by Lee Karr
When she finally fell asleep, her subconscious plagued her with weird dreams that were a jumble of disjointed happenings, and she awoke more tired than when she had gone to bed.
Even though it was Sunday and she lingered in her bathrobe until noon, Tyla couldn’t rid herself of a suppressed expectancy. She kept waiting for the telephone to ring, but no one called. The impression was probably left over from last night, she convinced herself as she engaged in some light housekeeping chores and tried to put aside a building apprehension that was making her jumpy.
You need some exercise, girl, she told herself. Several times a week she went to a small park a few blocks away that offered bicycle and walking paths around a small ’lake. She often ran in the park on evenings and weekends to relax in the fresh air and get a different perspective on the day’s happenings. Heaven only knew, she needed a good mind-clearing at the moment.
She changed into a jogging outfit and running shoes and slipped on a headband to hold back her hair. She was just emerging from her building when she heard someone frantically calling her name.
“Dr. Tyla…Dr. Tyla…” Rose Delgado abandoned an old car at the curb and left the driver’s door open in her haste. She rushed up to Tyla, breathless, her face streaked with tears. “Please help me.”
“What is it, Rose?” Tyla asked, alarmed at the young woman’s distraught appearance.
“Rubin, he…oh, my God.” She broke off with a loud cry.
A motorcycle came gunning around the corner. The driver braked to an explosive stop a few feet from the two women. The youth was unshaven, dressed in worn jeans and a black sweatshirt.
“Get on, bitch,” he snarled at Rose, giving a jerk of his long hair toward the seat on the back of his bike.
“No…” Rose cowered away from him.
“You must be Rubin,” Tyla said evenly. She knew all of the sordid details of Rubin’s treatment of Rose. He’d made her life hell from the moment she’d been pulled into his gang. Getting her pregnant had been a sickening plus on his gang’s scorecard. She kept her eyes locked on his surly face. “You leave Rosie alone.”
“Butt out! Let’s go, Rosie.”
“She’s not going anywhere with you.”
“You aiming to come between a man and his woman?”
“She’s leaving you and you know it.”
“Well, I ain’t got no paper that says so. Back off, shrink.” He raised a threatening fist to Tyla. He was only seventeen years old and already exhibited the ravages of drink and drugs. His teeth showed ugly yellow stains, and his slight frame was emaciated to the point of skin and bones. He’d been in and out of jail since puberty. Rose said he’d killed a rival gang member, but the authorities hadn’t been able to make the charges stick.
“Leave Rose alone, Rubin,” Tyla said. “She doesn’t want to have anything more to do with you.”
“I warn you! Stay out of my business or I’ll—”
There was a movement beside her, and Tyla gasped as Clay stepped in front of her. She hadn’t seen him sprint across the parking lot. “Would you like me to make it my business?”
Rubin was off the seat of his bike and had a knife in his hand with a speed Tyla wouldn’t have believed possible. A razor-sharp blade caught the sunlight as he made a threatening jab toward Clay. “It’s your blood, man.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.” Clay gauged the distance between them. “Put the knife down.”
“Come and get it,” Rubin taunted.
Clay lunged forward. The youth jumped back, but not before the tip of the knife raked across Clay’s hand.
Tyla cried out as blood flowed from the wound.
The sudden thrust had taken Clay by surprise, but he was ready when Rubin lunged forward again. Clay feigned a step to one side, but his body didn’t follow. Instead, he threw his weight forward and grabbed Rubin’s wrist.
“Drop it!” he ordered as he twisted Rubin’s arm until the knife fell to the ground. Clay gave him a shove backward that nearly knocked him off his feet. “Now, get out of here before I have you arrested for assault.”
Rubin made a move to pick up the knife, but Clay covered it with his foot. “I’ll keep the knife…in case I decide to press charges.”
With a threatening glare, Rubin got on his motorcycle and roared away.
