by Mindy Neff
He didn’t know if she’d drawn him into some crazy spell or if he was simply afraid to take his eyes off hers in case she did something else to knock his senses for a loop. When he felt the first buzz in his head, the kind of black-out warning a chokehold produced, he blinked.
That was when he realized that he, too, was holding his breath.
Irritated with himself and the whole world in general, he exhaled in a huff. When had he turned into such a sappy fool?
And who the hell had taught her to suppress perfectly natural emotions? Because that was what she was doing—desperately trying to gain control, determined not to let the slightest sob escape. By damn, that just wasn’t right.
“Woman, you’re making me crazy. Would you please breathe?” He hadn’t known it was possible to feel annoyed clear to the bone and tender at the same time. “I promise I won’t let you drown in the flood, Slim. It’s just us here. You don’t have to hold back in front of me.”
He meant the words, even though his insides made him feel like Humpty-Dumpty clinging to the wall by his big toe—one hiccup and he’d be history.
Strands of fiery red hair clung to her wet cheeks, stuck to his forearms. She didn’t move, continued to stare at him while tears dripped off her chin, but for the first time since she’d begun spouting like a watering can, her breath hitched audibly.
Oddly enough, that made him feel better. She shouldn’t have to suffer in silence.
The unblinking stare, however, was getting to him. She had him so shook up he probably looked like he was going to cry.
“Quit looking at me like I’m a two-headed catfish,” he muttered. This whole experience was so surreal. Here he was with a beautiful redhead in his lap, and he was sitting on a hard tile floor two feet away from the toilet. At least the place was clean. China bowls held scented soaps and potpourri, while a discreet, automatic air freshener above the door puffed little blasts of vanilla at timed intervals.
It was a decent-size bathroom, about eight-feet square, decorated in shiny black and chrome, with splashes of red. An antique cabinet and crystal light fixture gave the room an eclectic blend of old and new—an intriguing contradiction just like the woman who’d decorated it.
She shifted in his lap, snagged the trailing end of the toilet paper anchored to the wall just above his shoulder and yanked. The roller spun like a well-oiled cylinder on a .38 pistol. A good seven feet draped over his shoulder before he could reach up and halt the revolutions.
He held the tissue steady until it tore. Unable to stand the torment a moment longer, he thumbed a tear from her cheek. She countered by blocking his hand, and blotted her own tears with a crumpled wad of the toilet paper, then pressed it over her eyes. Her withdrawal was subtle, the message loud and clear.
Don’t touch.
If she thought he was going to heed that message, she’d just have to get over herself.
He’d tried it her way for the past month, kept his distance, respected her wishes, let her pretend that they were merely casual acquaintances who’d never tangled the sheets right off his mattress.
He’d known this woman over half his life, and by God, if he wanted to hold her, he damn well would!
She finally gave a watery chuckle. “Well, that was pretty mortifying—”
“Don’t do that, Slim. Not with me.”
She shrugged and sniffed. “You mounted a sneak attack, Carmichael. Is that how you get your crime suspects to sing? Feed them a lie so absurd their confession spills out when their jaw drops open?”
“You’re not a suspect.” He brushed another damp strand of hair from her cheek. “And I don’t lie in interrogations. I tell stories, encourage a little feedback. You never know, I might decide to write a crime novel someday. Nothing wrong with bouncing a few creative ideas off another party.”
Because she gave him a pitying look of disbelief that was so Donetta-like, and because her unique eyes still held a veiled anguish that was so un-Donetta-like, he snagged her nape and gently but firmly pulled her head against his chest. Wrapping his other arm around her stiff, resisting body, he kept her close.
“As far as a sneak attack on you, darlin’, I’m glad it worked, but I have no idea what I did. I wish you’d tell me so I could at least analyze the playback later.”
She sniffed again, gave his chest a tap with her fist and relaxed into him just a bit. “You said you were fragile, bozo.”
