael to notice.

  Again, Zane felt that surge of liking. She was a pistol. No tears, no fuss, just got down to what needed to be done.

  Shit.

  He did not want to like her. In fact, he refused to.

  Very deliberately, Zane turned onto the entry ramp for the San Diego Freeway. Just as deliberately, he turned his memory toward his late marriage.

  As a husband, he'd been indulgent, doing everything he could for Maeve. Maybe that hadn't been exactly healthy, but he hadn't minded because of what he'd thought he was getting in return: trust. He'd enjoyed taking care of Maeve because in his mind that meant she trusted him to be able to do so, to provide and protect. Trust was all Zane had ever wanted from her.

  It wasn't what he'd actually gotten, however. Far from it. Maeve had been furious, red-faced with it, when he'd told her he was quitting his job. He'd seen the truth then. She hadn't trusted Zane; she'd only trusted Zane's paycheck.

  The disillusionment he'd experienced that day had been the most painful thing in his life.

  "Okay, Michael. Understood," Pattie said into her cell phone. "We'll be home in about...twenty minutes."

  Pattie's voice broke into Zane's self-reflection just in time. He noticed the sign for the junction with the Santa Monica Freeway and shifted lanes to sweep onto the ramp.

  Ah, he could already feel his dawning fondness for Pattie diminish. There was nothing like remembering his ex-wife to dampen Zane's enthusiasm for any female.

  He was almost back in control of himself when disaster struck. Tristan suddenly yelped. "Out! Outta the car."

  Pattie wrenched around in her seat to check on him. "What's up, Tristan, bud?"

  Answering the question in his own way, Tristan began to cry. He struggled against his car seat.

  "I think he's had enough of being in the car," Zane explained.

  "Just a little bit longer." Pattie's tone rode between soothing and panicked. "We're almost home."

  "Out! Out!" Tristan cried, louder.

  Driving with a screaming kid in the car was no problem for Zane. He'd had plenty of practice over the years with his sister's children. It was when Pattie undid her seat belt and wriggled around to face Tristan that Zane got into trouble. Her body was a lithe, femininely muscled temptation. Her breasts pressed against the headrest, implying their size and softness. Her rear, a firm and inviting target, poised at eye level.

  Oh, boy. Her squirming position took him from neutral to hot in one second flat. Jeez. He was reacting like a—like a man who'd probably denied himself physical satisfaction for a little too long.

  "Out!" Tristan yelled.

  "Shush, shush. It'll be okay," Pattie begged.

  Okay? Steaming beneath his skin, Zane did his best to project an image of calm. He kept his hands loose on the wheel, his jaw unclenched. Meanwhile, erotic images flooded his poor brain.

  But he was in control here. He refused to relinquish that position. Okay, so maybe he wanted Pattie physically, along with that pesky liking thing. So what? He wasn't going to do anything about either one of those urges.

  He was staying in charge here, in charge of everything. That included the car, Tristan, and Pattie's investigation.