“Your hand,” Tyla said anxiously. Her heart was still racing. She’d never forget that moment of horror when Rubin had flashed the knife in front of Clay’s face.
“Just a nick,” he assured her.
“He could have seriously hurt you.”
“But he didn’t.”
“I’m so sorry,” sobbed Rose, her dark eyes filled with tears.
Clay took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped his hand. He was tempted to make more out of the wound than it deserved. As far as he was concerned, things had worked out very well.
All morning he’d been trying to decide whether or not Tyla would even agree to see him. He was furious with himself for letting his temper flare and lashing out at her. All his life he’d been subjected to conditional love. His parents had always made their affection contingent upon approval of his behavior. If he didn’t perform to their satisfaction, they withheld their love. Lynette’s caring had been dependent upon his ability to provide her with the luxuries of life, and now his daughter withheld her love for reasons he didn’t begin to fathom. He’d handled poorly Tyla’s cool rejection of a promise that they could mean something to each other. If he wasn’t careful, he’d drive her away altogether.
He’d been rehearsing how he was going to approach her, and the problem had unexpectedly been solved.
“I just didn’t know where to go,” Rose sobbed.
“To the police, Rose. You don’t have any choice,” Tyla said firmly. “I’ve been urging you to get a restraining order. Rubin is dangerous…to you and your baby. I can’t do anything to stop him from harassing you, but the police can. They’ll pick him up if he comes anywhere near you again. Promise me you’ll go and report what happened today. Promise? We’ll be witnesses if you need any.”
Rose’s eyes slid to Clay. “I’m sorry you got hurt.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She straightened her shoulders. “I’ll go to the police.”
“Good.” Tyla patted her arm reassuringly. “It’s going to be all right, Rose. We’re your friends.”
“Let me know if you need help. I’ll put my lawyer on it,” Clay offered. He was sick of punks waving weapons and creating fear just for the joy of it.
Rose gave Clay a wistful smile. “I’m glad you and Dr. Tyla are making out good.”
Clay chuckled and Tyla avoided looking directly into his face as Rose drove away. Then she said evenly, “We’d better take a look at that hand. Come on up to my apartment.”
“If you insist.”
She decided to ignore the smile in his voice.
Chapter 10
In the elevator going up to her floor, Tyla became painfully aware of her appearance—stretch jogging pants, droopy sweatshirt and hair caught in a headband. In her flat running shoes, the tip of her head only came to Clay’s shoulders. She shot a quick glance at his impeccable fawn slacks and monogram sport shirt opened at the neck to show a nice expanse of tanned skin. He looked like a fashionable golfer ready to tee off at some country club.
Clay was aware of a slight flush on Tyla’s cheeks as she pulled down the edge of her zippered sweatshirt and smoothed back some wayward hair. The feminine gestures amused him. Her casual attire took away the crisp edges of her professionalism, and he’d never seen her look more appealing. He definitely preferred the molding stretch pants to the tailored slacks and skirts she wore, but he knew better than to indicate any interest in her appearance. He kept his expression bland as he stood beside her in the elevator.
Tyla interpreted his silence as reluctance to make some comment about her less than professional attire. “I was going out for a run,” she offered briskl
y. “I often take a few laps around the small lake in the park around the corner.”
She thought there was a hint of a smile in his deep eyes as he nodded. “I didn’t know whether I’d catch you at home or not. I was out in the car and gave in to an impulse to drop by and see if you might want to go for a drive.”
She wasn’t about to accept such an impromptu invitation but she couldn’t be totally rude to him, not when he was holding a bloodstained handkerchief to a wound he’d received defending her and one of her clients.
She was saved from having to refuse the invitation on the spot when the elevator door flew open and she led the way down the hall to her corner apartment. Clay filled up the space as he stood in the middle of the small living room and looked around.