He stroked her hair, rested his cheek on the top of her head. “That was no lie.” Not where Donetta was concerned.
He tightened his arm when she shifted. He liked her just where she was. With her head tucked beneath his chin, her cheek resting over his heart, he could watch her, but she couldn’t return the favor. Those unpredictable amber eyes easily sent him into a tailspin, and if he didn’t get a few minute’s reprieve to steady himself, he’d crash and burn for sure.
“I’ve never seen you cry. And you were dead determined to tuck in your chin and do it all by yourself. I know how to track a suspect and bring him down. Most of the time I can dodge a bullet—”
“Don’t you even joke about that, Storm Carmichael.” She gave his chest another tap with her fist. “Thank God a body can function with only one kidney.”
“Makes you wonder why we came with two of them, hmm?”
“It’s so excitement junkies like you have a spare when they don’t have sense enough not to walk into a crack house and get ambushed. And if you make me cry again, I’m striking you off my Christmas list. I haven’t made such an embarrassing fool out of myself since I was nine.”
“Shh.” He stroked her hair. “There’s no shame in tears.”
“Tears aren’t going to fix my code violations or make Judd Quentin return my phone calls.” She pushed against his chest, sat up and scooted off his lap.
This time he didn’t stop her. But he drew up his leg so she wouldn’t see the result her wiggling derriere had wrought on his body. “Your contractor is avoiding you?”
She shrugged. The few feet of tissue she hadn’t yet scrunched in her hand floated like the tail of a kite, part of it still trailing over his shoulder. “He might be out of town.”
“Doubt it. I saw his truck out at the Barberrys’ place this morning.”
“Then I suppose he is ducking me.” She dabbed at her neck and chest, which were still damp. “Phyllis Barberry wants a new kitchen. I guess Allan finally gave in and let her get a bid.”
Trust a beauty-shop owner to know the skinny on the townsfolk. “Why would she need his permission to get a quote? It doesn’t cost anything to have a company work you up a price.”
“I didn’t mean that literally. It was just automatic phrasing.”
“Hmm. Maybe you should give the Barberrys a heads-up. They might want to think twice about using J.Q. Construction.”
“I’m not going to pass out unsolicited warnings about Judd. Especially since I haven’t even talked to him.” She turned her head and looked at him, her hair shifting against the tile wall at her back. “And I don’t see why you can’t just be a pal and let me stay open. I—”
“I’m being a pal by not letting you stay open. Donetta, according to that list of corrections Blane Pyke slapped on my desk this morning, this place is a powder keg waiting for a spark. You’re missing smoke detectors in crucial areas, you don’t have a big-enough electrical service to handle the load in a place like this, and there isn’t a single ground-fault interrupter plug in the building that works. That means you could scoot the toe of those sassy shoes in a splash of water on the floor and end up electrocuting yourself or one of your clients. This is serious business, darlin’. And…Ah, hell.” What little color she’d regained had just drained away.
He shot to his knees. “Are you going to be sick again?”
She took several deep breaths, shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” He hovered, poised for action. They were still within two feet of the toilet. “You want a wet towel or somet
hing?”
“Don’t fuss,” she snapped.
He didn’t take offense. He was too busy feeling relieved that the Donetta he was used to—the steady, unflappable, stubborn woman—appeared to be emerging. Now he could safely tuck away these uncomfortable sappy emotions he hardly recognized and rarely used.
Dealing with a weeping woman in a bathroom that smelled like a giant vanilla sugar cookie had his stomach balled up in a knot and he wasn’t too proud to admit it.
Butting heads with a stubborn woman was another matter. One he could handle.
“I don’t know why you have such a problem letting people in.” He stood and extended a hand to her. “What do you say we abandon the bathroom floor and take another look at the fire marshal’s list. Put a plan together. Unless, of course, you think that would be fussing too much. You’ll remember that I helped my dad build the extra bedroom and bath when Grandma Birdie came to live with us, so I happen to know a bit about construction. I’ve raised a few barns in my time, as well.”
