by Laura Moore
Around his left forearm was a fire-engine red cast, in his right hand a Sharpie pen. “Hiya, Owen, you wanna sign my cast? Tomorrow I’m gonna have all my friends at school sign it, too.”
With the exception of the red cast and the white gauze bandage, Max was so much like his usual self that it caused a thick glob of emotion to lodge in Owen’s throat, making a reply impossible.
Max didn’t seem bothered by his silence. He was already offering him the Sharpie. “Here, Owen. Mommy brought a really good pen.”
Owen put his paintbrush in the tray.
Uncapping the pen, he caught a movement by the doorway. He knew without having to verify that Jordan was watching them.
He swallowed hard. “Where?”
“Right here,” Max said, as his stubby finger pointed. “Put your name next to Mommy and Katie’s. Wiv couldn’t write hers because she’s too little. So she made this.”
Of course Olivia’s “signature” would look like a jagged lightning bolt.
With the care Owen took to sign his name, he could have been drafting the elevation of a house for an architecture competition. Silently he handed the pen back to a beaming Max.
“Thanks, Owen.” Spinning around he ran to Jordan. “Look, Mommy.”
Jordan knelt to inspect his arm. “That’s very nice, Max. Now remember what else you wanted to say to Owen?”
“Oh, yeah,” he replied, nodding. A rare solemnity stole over him as he walked back to Owen’s side. The big breath he took made his small shoulder rise. “I was very naughty ’cause I didn’t wait to climb your tree with you, Owen. I promise I’ll wait next time.” Then he was racing back to Jordan.
“Did I say it right?”
“Yes, that was very good, Max. Now we need to get home, so Tito, Felix, and Andy can sign your cast, too. Say good-bye to Owen.”
“Are you gonna come over to my house later, Owen?”
He opened his mouth but Jordan was already answering for him. “No, honey, not today. Owen’s very busy.”
“Oh. Okay.”
And then, thank God, they were gone, because this time the lump in his throat was coated with the acid of remorse.
If that had been all Owen had to deal with, the last ten days would have been hellish enough, but then there was Jordan. Nothing compared to the torture of seeing her and not touching her.
How could she be so calm?
How could she even consider going on a date with Tim Mitchell?
It threw him to discover that Jordan was ready to date while he was going home every night to an empty apartment, unwilling to pick up the phone because no other woman held the slightest interest for him. Adding insult to injury, it was only by chance that he learned of Jordan’s new social life.
He’d sought her out, coming in from the horse barn to ask her a question that he could have had answered simply by picking up his cell. But he’d needed to see her. He found her with Doug in one of the bedrooms. She was standing on a ladder, holding a level while Doug installed wood brackets for the window curtains.
She turned to give him an annoyingly chipper “hi” before returning her attention to Doug.
“So Jesse and I have finished the first stall. Do you think Travis can come by after work tonight and check it out?” he asked, trying not to stare at her silhouette outlined against the morning sun, or note how her breasts lifted enticingly as she held the level to the wall. It was as if his hands were cupped beneath them to bring their lush softness to his mouth. He swallowed hard.
“Tonight? I’m not sure tonight will work out. He and Margot are babysitting.”
“Babysitting? Whose baby?” He was imagining peeling her simple white T-shirt off and feasting on those breasts. They’d be warm and soft and when he lowered his face to them, they’d smell of her and baby powder. God, he missed her. It seemed like forever since he’d held her close.
“Doug, you need to raise your end just a hair. Yes, that’s it. My babies.” She cast him a quick smile as she finally answered him.
“Oh. I thought Richard would be taking them this weekend.” Would she realize he’d memorized the kids’ scheduled weekends with their father, or would she think it was a lucky guess?
The thought would never have occurred to him that she wouldn’t even notice his slip.
“That’s right. But Richard and Cynthia had a business dinner tonight so he’s coming tomorrow. The children will have a shortened visit.”
“So you’re going out?” he asked, coming full circle to what was really preoccupying him.
“Yes,” she said, still smiling.