Remembering the spacious rooms and vaulted ceilings of his home, Tyla was painfully aware that her entire apartment was smaller than the marbled entrance hall that stretched across the front of his beautiful home. She was conscious of his tall masculine frame and firm legs as he walked over to the French doors, still holding the handkerchief against his hand.
“Some view,” he said. “I bet it changes from morning to night and season to season. A panorama of sky and mountains kind of takes you out of yourself, doesn’t it?”
She was grateful to him for recognizing the one thing in the apartment that gave her the most pleasure. Beginning to relax, she was surprised at the pleasure it gave her to share the view with him. Under normal circumstances she never would have invited him to her apartment, but now that he was there, she entertained a new perspective that was both bewildering and exciting. His presence changed her perception of the familiar surroundings, adding an intensity to the colors, shapes and textures, making them more vivid and crisp. She remembered how enthusiastic he’d been about his maritime hobby. Maybe he’d be interested in photographs of her father’s sailboats and memoirs of some of the trips he’d made. Then she remembered why he was there.
“Your hand.”
“It’s nothing.”
She looked at the bloody handkerchief wrapped around his hand. Maybe the cut was deeper than he was willing to admit. “You’d better wash it off. The bathroom’s this way.”
She led the way down a short hall. She saw him glance into her bedroom as they passed and she was glad that she’d made her bed and put away her nightclothes. Sometimes she thought she was too meticulous when it came to picking up and putting away, but at times like this, she was glad the apartment was presentable.
Her bathroom was small and still slightly steamy from her early-morning shower. A subtle scent of soap and body lotion lingered. That sweet smell had invaded Clay’s nostrils, tantalizing him when he had almost kissed her in his bedroom. Now the feminine scent was a cue for the same kind of arousal. He wanted to reach out and pull her against him, taking up where they had left off when Doreen so rudely interrupted them, but he’d determined that he wasn’t going to foul up and move too fast.
He managed a noncommittal “Smells nice.”
The comment was innocent enough, but Tyla didn’t know how to handle the intimacy, the close quarters and the bewildering stimuli swamping her senses. There was no way to avoid brushing against his virile body as she reached into the medicine cabinet for disinfectant and a box of strip bandages.
He smiled at her in a way that made her voice shaky. “I don’t have any tape or gauze.”
“It’s just a scratch. No need for a first-aid kit.”
“I’m afraid I’m no good when it comes to this kind of thing,” she admitted. “I never wanted to go into medicine. Working with the human mind is challenging enough.”
“No need to apologize…”
“I’m not apologizing, just explaining why I get squeamish at the sight of blood.” She moved back a little as he bent over the sink, unwrapped the bloody handkerchief and put his hand under a stream of water.
She hadn’t been lying. She felt slightly nauseated as the water swirled in a crimson flow down the drain. Maybe the cut was deep. He might need stitches. What if the wound left a scar on the back of that firm, dexterous hand?
He heard her intake of breath and saw a paling in her face. “Hey, you’re not going to faint on me, are you?”
She swallowed. “No, of course not.”
“See, it’s just a nick. If the blade hadn’t hit a small capillary, there wouldn’t have been more than a drop of blood.” He deftly applied some antiseptic cream and put on a bandage. “There, all done.” He held up his hand to show her. “Good as new.” As if to prove a point, he let his arm slip around her waist.
Instinctively, she put her hands on his chest with protesting firmness and drew back as much as the shower stall would let her. Never in her life had she imagined such a situation.
Ridiculous, totally unbelievable. A part of her wanted to ignore the impropriety of responding to his advances while ensconced in her bathroom, but her more prim self was appalled.
“No demonstration is required,” she said shortly. “I can see that you’re quite fit.”
He sighed, wondering how he could reach the soft, sensual woman lurking behind the guise of detached professionalism. She was anything but detached. He knew enough about women to recognize a leaping pulse and quickening breath.
“Let’s go back to the living room,” she said with a lift of that delectable chin.