“A man of many talents. What else do you do that I don’t know about?”
He grinned. “A smart man never gives away all his secrets on the first official bathroom date. If you’re curious, you’ll just have to stick around and let me surprise you with my…talents.” He wiggled his fingers at her. “Come on.”
“This isn’t a bathroom date.” She put her hand in his and let him help her up. “Did everyone leave?”
“Yes. I imagine Cora Harris went straight over to my mother to lodge a complaint against me. I’m definitely on Cora’s black list.”
“I’ve heard that’s not a great position to be in.” She turned on the faucet at the sink and leaned down to rinse her mouth.
Storm automatically gathered her hair to keep it out of the sink. “I imagine my sister’ll put in a good word for me.”
“Ha!” Without looking in the mirror, she splashed water on her face. “Don’t count on it.” Still bending at the waist, she reached blindly toward the chrome towel dispenser.
He leaned around her, pulled out two paper towels and stuck them in her palm.
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
When she straightened, he let go of her hair, watched as she wadded the damp paper and tossed it into the trash. She hadn’t once glanced in the mirror, and Storm decided not to mention the mascara smeared beneath her eyes.
He’d made that dire mistake with his sister once and learned his lesson well. God knows, if he sent Donetta into tears again, he’d probably join her. And that wasn’t high on his list of fun things to do.
“Well?” she asked when he just continued to stand there. “Are you ready?”
“If you are.”
In answer, she snagged his sleeve and tugged him around. He held the door open for her, and when she ducked under his arm, he fell into step beside her. She was nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with him, and he liked that, found it sexy. She had the tall, slender body of a sleek greyhound, graceful and athletic, with enough flash and dash to make a man plow through a stump or run his car into the ditch.
Her arm brushed against him, and for an instant he experienced an odd sense of déjà vu, as though an elusive memory shimmered just out of reach. A warm sensation flowed through his body, a sensation of peace, as though he’d found all he could ever imagine or want. With it came a flash of clarity. He saw himself walking with Donetta exactly like this—past or future, he wasn’t sure which—down this same hallway of leopard-print carpet, lipstick-red walls, sparkling mirrors and gleaming Sputnik light fixtures reaching out to pull in the stars.
He shook away the spooky image and shivered. What the hell was that?
He waited a minute to see if any other weird images were going to launch an invasion, did a mental recon of his brain. Part of him wanted another look, because he was a man who liked to stand face-to-face with his opponent.
The other part of him wanted a stiff drink and his memory wiped clean of this foolishness.
Still on guard, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, noted that Donetta didn’t look as if she’d been juiced by anything strange, yet he imagined he could still feel that vague sensation of peace, hear an old Eagles song about contentment playing in his mind.
He’d forgotten about that tape. The Eagles. It was an eight-track. They didn’t even make eight-tracks anymore….
Hell on fire, now he was fixating on old songs. This was so ridiculous he could hardly stand himself. He banged his hip against one of the salon chairs, maneuvered around it and pretended he didn’t feel a twinge of embarrassment when Donetta glanced at him.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Fine.” They were fifteen feet from the reception desk. He should have been thinking about a plan that would keep Donetta’s building closed for the least amount of time.
Instead, he was driving himself nuts. The damn song was going to be humming in his brain all night—and he couldn’t even remember the words. All he needed now was for some haywire short circuit in his brain to burst into song about perfect harmony, and by God, he was going to check himself into the booby hatch.
If somebody upstairs was trying to tell him something, he would have to beg to differ. Because there wasn’t one thing that was peaceful or easy about Donetta Presley. Two minutes in her company and his emotions were all over hell and half of Texas.
And his mind—well, that was just flat-out gone. One redhead shedding a bucket of tears had caused him to lose it, and now he couldn’t trust himself alone with his own thoughts.
