by Rita Herron
Single & Searching
The Author's Cut Edition
by
Rita Herron
Previously published as Thief of Hearts, Kensington Zebra Books, 1997
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 1997, 2011, 2012 by Rita Herron. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Cover and eBook Design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com
Thank You.
Dedication
To Stephanie Hauck,
my Tuesday night support group and critique partner...
~
And to my loving husband of 36 years
who still curls my toes.
Chapter 1
Casey McIntyre had the voice of an angel. But judging from her personal ad, she was probably a lunatic, an obsessive-compulsive, or worse: a thief.
Gabe Thornton had purposefully chosen her ad because of its possible correlation to the ABC robberies, hoping to get two stories in one: the end to the personal ad dating story he'd been assigned and possibly a lead to the recent crime wave hitting Atlanta. He checked the mailbox address again and pulled into the driveway, suddenly attacked by a feeling of impending doom as his gaze zoomed in on Casey's ad.
Antiques, bluebells, cinnamon, daffodils, ebony, fireplaces, grapes, hugs, ice cream, jogging, kaleidoscope, laughter, movies, neverending, olives, pasta, quilts, rabbits, silk, teddies, unusual, violet, writing, x's,x's,x's, yellow, zinnias.
Hell's bells. The woman hadn't written one personal thing about herself, just an alphabetical listing of random words. The list made no sense.
As he read the other ads, all lonely pleas for companionship, a snort of disgust rumbled from deep in his throat. Just when he'd contemplated looking for a serious relationship with a woman, his boss, Hank had ordered him to write this silly piece. This was the fifth ad he'd responded to. And he hoped to God, the last. Then he could concentrate all his efforts on finding the elusive ABC robber before his competitor outscooped him.
"Blast it, Gabe, you're letting the cases get to you," Hank had told him. "Take a lighter assignment. Have a little fun."
Hell, work gave him all the excitement he needed. And Hank called dating women through the personal ads fun? The man had been out of commission way too long. After four dates, Gabe had more than enough information to write an article. Sweet heavens, he could write a book.
Memories of the past few evenings splintered through his mind. He tried his best to banish them. Brenda the brainy mathematician had cut her meat into exactly eight equal-sized pieces. Miserable Moreen had sobbed about her ex and spilled wine on his pants, then tried to mop his clothes with her spaghetti-stained napkin. And Sandra the tattoo artist had offered to tattoo her initials on his butt. That night he'd had nightmares of a giant-sized drill coming toward his posterior while Brenda carved his anatomy into cereal-sized portions.
To top it all off, he'd lost an evening's sleep last night on a commuter flight tying up the loose ends of another assignment. Gabe gripped the door handle to his car with one hand and massaged his temple with the other, attempting to fight a headache. A yawn stretched across his face. He glanced at his watch. 7:00. He hoped to hell Casey was ready, so he could get this evening over with.
Forcing himself out of his Bronco, he strode up the driveway. A reflection of his image stared back through the glass in her front door. Gabe grimaced. He was a mess. He'd gotten tied up in a shady part of town meeting an informant who'd practically assaulted him. During the brawl, he'd torn a couple of holes in his jeans, then his car had broken down and he'd had to change his tire, so his clothes looked even more rumpled. On top of that, the five o'clock shadow of his beard gave him a grungy look.
His poor grandmother would be ashamed if she saw him picking up a woman dressed like a bum. Casey would probably take one look at him and boot him out the door. He should have gone home and changed, but he'd run out of time and being punctual was one of his pet peeves. Maybe she'd ride with him to his house and let him shower.
Ever since he'd spoken to Casey this morning on the telephone, he'd had a premonition that meeting her would change his life.
Whether good or bad, he didn't know.
Her southern drawl reminded him of soft lilacs, and he'd fantasized about the taste of honeysuckle as she spoke. He tried to imagine the color of her hair. Smoky brown? Fiery red?
But his fantasies had been destroyed when a child's voice interrupted their conversation. The wild music blasting in the background alerted his senses, all screaming panic. This female is trouble. He might be considering a serious relationship with a woman, but a readymade family—that was something different.
His mind strayed to the robberies as he postponed knocking on her door. Five victims so far. The hits had begun with a victim by the last name of Angus. Now the thief had worked up to the letter F. All the robberies had occurred within the vicinity of Casey's house.
Gabe stopped on the wide plank flooring of the front porch. If a date with the alphabetically inclined Casey proved helpful to the robbery case or if Casey turned out to be the thief, then he could turn this fluff piece of journalism into a real investigative reporting article. His gaze rested on a hand-painted wooden bunny perched beside the door, and he suppressed a chuckle. Casey's wedgewood blue colonial house and the pansies lining the front lawn suggested a typical suburban home. And he had a feeling any woman hosting a big bunny and pastel-colored birdhouses on her front porch couldn't be a criminal.