Damn it, she was pressing all the buttons whether she knew it or not. Clay dropped his hands and turned away with unconcealed impatience. What in the hell was he doing here anyway? He’d been on his way to Crescent Lake to sail his boat when he’d turned around about five miles up the highway.
Earlier that morning he’d written down her home telephone number and address and had debated about calling her on his cellular phone. In the end he had decided against it because he didn’t want to give her a chance to turn him down. Arriving at an opportune time to play knight-to-the-rescue had worked in his favor.
For all the good it was going to do him, he thought wryly as they went back to the living room. In the next minute she would show him to the door, and that would be that. He knew which way the wind blew. He’d be damned if he’d let her know how she was twisting his insides with a longing that wouldn’t go away.
“Well, I won’t keep you any longer from your jogging,” he said brusquely before she had a chance to say anything.
She frowned. Then she lifted her chin and met his eyes squarely. “Did you almost call me last night…after midnight?”
“What?”
“Did you debate about calling me in the middle of the night?” she repeated. “About one o’clock?”
He looked at her in surprise and then shook his head. “No, I retired about eleven. Why? Did the telephone wake you up at that hour?”
She wasn’t about to explain about the psychic impression of the phone. Even though she was convinced that someone had been strongly debating calling her, she didn’t want to invite his open skepticism. He’d already made it clear how he felt about such happenings. “I suppose it could have been anyone. I just thought I’d ask.”
“Were you wanting me to call?” he asked with infuriating candor. “One o’clock’s a little late for me. I confess I’m not much of a night owl but I’d be happy to oblige. Usually I’ve fallen asleep over my Business Weekly by that hour. How about if I call you at nine o’clock every night? I tell you what, I’ll put it on my agenda.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Hey, I’m making progress. I do believe that was a chuckle coming out of that pretty mouth of yours.”
She rewarded him with a full, melodious laugh. His chest tightened and a warning shot through him. He’d never felt this way before, this urgent need to make a woman like him. He was confused. More than once, he’d asked himself if Cassie was the reason for his explosive interest in Dr. Tyla Templeton or were his feelings pure male hormones? One thing was clear. He’d never had his emotions in such a tangle over any woman.
“I think I�
��ve lost too much blood to leave right away. Weak, you know.”
She laughed again.
He surprised her by easing down on her comfortable floral couch and stretching his long legs out in front of him. He looked for all the world as if he were prepared to spend a good deal of time recuperating from his wound.
“Would a cup of black coffee or a can of pop help?” she asked with mock solicitude. “I wouldn’t want you passing out on my couch.”
“That would never do, would it?” he said with a solemnity that never reached his eyes. “But since you offered, a cup of black coffee might help keep my strength up.”
She knew when she was being deftly manipulated but for some reason she didn’t mind. Chuckling, she went into her small kitchen and heated some coffee left over from breakfast. She took a can of pop out of the refrigerator and filled a decorative mug with coffee. When she returned to the living room, she handed him the coffee and sat down on the footstool. “I hope the coffee’s not too strong.”
He eyed the mug she’d given him, turned it around and looked at the decor of seashells, sea horses and the bold lettering, California. Then he asked, “How long have you lived in Colorado?”
“Moved here about a year ago. I miss the ocean, but the mountains have their own mystique.”
“Yes, they do. I’m a different person when I’m surrounded by jagged cliffs and deep mountain valleys.”
“And what kind of person is that?”
He smiled as if the questioning technique had not been lost on him. “My life has been structured from the moment I was born. Contrary to most people’s belief, being prosperous does not free a person but dictates almost every facet of his life. Because I would inherit my father’s business and investments, I took a business degree at Harvard even though a different major would have pleased me more. Anyway, I can escape the dictated patterns of my life when I’m on a mountain lake, sailing my boat and fishing off the stern. I guess that’s the real me…a lazy vagabond. Sometimes I think I’ll let everything go to hell and get away from all the pressures.”
