Holding Off for a Hero

by Gail MacMillan

  “Fine.” He did as she instructed. “That dinner smells incredible. I’ve been living mostly on stuff from the freezer…nuking it up when I come in at night. This will be a treat. Thanks for inviting me.” Struck by a shaft of pride, he smiled. Here was Frasier MacKenzie, detached gentleman, at his best. Now if he could just maintain the ruse for the next couple of hours…

  “Well, then, I’m glad you decided to join the Bruise and me.” She cast him one of those room-brightening smiles. The detachment in which he’d been confident seconds before melted like ice in a microwave. “I made us a pitcher of martinis. There’s time for a drink before all these goodies—” she gestured toward to the laden stovetop— “reach their peak.”

  “Sounds good.” One drink and only one drink. He could manage one drink. Her father’s homemade wine was probably as lethal as brook water. He had to stay safe from Emma Prescott getting him tipsy this time.

  ****

  “That was delicious.” Frasier leaned back on his chair and touched a napkin to his lips. “Best meal I’ve had in months.”

  “I’m glad. We’ll have to do this more often.” She arose and began to clear the table. “I love to cook, but there’s not much point, living alone. Maybe we could pool our groceries…each pay half, and I’ll cook, you clean up.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “Oh, okay.” She paused at the sink and turned back to him. “It’s still too early for that kind of arrangement. I tend to be impulsive. We’ll just leave things as they are…for now.” She rinsed a plate and turned back to him. “Why don’t you sit by the fire and finish your wine while I make coffee and slice the pumpkin pie.”

  “What about my cleaning up?” Feeling lazy and lethargic, he got to his feet. Too much food after a long, hard day in the outdoors. And her father’s wine was really good.

  “Didn’t we just decide to put that idea on hold?” She threw a smile back over her shoulder as she set up the coffee to brew. “Go, sit by the fire. You’ve had a full day. I heard you leaving at the crack of dawn. Don’t you ever take a day off?”

  “I will when the project’s completed.” He stifled a yawn as he sat down in front of the crackling flames. The evening had grown frosty. He’d lighted the fire while she carved the turkey. The room, with two replete, contented dogs sleeping at his feet, had a comfortable, homey feeling. He missed this kind of life. His eyelids drooped…

  ****

  “Frasier.” Her voice drew him out of the depths of sleep. He blinked and looked up at her.

  “Sorry.” He pulled himself upright as he tried to clear the fuzz from his mind. “Long day, great food…”

  “No need to apologize, but it is getting late, and you did say you’ve planned an early start in the morning. I’ve wrapped up your pie so you can take it with you.”

  “Thanks.” He got to his feet and swayed. How much wine had he had? He remembered three glasses. “Come on, Scout. We’ve overstayed our welcome.”

  “Definitely not.” She smiled up at him. “But we’re both working people, and tomorrow is a work day.”

  “Yeah, right, a work day.” He made his groggy way to the door, then turned back to blink at her. “Thanks, Emma Prescott, for a terrific Thanksgiving.”

  “Next time, your place,” she grinned.

  “Yeah, next time, my place,” he muttered and floundered rather than walked out the door, Scout at his heels.

  Vibrant cold air cleared his head on his way back to his cabin. He fitted the key into the lock and paused to draw in a few deep breaths before stepping inside.

  “Man, her dad’s wine packs a wallop,” he told Scout as he snapped on lights and turned up the thermostat. It felt chilly after the warmth of Emma’s hearth and home. “That’s the second time she’s fouled me up with liquor. It won’t happen again.”

  Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. His mother’s words suddenly echoed in his head.

  While he piled paper, kindling, and wood into his fireplace, another thought struck him. Maybe it hadn’t been just the wine. Maybe she’d put something in it…like maybe she had the last time she’d given him a drink. But why? He threw a match into the materials on the hearth and watched while they burst into flame.

  Damn it, Frasier MacKenzie, do you seriously think Emma Prescott drugged you, then planned to come over here and rummage through your stuff? Man, you’re getting way too paranoid. Anyhow, the door was locked.

  “Come on, Scout. Let’s hit the hay.” He set the firescreen in place and headed for the bedroom. “I’m getting a little crazy.”

  When he stepped into his bedroom, he stopped. The window was open, curtains fluttering in the breeze. No wonder the cabin was chilly. Annoyed, he strode across the room and shut it with a bang. Fortunately the Professor hadn’t been around to witness the botches he’d made that evening. Tomorrow he’d pull up his socks, figuratively speaking. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled his literal ones off. No more letting a pretty face, a great body, and a bewitching personality romance him into making a total mess of the job he’d come up here to do.

  A few minutes later the soft strains of “Tequila Sunrise” wafted from her open window. Frasier MacKenzie moaned, rolled sideways into his bed, pulled the covers around him, and fell asleep.

  ****

  The next day, after patrolling from dawn until 9:00 a.m., Frasier headed into Carleton. He needed to talk to Roc Hard. He figured morning would be the best time to catch the exotic dancer resting up either at the male strip club or wherever he lived.

  The strip club fronted on a side road that was little more than an alley between Main Street and a quiet area of town where schools, churches, and the hospital were located. Frasier knocked on the locked door several times before it was opened by a brassy blonde, her California-girl coloring betrayed by the multiple wrinkles of too many tanning sessions.

  “What?” she snapped, clutching an electric blue robe about her thickening body. Her eyes were bloodshot and sported deep purple bags.

  “I’m looking for a guy who calls himself Roc Hard.”

  “What’s the problem?” Her eyes scanned him from head to toe. “Your old lady got the hots for him and you’ve come to scare him off?”

  “Nothing like that.” Frasier pulled out his wallet and extracted a couple of crisp twenties. “He danced at my girl friend’s stagette last week, up at Loon Lake. He told her he saw two guys running away from her cabin as he was leaving. Her ex has been giving us nothing but grief. If it was him and one of his buddies…” Frasier crumpled the bills in his fist and slammed it into the palm of his other hand.

  “I get the picture.” She eyed the bunched-up money. “Come in. Nigel’s apartment is upstairs.”

  She held the door open, and Frasier followed her into a big room with chairs piled on tables. A catwalk ran from a stage at the far end down its entire length. A bar filled a side wall. The odor of stale booze and heavy perfume made Frasier’s nose cringe.

  At the top of a flight of stairs carpeted with a dirty runner, the woman paused and pointed. “Number three, love. You may have to knock more than once. He was out on a gig till near dawn. He’ll be dead asleep.” She snatched the twenties from Frasier, tucked them into the top of her robe, and, with a sly smile, left him alone.

  “Nice lady,” he muttered, heading for the door marked with a tarnished brass numeral three.

  He knocked once, twice, three times before a disgruntled male voice responded.

  “Keep your britches on, mate. I’m comin’.”

  The man Frasier had seen at Emma’s cabin on the night of the party opened the door. He looked different this morning from the well-groomed guy in the black, Zorro-type outfit. His long hair was a greasy tangle and he had dark circles under his eyes as he faced Frasier and pulled on a shabby navy robe over his nakedness.

  “What is it, chum?” he squinted out at him. “If it’s about your old lady gettin’ the hots for me, don’t worry. I never mess with custo
mers.”

  “Nothing like that. I’m curious about two guys my girl friend said you saw hanging around her cabin up at Loon Lake.”

  “Ah, Emma’s place.” He moved aside. “Come in, mate. Emma’s one terrific lady. I don’t blame you for being a tad jealous.”

  Frasier stepped into a shabby apartment where living room, bedroom, and kitchen were one. Beer cans and empty take-out containers littered the table and floor. A bed in one corner held a tangle of sheets and a rumpled duvet. A single bare window looked out on a brick wall.

  “Give me a minute to think.” He crossed the room to where a coffeepot rested on a warmer. “Need a caffeine jolt to get going after a show like last night’s. Some of those ladies, man, you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I’d believe.” Frasier pulled a wry face. “Used to be a performer myself.”

  “Do tell. Never would have pegged you as a dancer. Where’d you perform?”

  “All over. I was a rock musician.”

  “Ah, groupies and the like. Pretty wild stuff.”

  “Yeah, pretty wild. Now about those guys you saw at Emma’s.”

  “Sure, sure.” He poured two cups of black coffee and handed one to Frasier. “Big guys, six feet or better. Broad shoulders, one of ’em sporting a bit of a belly. Aside from that…” He shrugged. “They were dressed all in black and wearing ski masks. Sorry I can’t give you more. I like Emma. Only met her a couple of times, mind you, but she impressed me as a very fine lady. You’re one lucky bloke.” He raised his cup in a salute.

  “Yeah.” Frasier took a drink of his coffee. His taste buds cringed, and he placed the cup on the cluttered table and headed for the door. Thanks…Nigel.”

  “No problem. If you need a hand to keep those bums from bothering Emma, I’m your man.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Everyone, even male strippers, loved Emma, he thought as he made his way back downstairs and across the shadowy club room. He stepped out into the bright sunshine half blinded after the darkness inside. And bumped squarely into Emma.

  “Frasier, what are you doing here?” she gasped. The group of women accompanying her stopped to stare.

  “Ah…nothing.” He felt heat flooding up his neck. He wasn’t prepared to tell the real story in front of a group of females he didn’t know, some of whom might well have been at Emma’s party and would be horrified to learn about peeping toms.

  “You?” He tried to turn the focus on her.

  “It’s lunch break. We use this shortcut to get to the sandwich shop on Main Street. But you still haven’t…”

  He caught her by an arm and drew her away from the gawking group. “Can we talk about this tonight?” he hissed.

  “I guess.” She looked up at him. “Frasier, has this got something to do with those men Nigel saw running away from my cabin?”

  “Nigel? Nigel? You know his real name?”

  “Yes, of course. You don’t think I’d hire someone I didn’t know…”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “At the sandwich shop. He eats there too. Frasier, are you jealous?”

  “Yeah, right.” He forced a guffaw.

  “Emma, are you coming?” one of the women called. “We only have a half hour.”

  “See you tonight,” she said and turned to leave. Green eyes twinkling, she swung back, rose on tiptoes, and planted a kiss squarely on his lips.

  “‘Bye,” she breathed and trotted off to rejoin her friends.

  “Wow, Emma, is that the hermit at Loon Lake? He’s a hottie!” he heard one of them remark as they started toward Main Street.

  “Shhh!” Emma admonished, glancing back at him, a familiar wicked grin curling her lips and brightening her eyes. “He’s got an ego the size of an elephant. Don’t feed it.”

  ****

  “Okay, explain.”

  Frasier opened his cabin door at 5:30 p.m. that evening to face a disgruntled-looking Emma.

  “I don’t run around checking up on you, so what gives you the right to pry into my business?”

  “You’re referring to my visit to the strip club?”

  “What else?” She brushed past him, head held high, the Pug at her heels looking equally indignant.

  “I thought I should check out exactly what Mr. Shaky Stones saw after your party.” He watched as she threw her purse onto the couch and plunked herself down.

  This wasn’t going to be easy.

  “Oh? And just exactly what did you discover? That it was a couple of my jealous ex’s stalking me? Or could it have been someone from my nefarious criminal past?”

  “Do you have a couple of jealous ex’s or a criminal past?”

  “Neither is any of your business!” Green eyes flashed emerald sparks up at him. “Since you have no interest in me, you have no right to an explanation, and I’ll thank you to exercise your nosiness elsewhere!”

  “I was just trying to make sure that you—that we both—are safe.” He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “I have equipment that belongs to the university, including that SUV and the ATV. I can’t risk having it stolen or vandalized. Sorry if I overstepped any boundaries.”

  She stared up at him for a few seconds, then heaved a sigh and stood.

  “No, I’m sorry. I see your point. I’ve had a lousy day, but that’s no excuse to take it out on you. A student overdosed on some concoction a drug dealer sold her, and she nearly died in my arms before the paramedics got there. But that’s not your fault.”

  As she moved to pass him on her way out, he caught her gently by an arm.

  “No, I’m sorry. I understand how you must be feeling.”

  She looked up him, her eyes widening.

  “Frasier, did you lose someone to drugs?”

  “Haven’t most people? Drugs are becoming an epidemic in this area.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” The compassion in her eyes and expression almost made him crack, almost made him tell her his story. Scout bumped his knee, and he came out of it.

  “It was just a general comment. Now you’d better head home. The Pug looks hungry.”

  ****

  The following morning Frasier stood on the sidewalk outside the Department of Natural Resources office and heaved a deep sigh. He’d just received the dressing down of his career. Six weeks into the project and, according to the Professor, he hadn’t made any significant progress. He hadn’t even managed to get rid of that pesky woman. Furthermore, if he didn’t soon find some evidence to support continuing his work, he’d be recalled, the job handed over to someone else.

  He looked up and down the street, then jogged across to where his SUV stood parked on the opposite side. What to do, what to do. He swung into the driver’s seat and sat thinking. Up the street, kids spilled out of the high school. Lunch time. Emma would be on a break. Maybe if he talked halfway straight with her, told her the presence of her and her dog was detrimental to his project… It was worth a try.

  He got out of his vehicle and strode down the street and into the high school.

  “Will you tell me where I might find Emma Prescott?” he asked the pretty blonde standing behind the counter in the main office. A shorter, stouter, older, darker woman stood beside her. “I’m Frasier MacKenzie, her neighbor up at Loon Lake.”

  “Oh…Frasier.” The blonde blinked at him. “Emma mentioned you. You’ll find her in her office. Take the first left on your way up the corridor. Her door is the third on the right.”

  “Thanks.” He flashed her a smile and left. Outside the door he noticed his shoelace was untied and knelt to fix it.

  “Wow! Emma knows how to pick her neighbors.”

  A grin twitched up the corners of his mouth as he overheard the blonde’s voice.

  “Emma’s picked more than her fair share of men, if you ask me,” another female voice responded sarcastically. The chubby, dark woman, he assumed.

  “Come on, Mildred, that’s not fair,” the blonde sai
d. “Emma’s a beautiful woman, with a terrific personality. Guys are attracted to her like lint to a black suit. We should all be so lucky.”

  “Umph! Well, I hope this one understands that no matter how gorgeous he is, he’s only seasonal. By winter she’ll have someone else, believe me. Our Emma’s got to hold the record when it comes to smashing hearts. It’s like all her men come with an expiry date.”

  Frasier straightened slowly. So Emma had had a lot of guys. He should have suspected. He remembered the words in the background check the Professor had provided: “No serious sexual relationships, no present partner or significant other.” Initially that statement had made him feel good for a reason he refused to acknowledge. Now it haunted him as he walked down the hall, took a left, and began counting. He should have known she wasn’t the innocently seductive creature she appeared. Absolute unassuming turn-ons like that didn’t exist, not these days.

  He paused outside the third door on the right. Through the glass upper half he saw Emma, her back to him, handing a roll of money to a stocky young man dressed in jeans and a black sleeveless T-shirt. His muscular arms were tattooed, he sported an earring, and his head was shaved.

  Emma’s companion spotted Frasier over her shoulder, grabbed the roll of bills, and shoved it into the pocket of his scruffy jeans. With a jerk of his head, he indicated the man stopped outside.

  Emma turned, for a moment looked startled, then hurried to open the door for him, delight brightening her face.

  “Frasier! What a surprise. Come in. I’d like you meet Jesse Jones.”

  “Jesse.” Frasier stepped into the cramped office with its scarred oak desk, uncurtained windows, and overflowing metal file cabinets and extended his hand.

  The younger man hesitated, looking Frasier up and down critically. “You Miss Prescott’s old man?” he asked, chewing slowly on a wad of gum.

  “Just a friend.”

  “Yeah, right. Cool.” He ignored Frasier’s proffered hand, cracked his gum, and with a final, insolent glance at the older man, sauntered out of the room.

  “Don’t forget, Jesse. Get the very best legitimate deal you can on that equipment,” Emma went to the door to call after him. “We worked hard to raise that money. Remember I’ll need receipts.”