Here was another distraction: her smiling good cheer. At the very least she should be aloof. He’d even understand if she went all snippy and gave him the evil eye. To be honest, he wanted her to scream and yell and call him a jerk and an SOB because then maybe he could banish the suspicion that he’d been merely a recovery fling for her.
A suspicion which mushroomed like an atomic blast when she added, “Tim Mitchell’s taking me to the Coach House for dinner.”
“Mitchell?”
“Uh-huh,” she said nodding. “But I know Travis would love to see the stall and let you know whether anything needs correcting. Why don’t I ask if he’s free on Monday so you don’t have to drive in from Alexandria over the weekend?”
“Fine.” He forced the word out.
“The Coach House? That’s the scraped brick place on Elm, with the flower boxes, right?” Doug asked.
“Yes, that’s it,” Jordan said, switching her attention back to Doug.
“Is it good?” Doug asked while he made a mark with his pencil for where the bracket would go. Finished, he climbed down his ladder and grabbed his power drill.
Jordan nodded. “Very nice. The rooms are lovely and the new chef does great things with local produce. Their corn bread is brought steaming hot to the table. When you bring Annie to show off the house, you should take her there, Doug.”
“Maybe I will.”
Owen left the bedroom. He really didn’t want to hear about how great a date restaurant the Coach House was. He’d already known Tim Mitchell was out to win Jordan, but he hadn’t thought he’d make a play for her this soon. Just thinking of what his next move would be had Owen searching for something to hammer.
When he saw her next he was still fuming over the wrongness of Jordan being involved with Tim. She was in the dining room hanging curtains from the rods that Doug had installed there.
She’d kicked off her sandals, and damned if her bare feet on the newly refinished parquet floor didn’t make him weak-kneed with lust. The prospect of Tim Mitchell caressing those dainty toes and delicate arches was intolerable.
“I’m glad you came in, Owen. I wanted to ask your opinion. I’m thinking of putting a mahogany china cabinet against that wall.” She pointed to a color photograph propped against the wall. “I wrote down the dimensions on the back.”
He walked over and picked up the photograph. “A Phyfe reproduction?”
She nodded. “That’s right.”
“Nice piece.”
“I think so, too. I found this cabinetmaker in Pennsylvania who specializes in antique reproductions. I thought the cupboard’s proportions and lines would work well in here, but maybe it makes too much of a statement.”
“I like it.” Damn it, Tim Mitchell wouldn’t know Duncan Phyfe from Dunkin’ Donuts. Okay, so he might know about horses, but there was a great deal more to Jordan than breeding horses. What was she thinking?
“Good,” she said, looking pleased.
“Those curtains look great.”
“Don’t they? I splurged big time. The fabric’s by Manuel Canovas. But the pattern and color looked so wonderful in this room, I couldn’t resist.”
“So you’re not really serious about Tim Mitchell.” There, he’d said it.
Busy fiddling with the hang of the curtains, she didn’t even glance at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Principally because
he’s all wrong for you and because he’s a bit of a bore to boot.”
His observation didn’t appear to faze her. “Mmm,” she said. “That’s what I thought at first, too. But Tim’s been coming over a lot lately to bond with Cascade. I’ve discovered he’s got an off-beat sense of humor that kind of sneaks up on you.”
His gut churned. He hadn’t realized Mitchell had been going to Rosewood over this last week and a half. And he’d obviously been bonding with more than the colt.
“I just think you can do better than Mitchell.”
“That’s very sweet of you,” she said with an amused smile. “I confess I’m surprised you care at all who I’m dating, Owen, since you’ll be leaving Warburg soon. I have to make a life for myself here. Tim’s kind and successful and he’s not afraid of emotional commitments.” The very gentleness of her comment made him feel lower than a heel. She glanced at her watch. “I have to go. Max has his appointment at the doctor’s.”
“For his stitches?” Max had been so proud of the fact that he was the only kid in his class who’d had both stitches and a broken arm.
She nodded. “We’re going to the Shake Shack afterward for a treat. They have pedal go-carts.”
“He’ll like that.” He could picture Max’s smile of glee behind the wheel of the kiddie cart.
“It’s not a pony, which is what he’s really angling for, but Tim has a lead on a nice Welsh Shetland cross so maybe I’ll be able to surprise Max with one when school’s out.”
“But his cast won’t be off.” Mitchell would become Max’s new hero.
“Dr. Barrett says that since Max is still riding on the longe line, it shouldn’t pose a real risk. It turns out his daughter rides, too,” she said as if that was explanation enough. She came over and plucked the photograph from his numb fingers, slipping her feet into her sandals as she did. “I’ll phone Pierce Fowler about the china cabinet. He said he could deliver it by midweek, in plenty of time for the Open House. I’ll see you Monday.” And with another guileless smile, she left.
That’s why he didn’t call it quits after a long, hot afternoon installing the kitchen appliances and the granite counters in the butler’s pantry with Doug and Jesse, staying on to paint the mudroom off the kitchen. It was also why he agreed to meet Jesse later at the bar he’d discovered. Going to a bar didn’t even make the top ten of Owen’s wish list, but tossing back a couple of drinks in a local dive was infinitely preferable to obsessing about Jordan and Tim’s date, or imagining what they might do after their meal at the Coach House. He just bet Mitchell would try to convince her to come home with him.
It was past nine by the time he’d cleaned his brushes and rollers and made a stab at cleaning himself, too. Following Jesse’s directions, he pulled into The Den half an hour later. The lot was crowded with cars, foreign makes parked alongside beat-up trucks and sport wagons; Jesse had clearly stumbled onto something.
Exactly what remained to be seen.
It was easy to see why Jesse had said The Den was not exactly in keeping with Warburg’s comfortable WASPy style. The place looked like a shack. A big shack. Flashing colored-neon beer signs illuminated the windows, and the front of the building had Christmas lights nailed to it in what could only be described as a drunken manner. The music was loud and pounding. Owen was surprised the bar’s siding was still attached.
It was a far cry from the hushed candlelit atmosphere of the Coach House, he thought grimly.
Owen only hoped the decibel-blasting beat would drive Jordan from his mind.
He stepped inside. Ten years ago the air in a joint like this would have been bluish-gray, the cigarette smoke thick enough to cut with a knife. The obscurity might have been preferable. On raised platforms positioned around the cavernous space, women writhed and gyrated as though every last one of them was auditioning as a pole dancer. Owen instantly understood the attraction of The Den for Jesse, who, as bad luck would have it, had seen Owen enter and was waving him over. It wouldn’t do to hurt Jesse’s feelings by turning around and walking out, but he slashed the number of drinks he intended to have to one before getting the hell out of there.
“Some scene, huh?” Jesse shouted happily.
“Yeah. I wouldn’t have thought Warburg had a strip joint.”
“Nah, it’s a dance contest. But maybe if we’re real enthusiastic, the ladies will lose their clothes.” Jesse grinned.
He doubted the women would need much encouragement. “This round’s on me. Where the hell’s the bar?” he asked, looking around.
“Over there.” Jesse pointed.
It was then Owen realized that what he’d at first taken for a long catwalk platform was actually the bar. An understandable mistake since it was supporting more gyrating bodies. The crowd around the dancers was whooping and hollering.
Had he grown prematurely old? he wondered as he shouldered his way to the bar. No, he had nothing against a female doing a sizzling hot erotic grind on a countertop. He simply wanted the female to be Jordan. And he wanted a private show. For his eyes only. These women did nothing for him. They seemed ridiculously young—girls, really.
It was impossible to spot the bartender through the thicket of legs strutting up and down the length of the bar. As he came nearer, one pair of legs bent so their owner could bring her bright pink, skin-tight tank top down to eye level and the guys could ogle her push-up bra as they catcalled and whooped their appreciation. Owen’s gaze was probably the only one that traveled farther north, to see vivid green eyes framed by short, bleached blond hair.
Oh, shit.
