by Beth Andrews
Gracie stepped outside and Penelope grabbed Leo’s hand and tugged him forward so their faces were only inches apart.
“Help me,” she whispered, her voice ragged and more than a little desperate. “Please, please help me.”
CHAPTER FOUR
PENELOPE DENNING WAS DRUNK.
Leo wasn’t a detective, but it didn’t take a shiny badge or a degree in criminal justice to figure out she’d enjoyed one too many glasses of the wine on the island. Her amber eyes were glassy and slightly unfocused, her speech slow and careful.
He’d give her a five on his personal Levels of Intoxication Scale. Not pass-out, blackout or even fall-down drunk. Just tipsy. And obviously careless with it.
He could have warned her that too much alcohol and gas grills didn’t mix. Actually, alcohol didn’t mix well with any item that contained a flammable liquid—lawn mowers and those damned turkey deep fryers especially, included.
He patted her hand, but she continued clutching him, her nails digging into his skin. “That’s what I’m here for,” he said soothingly. “To help you.”
He tried to ease away but her fingers tightened on him and she leaned forward, scooting so close to the edge of the stool she almost slid off. She caught her balance, perched there like a bird about to take flight.
“No.” Her clear voice trembled; her eyes took on a wild glint. “Help. Me.”
She tipped her head to the left—and about toppled herself off the stool. He steadied her, then followed her pointed gaze out the door where his partner, Forrest Young, had been joined by fellow firefighters Casper Rhett and rookie Simon DePaul. The teenage girl lifted a chair cushion and said something that had Casper fighting a smile, Simon turning white and Forrest letting out one of his huge laughs.
The girl had a way with words—and wasn’t afraid to use as many as humanly possible.
“While I’d love to help look for your phone,” Leo said to Penelope, “my search-and-rescue training has taught me only how to find people.”
His tone was easy and he even managed a grin, though he was sure it was strained. But then, he wasn’t some damned bloodhound with nothing better to do than find lost personal items.
She frowned, looking so confused he bumped her intoxication score up to six. “Why would you look for my phone?”
He patted her hand again, both to reassure her and in the hopes she’d get the hint and let go. The woman had a grip like a spider monkey. “Because you lost it.”
“I did not lose my phone,” she said, all kinds of indignant. “I don’t lose anything. I’m a very careful, responsible person.”
He took in her disheveled dark hair, her pink face and wrinkled clothes. “That’s obvious.”
She nodded, her expression saying, damn right.
Finally releasing him, she shifted, lifting her hips off the stool in a pelvic thrust that was so awkward, jerky and unsettling, he shut his eyes and tried to erase the memory from his mind. No woman should ever, ever move like that.
“See?” she continued, dragging her phone from her pocket. She waved it at him and he was surprised she didn’t stick out her tongue and add a triumphant Ha! “I told you I didn’t lose it.”
“Then why did you ask that girl to look for it?”
Penelope stared at him as if he was as simpleminded as his siblings always accused him of being. “You’re a firefighter, right?”
“That’s what it says on my shirt.”
“Exactly. You’re a hero. A real live-action figure. No one has a body like that except firefighters. And maybe marines. I mean...” She gestured at him. “Look at you.”
The back of his neck warmed. He scratched it. He knew what he looked like. Hell, females had been hitting on him since puberty struck in full force at the age of fifteen. And while he’d admit to having a healthy ego, it wasn’t as big as most people—mainly Maddie—thought. “That’s a little hard to do at the moment. How about I find a mirror as soon as we get you checked out?”
She rolled her eyes then slapped her hand over them. “Oh, my...did I...did I just roll my eyes?” she whispered.
“Yep.”
She groaned, the sound way sexier than it should have been. It was totally inappropriate and unprofessional, but for a moment—a brief, heated moment—his body tensed. Interest, attraction stirred.
He pushed it aside.
He didn’t flirt on duty.
“I hate when people do that,” she said.
It took him a moment to realize she wasn’t talking about men flirting with her. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, the eye-rolling thing is irritating as hell.” And, luckily, not something Bree had perfected yet. Though a few of the boys he coached on Shady Grove High School’s football team had it down to a science.
“I’m sorry,” she said, finally lowering her hand. “But you were placating me when I’m trying to make a valid point.”
He lifted her wrist, pressed his fingers against her pulse, tried to focus on the steady rhythm and not on how soft, how warm, her skin was. “Which is?”
She exhaled in exasperation, her breath washing over his cheek. “You’re trained to do heroic things, like run into burning buildings when everyone else is smart enough to run out.” She edged closer and under the cloying, lingering scent of propane, she smelled sweet, like lavender. “Leo, I want you to play hero for me.”
Though her words were throaty and cajoling, he doubted, very much, that she meant it the way it sounded. Which was fine. He wasn’t interested in her. Yeah, she was pretty enough with her dark complexion and light eyes and that little mole next to the right corner of her mouth.
Okay, maybe he was a little bit interested. He wasn’t dead, after all. And the image her words created in his mind—one of him, shirtless in only his uniform pants and suspenders, standing next to a bed where she reclined in a fire-red teddy that ended high on her tanned thighs—took hold and rooted deep.