  But most of all, it included himself.

  ~~~

  "What are you doing?" Outside her broken window, Pattie evaded Zane's grab for the hammer she held.

  "Gimme that," he muttered.

  Pattie pulled the tool further from his reach. "I know how to handle a hammer."

  Pattie's landlord, Michael, chuckled as he stood nearby, supporting one end of a piece of plywood. "You're not supposed to admit you know how to hammer a nail, Pattie."

  "You're joking, right?"

  Zane didn't wait for Michael to answer. He snatched the hammer.

  Pattie wasn't about to get in a wrestling match with the guy. For one thing, he'd win. She let go.

  "Fine," she snorted. "Knock yourself out."

  "I have a hammer, too." Cheerful with the construction turn of events, Tristan held up the yellow plastic hammer from his Bob the Builder tool kit.

  Pattie was opening her mouth to warn Tristan he'd better get out of the way, when Zane allowed him to stay, saying, "You nail the wood down at the bottom, Tristan."

  Thrilled, Tristan started pounding away. Meanwhile, the two men positioned the plywood over the window.

  Crossing her arms over her chest, Pattie noted that while Michael grunted to hold his side of the board in place, Zane held his end up easily. It was disgusting that this simple show of physical strength affected her libido in any way, shape, or form. Why? Why had her sex drive, asleep for so long, chosen to wake up now...for Zane? She swiveled and made for the apartment's front door. It was important to exit the scene before she started drooling or something idiotic like that.

  Once inside, Pattie strode for the kitchen. As a calming measure, she reached for her bag of Peets French Roast and spooned a couple measures into the coffeemaker. Scowling, she wondered if Zane's insistence on nailing in her plywood betokened anything regarding his greater ambitions.

  Did he think it was his job to take care of things around here? Bad enough his apparent impression he was now involved in Pattie's search for Savannah's killer.

  Pattie narrowed her eyes at the muttering coffeemaker. How to separate the man from that unwanted notion?

  The carafe was halfway filled when the hammering stopped. Michael appeared at the end of the galley kitchen. He held both hammers. "We're done. Hey, that coffee smells good."

  "Stick around for a few minutes, you can have some." From the living room, Pattie could hear Tristan's high voice answering Zane's low rumble about something. Everyone was back in the house, then.

  Michael smiled but shook his head. "No time. I just wanted to let you know that all is secure. The carpenter won't be able to come until the middle of next week."


  "God."

  "Look, we'll be lucky if he shows up then. These guys are overbooked and independent. Remember how long Rory took to put the stained glass in my bathroom?"

  Pattie grimaced. "He stretched that job out for how many weeks?"

  "Six. But he's the best there is for glass in these old buildings."

  Pattie set her elbow on the counter and put her chin in her hand. "And only the best for your best tenant, right?"

  Michael laughed. "Right. I gotta run now." With a wave, he was gone.

  In the kitchen, Pattie chewed the inside of her cheek. Now that Michael was gone, she had to do something about Zane. She had to convince him she was actually the one in charge around here.

  Pattie was straightening to do just that when she heard the sound of Bob the Builder perk to life in the living room. Zane was making sure Tristan became occupied with the TV.

  Her eyes narrowed. The man was clearly getting ready to have another of his 'talks' with her. Probably thought he was going to lay down the law.

  They'd see about that.

  She drew in a long breath, poured herself a cup of coffee, and was just walking out of the kitchen with it when Zane prowled up.

  "Oh, Mr. Kincaid." She smiled. "Just the person I wanted to talk to. Why don't you come into my office?"

  Her offensive tactic worked like a charm. Zane looked instantly off-balance. "Uh..." he stammered. "Sure."

  "This way." Walking tall, Pattie led the way into her home office. Today she was determined to shift the conversation from her own affairs.

  Right. Why were they always discussing her life and her problems? What about his?

  At her desk, Pattie turned to face Zane. Her smile came naturally as she noted his demeanor was still delightfully off-balance.

  "You want to discuss what happened today, what I plan to do next." By no accident did Pattie use first person singular. She knew Zane caught the implication: he wasn't included.

  Predictably, his brows drew down. "Like I said before, I think we need to find out all we can about this character, plan what sort of confrontation to have—or if we should have a confrontation at all."

  He wanted to back down? Turn tail and hide? But Pattie restrained her reflex to argue with Zane.

  They weren't going to talk about her or her problems.

  "It's funny you should put it that way." She gave a little laugh. "'Cause here I was thinking maybe it's time I found out more about you."

  That set him back. Looking at her, he blinked rapidly several times.

  Before he had a chance to recover, Pattie claimed, "You're no nanny, Mr. Kincaid. Before we get into this any further, I need to know who you really are."

  If he'd looked astonished before, he appeared positively thunderstruck now.

  Amazing. He knew so much about her life, about her messy family situation and Savannah's posthumous scandal, but he thought it shocking she should ask anything about him.

  Pattie braced herself, expecting a fight.

  But Zane didn't oblige her. Instead, abruptly, the starch went out of him. He let out a long breath, puffing his cheeks.

  "Okay." he nodded. "Okay." As she watched, now thunderstruck herself, he lowered onto her client sofa. With another exhalation of air, he lowered his head and ran his hands through his hair. Then he set his elbows on his knees and looked up at her. "You got a point. So, what do you want to know?"

  Pattie stared at him. He was giving in? But—she'd expected a fight. In fact, she wanted one.

  Clearing her throat, she suddenly wondered if it'd been wise to ask about his life. Did she really want to know anything more than she already did about Zane?