But, then again, appearances could be deceiving. After working on undercover assignments for the Atlanta paper for three years, he knew firsthand that dangerous, sinister psychos often disguised themselves as very ordinary-looking citizens.
His fist tightened in midair, hovering above the red barn door as loud childlike music wafted through the open window. He pondered leaving. After all, he didn't know Casey. He could go home, watch T. V. and catch up on his sleep. Maybe, he could finish the article without suffering through another evening with a female who bored him beyond imagination.
Suddenly exhausted, Gabe swiveled to leave, but his conscience scolded him, his southern upbringing freezing him in his steps. His dear sweet Grandmother Maude's voice whispered reminders about gentlemen not breaking dates.
"Sometimes, Grandma, I wish I'd never been born in the south," Gabe muttered. He sucked in a harsh breath, prayed for the night to pass quickly, then raised his fist to knock.
* * *
Damn.
Damn.
Double damn.
"You will never get Henry S.," Casey said, fighting a wave of anger. "You don't love him, Travis. All you want is his trust fund."
The sound of Travis Satterfield's sickening sneer turned Casey's stomach. "He's my son, not yours, Casey. The courts will side with me. He's my own flesh and blood," Travis taunted.
Casey swallowed a nasty retort. "I have legal custody, Travis. Bev gave it to me before she died and I adopted Henry S. I have papers to prove it."
Travis snorted. "To hell with papers. I'm still his father. Haven't you watched the news lately? Blood relatives always win."
Casey silently cursed him. "Some father you are. He's two years old and you've never even seen him. How do you think the court will look at that?"
Travis' heavy breathing filled the line. Casey knew he was thinking about her statement—this could take all night. Travis Satterfield had the brains of a rutabaga.
"I'll say I wanted to see him and you denied me visitation rights."
Casey chewed her fingernail, then pulled her ear from the phone. She thought she heard a light knock at the door but Henry S.' laughter boomed up the hall.
"You'll be sorry if you don't cooperate with me," Travis warned in a nasty voice.
Casey pressed the phone back to her ear. "Drop it, Travis. Henry S. is happy. Find the money to pay off your debts somewhere else." Then Casey slammed down the phone, effectively shutting off his next words.
Henry S. squealed, alerting her to trouble and Casey took off running.
"Oh, Henry S., what have you done now?" She dashed for the bathroom. "I had to call the plumber because the potty's stopped up. I hope you didn't flush...." Her words died as she peeked inside and saw the water overflowing from the toilet.
Quickly, she snatched a handful of towels from the linen closet and piled them on the floor to soak it up before it reached the hall carpet.
Henry S. patted one bare foot into the river of water and wiggled his toes.
Casey lunged for her son. "Don't step in it, buddy!"
Henry S. giggled. "Cold."
"Oh, Henry S.," Casey said, twisting her hair into a knot on top of her head. "What did you put in the potty?"
Henry S. flashed a proud smile. "Ba... woons," he said, the word barely audible as he stuck his tongue out to show off a prized piece of red gum.
"Balloons?" Casey asked. "But we don't have any balloons. I used them all for your birthday party last month."
Henry S. pointed to a small box floating in the corner of the bathroom. Casey groaned as she recognized the package of what used to be neon green condoms. "I forgot Brick and Shelia left those in the cabinet," Casey muttered, heaving an exasperated sigh. "I swear, Henry S., you were put on this earth to try my ability not to cuss. I'll have gray hair before I'm thirty if you don't stop all this mischief."
Henry S. chuckled. "Mommy's hair pwetty—purple."
Casey frowned while tugging on a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves. "Purple and orange thanks to you, little one. Whatever made you want to put Kool-aid in Mommy's hair while Mommy was napping? I was only asleep for ten minutes. I just hope it comes out before Mommy's date tonight."
Henry S. giggled and pointed to Casey's mouth. "Bwue lips, Mommy."
Casey stole a glance at herself in the mirror, rubbing frantically at her lips. "Yes, Mommy has blue lips and so do you. That jawbreaker was awful. I'll have to scrub the skin clean off my lips or put on twenty coats of lipstick to cover this up. Gabriel Thornton would probably run like a jackrabbit if he saw me right now."
"Wabbit," Henry S. said. He waved his chubby hands above his head imitating floppy ears and hopped into the hall.
"I want wabbit."
Casey groaned. "Don't touch the paper-mâché rabbit on the table, Henry S. It still has to dry!" Even as she said it, she knew her pleas not to touch her art project were in vain. Throwing another towel on the already soaked mound, she darted after her son.
But suddenly a loud pounding on the front door drew her attention.
"Great jumping junipers!" Casey said. "It must be the plumber. Now, Henry S., please don't get into anything else." She glanced around her den at the toys and laundry littering the floor, then frowned at her tattered quilted robe.
The pounding grew louder.
"I can't believe I'm letting anyone see me like this," she muttered as she headed toward the front door. "Even a plumber."