Man alive, he needed a vacation. And he seriously needed to get a grip here. Next thing, he’d be holding a séance and playing chess with Gramps.
Chapter Three
“Storm, is something wrong with your hat?”
“Why?” he asked and tugged the brim lower. His single-word reply was full of accusation and suspicion.
Donetta retreated a step. “I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking you. Ever since we left the rest room you’ve been glancing up at it like you expect it to fess up to a crime. Either that or you’ve eaten a bug.”
“Thank you so much, Donetta. I’m happy to see that you’re feeling so universally peaceful.”
“Univers—What is the matter with you?” She reached up and snatched off his hat. His forehead didn’t have a red indentation so the hat wasn’t squashing his brain. But he was still looking at her with a faint expression of accusation, as though she’d tripped him and was now standing there denying it.
“Woman, don’t you know you’re not supposed to mess with a man’s hat?” He glowered and Donetta could clearly see that the annoyance was as fake as all get out.
She sighed. She didn’t have the energy to analyze Storm Carmichael. What she desperately wanted was for this day to be over so she could go upstairs, lock the door, sink into a cool bath and give herself the room to think, to process, to have a well-deserved pity party, then to plan. Learning she was pregnant had knocked her for a loop. She couldn’t even consider sharing the news with Storm until her emotions steadied.
She plopped the hat back on his head and gave the brim a tug. “Just checking your hat size. You might need a new one for Christmas.”
“So, what size are you going to get me?” She really ought to think through her prevarications a little better. “I haven’t decided if I’m going to get you one at all. If we’re plotting against my contractor, I need to sit.”
She might as well have said “Ready, set, go!” Because the second she took a step, so did he, and a body slam was inevitable. The area at the reception desk was fairly small, yes, but two people shouldn’t find entering the horseshoe opening and hopping onto stools difficult.
The impromptu waltz was a cop thing, she knew. He had certain positions and places he liked to stand and sit. An automatic habit to protect his back and his gun side. And Donetta could never remember if she was supposed to yield left or right. Finally, she had sense enough to stand still and wait for
him to get where he intended to go.
He perched on the high stool on the right, swiveling so that his right hip was toward the desk—not hanging out for someone to snatch the gun he was not wearing. The desk was already facing the door, thank goodness, so she was fairly satisfied that there would be no future skirmishes.
“Are you all settled now?” she asked politely. “Good and comfy?”
“Perfectly, thanks.” He merely looked at her as though she’d asked him a legitimate question and patted the stool next to him. “Come sit.”
Donetta seated herself on the stool to the left, which is where she would’ve chosen to sit, anyway, because she was left-handed. As she was sitting down, a smear of blue hair dye on the countertop caught her eye.
Panic did a hit-and-run on her system. It was gone so quickly she almost questioned what she’d felt. Obviously, her brain had had sense enough to realize that Storm was not Tim, and the blue hair dye in her own beauty salon was not the red marinara sauce she’d neglected to wipe from the kitchen counter in her house. Lord, she hadn’t had one of these flashes in a long time.
So when Storm swore, jerking up his palm and frowning at the smudge of blue, Donetta didn’t even blink. She snagged a tissue out of the box in front of her and passed it to him.
“Watch that you don’t get that under your nails,” she cautioned when he started to scrape with his finger. “It’ll be all over town by morning that you were running your fingers through Millicent Lloyd’s hair.”
He looked up. “That’s not funny, Donetta.”
Actually, it was pretty hilarious. And so was his frowning expression.
“You can’t tell me Harold really liked his wife’s hair blue.” With the dye mostly off his hand, he wiped the desktop.
“I doubt it was on his top-ten favorites list at first,” Donetta said. “But people get used to bold things once the shock wears off. Besides, Harold loved that woman beyond reason, and she was just as crazy about him. You ought to remember. You saw the way they were together when Harold was alive.”