  But it was too late to back down now. She put her coffee down, leaned her hips against her desk, and asked the obvious question. "All right, then. What did you do for a living before you became a nanny?"

  He appeared to steel himself. "If you really want to know...I was in charge of designing fighter jets."

  Pattie stared at him. She'd known—she'd just known—he'd been involved in something heavy-duty, but she hadn't imagined anything so...heavy-duty. "You're an aeronautical engineer," she realized. One in charge of the design of fighter jets. With her eyes narrowed, she hissed, "Well, that's nothing to be— Why didn't you just tell me that when I first asked?"

  His direct gaze averted. "I didn't leave my last job under very good...circumstances."

  A scandal? Willing, but completely unable, to believe such a thing, Pattie watched him closely. "Go on."

  Zane heaved a deep sigh. "I was in charge of a unit modifying an existing jet fighter design. But I found out my employer was falsifying our test results, making it look like our design was performing better than it really was."

  "Um...what does that mean?"

  Zane huffed a laugh. "It means we'd get the contract with the Air Force, and then cost the client millions of dollars in change orders. Or else get some pilot into dangerous trouble before the problem got fixed."

  Pattie held her breath. Part of her knew what was coming, and tensed against it.

  Zane looked up at her. "I blew the whistle on them."

  She was too transfixed to breathe. He hadn't been disgraceful or small. He'd been noble and heroic.

  A million tiny insects seemed to wake up and start buzzing inside of her. The damn man had integrity.

  Somehow, she managed to speak. "The Air Force must have given you a medal."

  With an ironic laugh, Zane shook his head. "The bigwigs I contacted at the Air Force couldn't have cared less about the false test results."

  Pattie halted. "They didn't care?"

  Zane shrugged. "Maybe they wanted to believe the test results. More likely, they'd been bribed to look the other way."

  "God."

  "After that, it was a case of turn my head the other way, too, or quit." Zane sent her an odd, sidelong glance. "I quit."

  Pattie frowned. The expression on his face—it almost looked as though he were waiting for her to criticize this decision. "Well...yeah." She'd already guessed as much. He was Zane the hero, wasn't he? "What else were you going to do?"

  His face became even more inscrutable. "There were some who thought I should have stuck it out, gone along with it. Kept my nice paycheck."

  A short laugh escaped Pattie. "Who'd think that?"

  "My wife, for one."

  With the words, they both stopped.

  His wife? thought Pattie, stunned. Meanwhile, Zane looked like he'd stepped on a nail.

  "You're...married?" Pattie croaked, horrified. She'd been getting hot for him. The idea he might already be attached had never crossed her mind.

  "I was married," Zane corrected, and stared at a point beyond her right shoulder.

  "Oh." The relief she felt was pretty weird, considering she didn't want to have the hots for him at all. Meanwhile, the fact that he'd been married...that he'd made a commitment like that— It was unsettling.

  "Well, um..." A thousand questions sprang to Pattie's mind. How long had he been married? How long had he been divorced? What did she look like?

  "Never mind," Zane said brusquely. "I shouldn't have mentioned it. That's all in the past."

  "Oh, yeah." Pattie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. In the past? In what universe was that going to be true? "But it was important for me to know what you did before becoming a nanny," she claimed. And that you were once married. "So it's good we're all clear now."

  As clear as mud. Her brain was still zipping. What had this marriage been like? Had Zane been in love? Somehow, the idea of Zane being in love staggered her.

  On the other hand, his wife hadn't been happy about him quitting his job, despite the fraud going on there. Was that why they'd divorced? The woman to whom he'd committed hadn't liked him doing the right thing?

  Was that it?

  Pattie's stomach felt like it took a wide, sideways swing. If that were the case, then Zane had been mistaken in a woman every bit as much as she'd once been mist
aken in a man.

  She looked at him. He looked back at her. A dangerous intimacy swirled in the air between them.

  "Yes," Zane said softly. "The air is all clear now."

  CHAPTER TEN

  Lonny Domino.

  That was the name that popped up when Zane typed the address he'd memorized from Mulholland into the Google frame on his computer that evening.

  He sat back in his wheeled office chair and narrowed his eyes at the list of websites on which this name was mentioned. A cup of coffee sat on his plain functional desk while behind him the living room arrangement of tan sofa, plank wood coffee table, and widescreen TV lay unusually bereft of his presence.

  It was going to stay bereft. This list of websites told Zane he had an unexpected wealth of information about Lonny Domino, the woman in the turquoise Cadillac who'd thrown a rock through Pattie's dining room window. He wasn't going to be watching baseball tonight.

  A deep satisfaction sifted through him, the first simple emotion he'd experienced all day. Picking up his coffee, Zane delayed clicking on any of the websites and relished the moment.

  For the first time today—for the first time since meeting Pattie Bowen—he was able to enjoy a pure and straightforward triumph. Zane sighed, long and extravagantly.

  Then he leaned forward, set his coffee cup down, and clicked on one of the links. It was a celebrity website. Lonny Domino had been an actress, not a particularly famous one, apparently, but she had a listing on IMDB, the semi-official website for Hollywood data.

  Was movie acting a possible connection between Domino and Savannah Bowen—and through her to Pattie's shattered dining room window?

  Pattie. Her name caused a blip in Zane's hum of satisfaction. The feeling of weirdness that had settled around him since walking out of her office this afternoon swirled once again. He rubbed a hand over his jaw.

  He'd told the woman his whole sad story.