SIX DAYS

by Williams, Mary J.

  Taking a deep breath, Dee placed her hand in his. Until the warmth of his fingers settled over her skin, she hadn’t realized how cold it was.

  “Your hand is like a block of ice.” With the detachment of a doctor, Linc touched her forehead. “I don’t think you have a fever.”

  “I’m not sick,” Dee huffed. “February in New York is cold. A subway ride plus a couple of blocks on foot equals cool hands.”

  “Frigid,” Linc corrected. “Why didn’t you take a cab?”

  “The subway’s convenient.” Consciously, Dee kept her teeth from chattering. “And faster.”

  Linc didn’t look convinced. However, rather than continue an argument he couldn’t win, he bundled a blanket around her shoulders, rubbing her arms for good measure.

  “Sit. Please,” he added when she stubbornly remained upright.

  Tired to her bones, Dee gave up and gave in. Linc wanted to help, and the idea started a small but undeniable warm glow in her otherwise chilled body. Why fight him and herself when the end result would be the same?

  Settled on the mattress, Dee allowed herself to relax—mostly. As Linc knelt, his fingers deftly unlacing her boot, she remained ready, just in case her instincts about him were out of whack along with her shin.

  Linc eased the boot from her foot, rolled back the hem of her jeans, and gingerly peeled off her thick, cotton sock. He let out a low, slow whistle.

  “Ouch!” His eyes filled with sympathy. “Swollen. Bruised. Must hurt like crazy. How did you walk?”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  “Which doesn’t answer my question.” