by Irene Hannon
No such luck.
"That's an incredibly generous gesture:" Her eyes softened in admiration, and the pleasing, warm glow that radiated through Nick was similar to the feeling he got when he sold a house to a deserving young family. But stronger. Much stronger.
Clearing his throat, he shrugged, unsure how to respond to her praise. "It's a nice hobby. Sawing and hammering are a great way to relieve job stress. I get as much out of it as anyone."
"I suspect the young families who benefit would disagree."
Rachel leaned back in her chair and scrutinized him. He could almost hear the wheels whirring in her brain and braced for whatever she might come up with next. Despite his initial doubts during her visit to the FBI office last week, there was nothing wrong with this woman's mental capacity.
"I'm thinking your childhood was either idyllic and you want to create that same experience for others, or it was far from ideal and you want to support young parents who are trying to make a good life for their children"
Nor was there anything wrong with her insight or deductive reasoning. Plus, she was considerate. She'd commented, not queried, lobbing the conversational ball into his court. He could deflect it-or keep it in play. She'd left the decision up to him.
As Nick debated his strategy, he suddenly thought of the countless prayers he'd uttered asking the Lord to let a special woman grace his life. Maybe Rachel Sutton was destined to be that woman.
If he took the next step.
In his gut, Nick sensed he was at a crossroads. In the past, whenever a woman he was dating started to probe about his past, he'd retreated. His evasive maneuvers had become instinctive, and they were on the verge of kicking in now. But if he chose that route, he sensed he'd be closing the door with Rachel. Because no woman would consider linking her future to a man who shut her out. Whose pride kept him from revealing mistakes as well as triumphs. Who was afraid to trust her with the secrets of his heart.
Not that he was ready to lay out his whole sordid history. It was too soon for that. Yet Rachel had shared much of her past with him tonight, talking openly about her mother, the traumatic accident that had left her with a permanent limp, her rejection by adoptive parents, her foster upbringing. And she'd answered his questions about faith-a very personal subject-with candor.
All he'd offered her in return was a single enigmatic comment about an influential cop and one tiny insight into his rehab projects.
It wasn't enough to sustain an evening, let alone lay the groundwork for future evenings.
As the silence between them lengthened, Rachel flashed him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and placed her empty salad plate on top of her dinner plate. "I hope you left room for dessert-unhealthy though it is. But I have to say that's the cleanest plate I've ever seen:"
She stood, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder as he started to rise. "It doesn't take two to put on the coffee and cut the cake. Why don't we have dessert in the living room by the fire?" She reached for his plate but froze when he placed his hand on hers.
"My childhood was the latter, Rachel. Far from ideal:" He stared at the empty plate in front of him as he spoke.
"I'm sorry, Nick" Empathy softened her words.
"I don't talk about it much"
"I don't talk a lot about my past, either. It brings back memories I'd prefer to forget. Especially the medical stuff. But all the things that happened to me thirty-plus years ago are what made me who I am. To understand me, my friends need to know some of that history. I share on a selective basis"
Her meaning wasn't lost on Nick. Touched, he tipped his head up to search her face. She flushed under his scrutiny; an endearing trait, one he valued for its rarity. And for what it implied.
"If you're still interested in my cop story, I'll tell you some of it over dessert"
Her lips lifted into a smile. Genuine this time. "I'd like that. Make yourself comfortable and I'll be back in a minute"
Nick wandered into the living room to the fireplace. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, trying to decide how much he wanted to share. But Rachel didn't give him a chance to ponder that question, reappearing so fast Nick wondered if she'd rushed the dessert preparations out of fear that if she left him alone too long, he'd change his mind.
And she wasn't far off the mark. His feet had already grown cold despite the warm, cheery fire mere steps away.
As she transferred the coffee and cake from the tray to the top of the trunk in silence, the irony of his situation wasn't lost on him. Last summer, when Mark had been using his house as a hotel, he'd given his friend a hard time about not acting on his feelings for Emily. He'd encouraged him to dive into the emotional stuff and be open about how he felt. To count his blessings that someone like Emily had come into his life. He even remembered boasting to Mark that he paid attention to feelings and wasn't afraid to talk about them, and suggesting Mark follow his example.
Now he was learning firsthand how difficult it could be to apply those principles.
"I brought cream and sugar. Do you use either?"
At Rachel's comment, Nick left the fireplace and joined her on the couch, keeping a safe distance between them. "No. Black is fine:"
"Strong and straight. How come I knew that?" She smiled at him as she added two teaspoons of sugar to her own mug, plus a generous portion of cream.
"The same way you pegged me as a one-inch-thick-steak kind of guy?"
She wrinkled her nose. "Touche. That faux pas should have taught me never to jump to conclusions or make sweeping generalizations based on stereotypes" She took a sip of her coffee and set the mug on a coaster. Picking up her cake, she sent him a speculative look. "Having second thoughts about sharing the cop story?"
Nick picked up his mug. Nothing got past this woman. She seemed as tuned in to vibes from people as she was from a certain Raggedy Ann doll.
In truth, though, he was way past second thoughts. Third or fourth would be more accurate. But he'd already promised to share a piece of his history. Taking a fortifying sip of the coffee, he wrapped his fingers around the mug and held on.
"For the cop story to make sense, I have to back up a little. It seems you and I have something in common besides jumping to conclusions based on stereotypes. I was a foster child too"
"This is a night for surprises. That's quite a coincidence"
"I agree. Anyway, I entered the system when I was six:"
"Why?"
His grip on the mug tightened. "My mother died when I was five, and my father was ... had issues. The state eventually took me away from him, and I spent the rest of my childhood in a succession of foster homes"
"No one adopted you?"
"No. I didn't have physical problems, like you did, but I wasn't the most loveable kid. I had attitude and behavior issues that turned people off. Those worsened as I got older. During my freshman year in high school, I was picked up for truancy way too often. Plus, I got in with a bad crowd that was into petty theft, minor drugs, vandalism. There's no doubt in my mind that if I'd stayed on that path much longer, I'd have ended up dead down the road. Or behind bars"
"What happened?"
"Dan Foley. A new Detroit truant officer, gung ho and aggressive, who was determined to salvage as many kids as he could. For some reason he took a special interest in me. No one had ever done that before" The last word came out raspy, and he took a swig of his coffee, blindsided by a sudden, choking rush of emotion. He took a second swig as Rachel waited in her corner of the couch, her legs pulled up under her.
"Would you like a refill?"
At her soft question, he nodded. "Yeah. Thanks" He could use a couple of minutes to regain his composure.
By the time she topped off his mug and resettled into her corner, he was ready to continue.
"At first I brushed Dan off. But he kept showing up. Started talking to me. Taking me to ball games or out for a burger. He even gave me his personal phone number and told me to call anytime. Ev
entually I began to believe his concern was genuine, that I mattered to him"
"He sounds like a remarkable man:"
"He was. I met him the September of my sophomore year, a week shy of my sixteenth birthday, and in November he invited me to his home for Thanksgiving dinner. That gesture, more than anything else, convinced me he really cared. And that he trusted me-which blew my mind. The only condition placed on the invitation was that I had to go to morning services with him, his wife, and his two college-age kids who were home for the holiday. But I figured it was a small price to pay for a homecooked turkey dinner. Anyway, at the risk of sounding overly dramatic, that day changed my life. I found a surrogate family, and I found God:"
Rachel drew a deep breath, her forgotten cake resting on her lap. "That's an amazing story."
Yes, it was. And she didn't know the half of it. He'd left out a lot of the more disturbing details, sure that getting just the bare bones out would be hard enough.
But much to his surprise, it hadn't been as difficult as he'd expected, except for that one brief moment when his self-control faltered. Under Rachel's warm, sympathetic gaze, the words had come without great effort. Instead of feeling as if he were taking a risk by sharing his past, he'd felt safe. It was a new-and oddly freeing-experience.
When the silence lengthened, Rachel leaned forward. "How did you end up in the FBI, Nick?"
That part of his story was easy. "I dumped my so-called friends, buckled down in my studies, and ended up winning a scholarship to college. After I got a degree in law enforcement and criminology, I went straight to the police academy. After seven years as a beat officer, I was accepted at the FBI academy."
"Wow. I bet Dan Foley was proud"
"He would have been:" A melancholy smile whispered at the corners of his mouth. "He died ten years ago, a few months before I joined the FBI. But I have a feeling he knows:" Clearing his throat, he gestured toward her untouched cake and picked up his fork. "You haven't eaten your dessert"
She considered the torte in her lap. "That proves how amazing your story was. There isn't much that can distract me from chocolate."
As they dug into their cake, Nick turned the focus of the conversation back on Rachel, querying her about her music, and laughing over some of her kids-do-the-darnedest-things tales. He insisted on helping with the cleanup, ditching his jacket, loosening his tie, and rolling up his sleeves as he rinsed and stacked the plates, mugs, and silverware in her dishwasher.
"Thanks for pitching in with the dishes, Nick:" Rachel wiped down the counter and dried her hands on a towel.
Somewhere along the way they'd slipped into first names. Nick couldn't pinpoint when it had happened. But it felt natural-and comfortable.
"It was the least I could do after the great meal you provided:" He rolled his sleeves back down and checked his watch. He wouldn't mind hanging around for a while, but the invitation had been for dinner-and dinner was over. He didn't want to overstay his welcome. "I better be going. The snow's piling up" He indicated the kitchen window, where flakes continued to swirl against the glass. "Besides, I've infringed enough on your plans for reading that good book"
Her momentary blank look suggested the book Rachel had mentioned had lost its allure. Her next words confirmed that. "It will keep" She leaned back against the counter, gripping it with both hands. "I had a good time tonight, Nick"
He gave her a slow smile. "I did too. Maybe we can do it again"
"I'd like that:"
Their gazes locked, and Nick had to fight down the temptation to steal a kiss from those tantalizing lips. Although it seemed like a fitting end to their unexpected Valentine dinner, he was uncertain how Rachel would react. And he wasn't about to shoot himself in the foot by coming on too strong to a woman he hoped to see a whole lot more of.
"Let me get my jacket:" With a triumph of will over desire, he returned to the dining room and snagged his suit coat off the back of the chair where he'd draped it. As he slipped his arms into the sleeves, Rachel retrieved his overcoat from the closet by the front door. She handed it to him in silence when he joined her, and he shrugged it on.
"I hope the roads are okay." A slight tremor ran through her words, and her fingers weren't quite steady as she flipped the lock on the door and cracked it open.
It didn't take a psychic to detect her nervousness. And while he saw yearning in her eyes, it was tempered with worry. And uncertainty.
Definitely no kiss tonight.
Instead, he stroked a gentle finger along the elegant curve of her cheekbone-and heard the breath catch in her throat. "Thank you for a memorable Valentine's Day, Rachel. I'll be in touch:"
"I'd like that:" She pulled the door open, admitting a gusty flurry of snowflakes. "Drive safe"
With a wave of acknowledgment, he bent his head into the wind and strode toward his car. Stalks of dead foliage poked above the accumulating snow along the walk, bringing to mind the wilting daisies Rachel had pitched soon after he'd arrived.
Why wasn't there a man in her life who cared enough to send flowers on this special day? She was smart, pretty, wellread. She had a good sense of humor, great instincts, fabulous listening skills. It blew his mind that some guy hadn't snatched her up by now.
How she'd managed to remain single into her thirties was a puzzle he couldn't solve. But he did know one thing.
A woman like Rachel deserved roses on Valentine's Day.
The long-stemmed beauties came on Saturday afternoon, accompanied by a simple "Thank you for a wonderful dinner" note. There was a small postscript at the bottom. "I found a match at the restaurant. I wish all my cases were that easy to solve:'
As Rachel tore off the green tissue and inhaled the pleasing fragrance of the crimson blooms, a smile played at her lips. She hadn't expected Nick to send flowers, but she wasn't surprised he had. He struck her as that kind of guy. A man who paid his debts and always tried to do the right thing. A man of integrity, who was strong enough to admit he didn't have all the answers and wasn't afraid to acknowledge his reliance on God. A man who believed in giving back and helping others. A man who could dominate her thoughts-and dreams.
Her other impressions might be perception, but the last was fact. He'd been doing it since he left her at the door last night, keeping her sleepless into the wee hours of the morning.
Good thing she didn't have any urgent tasks on her agenda today.
Rachel set the vase on the trunk in the living room and fingered a velvet petal, rearranged a spray of baby's breath, adjusted the red satin ribbon.
No one had ever sent her roses.
She tried to temper her rush of pleasure with a dose of reality, cautioning herself that it might be standard procedure for Nick to reciprocate with flowers for favors. But even that caution didn't diminish her pleasure in the gesture. Nor lessen her yearning to know more about him. What he'd told her had merely whetted her appetite. Dozens of questions had sprung to mind last night as he'd given her a condensed version of his history.
What had happened to his mother?
Why had the state taken him away from his father?
What sort of behavior and attitude issues had he grappled with as a child?
How had he found his way to God?
Why wasn't he married?
And those were just the tip of the iceberg.
But Rachel suspected Nick wouldn't be comfortable with most of those topics. She'd watched him struggle with his brief disclosures last night. While she was touched-and gratefulhe'd made the effort, she knew there was much he'd left unsaid. That he'd wrestled with difficult challenges, and that many of his lessons had been learned in the school of hard knocks. Yet he'd turned into a man who chose to fight crime rather than commit it. A man who rescued houses and prayed and sent roses.
She was intrigued. And she wanted details.
Considering his reticence last night, however, in the light of day he might decide to stay far away from the woman who had nudged him beyond his comfort
level. Perhaps the roses were his way of fulfilling his "I'll be in touch" promise.
If she were the praying kind, Rachel would ask God to let the flowers be the beginning, not the end.
But whatever fate held in store, she'd never forget her impromptu Valentine date. It would always serve as a reminder that life can be graced by unexpected pleasures, as Nick had noted in his blessing before the meal. And that it can be changed by seemingly chance events.
Like meeting a caring cop.
Or finding a battered Raggedy Ann doll.
Claudia drummed her manicured nails on the steering wheel and huffed out a frustrated breath as she stared at the building across the street, behind the black iron fence. Her Mondaymorning mission to the FBI office had been a bust. Showing up in person had done zip for her cause. Ellen Levine, the media relations manager, had been cordial but close-mouthed.
Why her editor had suddenly gotten scruples about this article was beyond her. Stacy had approved Mitch's stupid fluff piece on dueling chefs at two rival restaurants. Like that was really going to sell papers. Who cared which guy's toasted ravioli tasted better?
Her article, on the other hand, was both meaty and compelling. She'd done hours of research, unearthing some pretty interesting stuff in the process-including a legendary local psychic from forty years ago who had actually provided assistance to law enforcement. That was her claim in interviews, anyway. And the cops hadn't denied it. But that local angle hadn't been good enough for Stacy. No, her editor wanted a current psychic with proven law enforcement connections to lead off the piece.
And Rachel Sutton was the only one Claudia had been able to find.
Unfortunately, the woman had refused to confirm she'd talked to the FBI.
Too bad she couldn't corral an agent or two, Claudia mused, watching as two tall men in suits exited the building, perhaps heading for lunch. But neither the dark-haired man or the allAmerican guy was likely to talk. FBI agents were well-schooled in how to deal with the media. They'd send her back to Levine.