He let his gaze skim down her legs to her bare, narrow feet, the toes painted a pale pink. She had great legs, curvy and muscular.
“I’m flattered,” he told her, unable to count the number of times he’d said that to a female while on call. “But it’s against regulations for me to fraternize with women while I’m working.”
Or at least, it was highly frowned upon.
He wouldn’t do so even if his captain gave him a notarized note telling him to go for it. His family thought he was a dog, some playboy who took any and every opportunity to make time with women. Not completely untrue, but he had his standards, whether they believed him or not. He didn’t hit on women under his care.
“Flattered? What are you...” Her eyes widened and she blushed, the color staining not only her cheeks but also her throat and the sliver of skin on her chest visible in the vee of her shirt. “You think I...that I want...” She shook her head, then reached up and held both sides of it as if afraid it would fall off her shoulders. “I’m not...I’m not flirting with you.”
He pulled his stethoscope from his bag. “My loss.”
She twisted her fingers together. “I do not flirt with men.”
“No? Just women?”
She laughed, a surprised, light burst of sound that washed over him, sweet and warm, like a ray of sunshine. He wanted to absorb that brightness, soak it into his skin, into his bones. Wanted it to dispel the coldness inside of him, to erase his memories of last night.
“I’m not gay. I just...I don’t flirt with men or women. I don’t flirt with anyone.” Her voice trailed off in resignation. Or disappointment. “At all.”
“That clears it up,” he murmured, his voice inadvertently husky. He skimmed his gaze from her long, side-swept bangs to her prominent cheekbones, then lingered on that mole. “Like I said...my loss.”
Her mouth opened on a soundless oh, her eyes wide.
He bit back a grin. Technically his comment, his demeanor, could be considered flirtatious, but he wasn’t big on technicalities.
“I couldn’t
find it,” the teenager said as she stepped into the room. She pulled her own phone from her pocket. “Do you want me to try calling it?”
Penelope blanched; her guilt over her little white lie couldn’t have been clearer on her face if she’d written out a full-blown confession on her forehead in red marker. “Isn’t it silly? I had it in my pocket all along.”
The kid, a pixie in hippie clothes with hair to her waist, lifted a shoulder. “No problem. Are you sure I can’t fix you something to eat? Or I could do your dishes,” she said, crossing to the sink. “Maybe throw in a load of laundry for you?”
Penelope glanced at Leo. “Oh, I don’t need you to—”
“And when I’m done, I’ll grab a couple of movies from my house. You probably shouldn’t be alone.” The kid turned to Leo. “She shouldn’t be alone, right? If she has a head injury?”
Penelope’s sigh was as close to a whimper as Leo had ever heard from a human. She sent what could only be described as a long, yearning look at the bottle of wine.
And Leo finally got it.
Why the hell hadn’t she just said she wanted him to get rid of the kid for her? Women. Always wanting a man to read their minds, know their every thought and react accordingly.
Only to give the poor sap hell when he didn’t.
Wrapping his stethoscope around his neck, he stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name when I came in.”
“Gracie Weaver,” she breathed. But when she shook his hand, she made eye contact and didn’t send him any underage come-hither looks or step closer in order to brush against him. Unlike what a few of the bolder cheerleaders had done after their first scrimmage last week.
Thank you, sweet Jesus, for small favors and for young girls who didn’t hit on him. Amen.
“Weaver?” he asked. “Wes’s daughter?”
“The one and only.”
Far as Leo knew, she meant that literally. Last he’d heard, Wes and his wife, Molly, had enough sons to form their own basketball team.
He took the girl by the arm and led her toward the door. “You did a great job,” he told her. “Calling us, shutting off the grill and helping Ms. Denning inside. But HIPAA rules state that unless you’re related, or a legal representative of the patient, you can’t be present at this time.”
All bullshit, and if he wasn’t mistaken, something Gracie suspected, but unless she called him on it—and whipped out a copy of the HIPAA regulations—he was standing by his words.
He opened the French doors, avoiding Forrest’s smirk as he deposited Gracie on the deck. “I’m sure Ms. Denning is grateful for all your help.”
And he shut the door.
“You were a little rude to her.”
He crossed back to Penelope, who was giving him the time-honored death stare of doom.
Some days, a guy couldn’t win.
“Sometimes playing hero means being the bad guy.” He unwound his stethoscope and put the ear tips in. “Just going to listen to your lungs, make sure they’re clear.”
She sat rigidly, her hands on her thighs, her fingers curled. Everything sounded good.
“Gracie meant well,” she said.
“I’m sure she did.” He wound the stethoscope around his neck and straightened. “But it seemed to me you could use a break from her good intentions.”
“She was very helpful,” Penelope said, glancing nervously to the deck as if worried Gracie was going to return. “But she was quite...chatty. And pushy.”
“That can be a lot to take in. Especially when someone is having a rough day. She seems like a sweet girl, but it was obvious she was wearing out her welcome.”
“I think she’s lonely,” Penelope said softly. “Her parents went to some picnic and left her home by herself.”
“Wes—that’s her dad—is a good guy. And Molly, his wife, is as sweet as they come. I’m sure they didn’t abandon her. They love their kids.”
Her ill-natured shrug told him she was firmly on Gracie’s side in this imaginary battle she’d concocted between the teen and her folks—no matter that the kid had bugged the hell out of her. “So you’re close friends with them?”
“Nope.”
“Then how could you possibly know what emotions they do, or do not feel, toward their children?”
“I don’t,” he said simply. “But Shady Grove’s a small town with all sorts of ties among the people who live here. Some of those ties are personal—friendships, marriage, family. Some are professional. But even if you don’t know someone personally, chances are someone you know does. In this case, that someone would be my eldest brother and his wife. They went to school with Molly, hung out in the same crowd. And Wes is good buddies with my captain. So I know them well enough to say they wouldn’t ditch their kid. They’re decent, hardworking, caring people. And about as opposite as two people can be, which must be why their marriage works so well.”
“That is ludicrous. Not to mention highly unlikely. I would surmise that if they truly are as opposite as two people can be, their marriage will eventually crumble under the pressure of trying to hold up unrealistic expectations of success.”
Gripping both ends of his stethoscope, he leaned back. Tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. He should be put off by her prim and preachy tone, but he liked her light, clear voice too much, the way she spoke with such careful precision. And it was tough to get pissed at her haughty, patronizing expression when her hair was such a mess, her face pink.
Interest stirred again and this time, he didn’t fight it. Didn’t plan on acting on it, not at the moment anyhow. But that didn’t mean he could stop from finding her fascinating.
From wanting her to keep talking.
If only because, for the first time since he’d arrived at the accident scene last night, he felt...lighter.
Women had a way of doing that, of making a man forget his troubles and focus on other things. Things such as soft, sweet-smelling skin, lush curves and long kisses. All things he’d rather think about than what had happened last night to Samantha, the pain and grief her family was going through.
His sense of responsibility for their loss.
“I take it you’re not big on the theory that opposites attract,” he said.
“Hardly. Oh, people like to believe in that silly, romanticized notion, but in reality what holds a relationship together is commonality. Common interests.” She ticked the items off on her long fingers, one by one. “Common views on religion, politics, finances, child-rearing—”
“And sex,” he couldn’t help but add.
Her flush deepened, but she held his gaze, her chin lifted as if to prove he couldn’t fluster her. “Yes, naturally they should also have similar views about sex. What they shouldn’t believe is that simply because they have a satisfying physical relationship, they can work through other problems. For a relationship to succeed, a couple should have similar intellects in order for them to enjoy scintillating conversation, as well as interesting and intriguing debates. If they have similar tastes, they can share hobbies and enjoy the same types of film, shows and music. All of which will make it easier for them to want to spend time together.”
“That’s quite the theory,” he said, wondering about her romantic relationships. Was she in one? His gaze flicked to her left hand. No ring. No signs of a husband from what he could tell. But then, he’d seen only the hallway and kitchen. For all he knew, there could be a spouse lurking around somewhere, but something told him there wasn’t. “Most women believe in love and forever and happy endings.”
She snorted, then looked appalled, as if unable to believe the sound had actually come from her. “I’m all for love and forever. I also realize that happy endings require an immense amount of work and sacrifice, and if both people aren’t willing to pull their weight, none of it will be enough to make a doomed relationship last.”
She made relationships sound like a job, not something to be cherished and revered.
Like he’d
said—fascinating.
She shook her head. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with why you’re here.”
“Not a thing.” But she was right. He needed to get back to work, focus on getting the details for his report, and make sure she really was as okay as she seemed and move on to the next case. He pulled out his notebook and pen. “Can you tell me what happened exactly?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
He tapped the notebook. “Gives me something to write in here. If I come back with blank pages, my captain gets cranky.”
She slumped back and crossed her arms. “I had a glass of wine.”
He waited, but when she didn’t elaborate, he asked, “And the wine made the grill explode?”
She sent him a bland stare. “I was simply explaining the events leading up to the...the...incident.” Chewing on her bottom lip, she cleared her throat. “I may have had more than one glass, but definitely less than three. I think.”
Holding his pen over the paper, he raised his eyebrows. “You lost count?”
“Of course not. I’m an accountant. Counting is what I do,” she said in an aggrieved tone. “Counting and adding and subtracting and reading tax law among other things. The point,” she said, “is that I am not drunk.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
She sniffed. “You didn’t have to. I can tell by your face. You look all...smug. And amused.”
“Smug?” he murmured. “That hurts.”
“Let me tell you something,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “While I may not be completely, one hundred percent sober, I am not inebriated.” She spoke with the slow enunciation of the drunk, but she handled the word with impressive skill. “I’d realized I should eat something and that was why I lit the grill in the first place. I’m not drunk,” she repeated, though way less vehemently. “I’m just...” Her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes taking on a sadness that tugged at something deep inside of him. “I’m just having a really bad day.”
Compassion swept through him. Nothing new there. Taking care of others wasn’t just his job, it was his calling, one he was damned good at. He prided himself on his ability to sympathize with the people he helped, to understand what they needed most.