The doorbell chimed. Casey glanced at her watch. An impatient plumber, too. Thank the stars it was only six o'clock, and she could change before Gabe arrived.
The doorbell chimed again. "Hold onto your underwear! I'm coming." She jerked open the door and momentarily forgot her disheveled appearance as she stared into the deepest charcoal gray eyes she'd ever seen.
The man took a step backward, a shocked expression shaping his wide mouth into a gaping hole.
* * *
Drawing on his finely honed investigative skills, Gabe stifled his horrified first impression by schooling his face into a mask of granite. This was Casey McIntyre? A pint-sized woman with purple and orange hair, blue lips and the ugliest excuse for a bathrobe he'd ever seen. And what was that green gunk on her face?
She looked like a cross between a punk rock singer and a bag lady. This was Single and Searching? Lord help him. Southern gentleman or not, forget it, Grandma Maude! Assignment or not, to hell with you, Hank. There were a few things a man just shouldn't have to do.
He thought Casey said something about bloomers, then she mumbled something else, but he couldn't understand her words over the loud music. He assumed she'd asked if he was her date, so he nodded, too dumbfounded over her appearance to do anything else.
"You... is this 2505 Riverside?" Gabe finally asked, stumbling over the words.
Maybe he had the wrong address and he could leave and salvage the night after all.
* * *
This was the plumber? Casey thought, as she stared at the tall, broad-shouldered man standing on her doorstep. Six feet two inches of solid muscle and a shock of thick, curly hair the color of whiskey? Maybe she should cancel her date, and stay home with him.
"Yes, that's my address," Casey squeaked out.
A fine sheen of perspiration broke out on his face, and his tanned skin turned an unflattering shade of green as he struggled for words.
So much for being handsome, Casey decided. Even this man's looks couldn't disguise the fact that he was obviously slow. Poor guy. He probably hadn't even finished high school, but at least he had a job. She hadn't come from much better circumstances herself, so she had to admire the fact that he earned an honest living.
The man's hands seemed to tighten by his sides as he started to speak. Sympathy stole through Casey, and she decided to save him from having to talk again. Pasting on a big smile, she stretched her foot out, tapped the music off with one brightly painted slender toe, grabbed his arm and jerked him inside.
"Come on, I've been waiting for you," Casey said.
"You... have?" Gabe stuttered.
"Yes." Casey glanced at his tattered jeans and faded t-shirt. "You may get those pants wet." Not that it would hurt them, she decided. The poor guy had holes in his pants the size of baseballs, and his shirt looked as if it had been through the washer a thousand times. She thought plumbers made pretty good money, but he was obviously hard up for cash. Either that or he had no sense of style.
Of course, he was here to work on her toilet, and even if he did have holes in his pants, they revealed the finest-looking skin and muscles she'd ever seen on a man. Too bad, he didn't have a hole in the seat of his pants. She might get a look at his tight buns.
It probably wouldn't take much to rip that faded worn shirt either. Then she could take a peek at his incredibly taut muscled chest. Was it covered with that whiskey colored hair, too? Would his chest hair be curly like the thick mass on top of his head? Gee, Casey, you must really be desperate. You're ogling a dimwitted plumber!
Casey watched the man's Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed, but he still didn't speak. With a shaky hand, he swiped at a stream of sweat trickling down the side of his face inching toward hi
s left eye.
"I said... I wouldn't want you to get your pants wet."
Fighting the urge to hiss one of her favorite "no-no" words between her teeth, Casey opted to enunciate each word as if she were speaking to Henry S. She really didn't have time for this. If she didn't scrub this green mud treatment off her face soon, she'd probably have to chisel it off. Her cheeks had already started to harden and crack.
The half-witted sexy plumber gave her a strange look and she felt like crawling under the rug for a day or two until things calmed down. Oh, who the hell was she kidding? Life never seemed to be calm around her house.
The man still appeared tongue-tied, his dark eyes bulging as he stared at her.
"You didn't bring any tools with you?" Casey asked, shooting him an agitated look.
Gabe shook his head, squinting in confusion.
"Well, that's okay." Casey patted Gabe's arm as she did Henry S.' when he'd made a mistake. "I've probably got everything you need." Gently, Casey steered Gabe around the cluttered den.
His face paled when he spotted the tornado-swept room. Casey fought the urge to apologize. Old fears and insecurities threatened to surface, but she tamped them with a silent lecture. She refused to apologize to the plumber for her child's mess. "Just step over the toys," she said calmly, kicking a pile of magnetic letters aside.
She would never live her life walking on pins and needles, afraid for a towel to be out of place or a dust ball to make some man fly into a rage. She'd left that scene years ago when she'd run away from home, never to return. And she certainly wouldn't force Henry S. to live under the kind of pressure she had with her stepfather.
Having a very active toddler had added chaos to her life, but Henry S. was worth every sticky, gooey disaster. Even if she did have to pay a fortune to have her toilet unplugged. Even if she did have purple and orange hair and blue lips.