If there was a bright side to his discovery, it was that Jade seemed as horrified as he. Her face went white then bright red with embarrassment. He saw the second she decided to brazen it out. Assuming a haughty expression, she looked past him. Her gaze on the beer-drunk, lust-addled men leering up at her, she twisted and shimmied her very fine underage body to the music’s beat.
Jade was deluded if she thought he’d let her get away with pretending he was invisible. He grabbed her wrist as it swung past him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Jade?”
She made a futile attempt to shake him loose. “Let go. You’re not supposed to touch the dancers. Go away. I’m in the quarterfinals. I have a bet with Blair that I can make it to the final round.”
“What’s the prize? Honorable mention in the police blotter? For Christ’s sake, you’re seven—”
“Pipe down, will you? Are you trying to get me in trouble?” She was wiggling her hips in her half-crouch as she spoke so it looked like she and Owen were doing a weird version of the Lindy Hop.
“Why try when you do such a superb job yourself? Come on, get down from there, right now.”
“No way.” Again Jade tried to free her arm. “Blair and the others will think I’m a total wuss if I back out now.”
“Hey, bud, let the girlie dance.” A guy reeking of beer suggested in a not-too-friendly tone. “She’s the one I’m rooting for.”
“Sorry, her dancing days are over. Great fan club you’ve got, kid.”
Jade blushed but continued wiggling her hips. Her admirer started clapping, but was either too stupid or too drunk—probably both—to follow the beat.
Owen tried again. “Jesus, Jade, do you have any idea what you’re risking?”
Beer-brain laid a meaty hand on Owen’s shoulder, jerking him around. “I don’t think you heard me right.” His face was a deep red. “I told you to let the girlie dance. I want to see her shake those titties.”
From behind, Owen heard Jade retort, “I am not a ‘girlie’!”—the first bright thing she’d uttered. Unfortunately he couldn’t follow up on that remark and point out that in that case maybe she should get the hell down from the bar’s counter because Beer-brain’s other hand was balled into a massive fist, its destination his face.
Owen ducked, then came up with a right hook into the guy’s jaw, the shock of which felt like he’d tried to slug a bri
ck wall. It had about as much effect, for the guy merely stumbled back a step and shook his head, raising both fists. Then Owen knew he was about to feel a whole lot worse.
The next punches landed. He saw stars and tasted blood and heard shrieks. But he wasn’t going to let Jordan’s little sister get into more trouble, so a brawl seemed the only solution—not that he had much choice. The guy obviously liked pummeling the bejesus out of people. The only advantage Owen had was that he hadn’t been drinking all night or, if the size of this guy’s gut was any indicator, every night for the past ten years. It allowed him to dodge a number of blows and land a couple of decent ones. When one of them made the guy stumble backward into a now-empty barstool and lose his balance, landing on his rear in a heaving sprawl, and when he didn’t seem inclined to rise to his feet to resume the fight, Owen could have wept tears of joy.
Instead he hung his head, trying to catch his breath.
“Owen! What the hell?” Jesse’s voice was filled astonished concern.
He straightened and winced as his body registered what a good job the guy had done hammering it. “One of the dancers is Jordan’s kid sister. And I mean kid.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Exactly.” He nodded, even that small move painful. “We’ve got to get her out of here before the cops come.” Jade, finally showing some brains, had jumped off the bar. He spotted her standing off to the side, looking miserable and sullen.
“Uhh, too late for that.”
So that was the noise: sirens. The police had responded awfully fast. Too fast, he realized. They had to get Jade out now. “There’s a side exit.” Then, giving Jade a hard look, he said, “Come on.”
Unfortunately, a police officer was waiting on the other side of the door. Under the bright floodlight, the officer’s sharp gaze zeroed in on Owen’s face, which, from the feel of it, was already swollen, then on Jade’s skimpy top and tight, fashionably ripped jeans.
He moved in front of them. “Evening. I’m Officer Cooper.”
Beside Owen, Jade went stiff as a poker. Suddenly Owen recalled the name of the Warburg police officer Margot and Jordan mentioned so often, the one to whom Jade had sent doughnuts and pulled God knew what other pranks: Rob Cooper. Maybe this was another Cooper.
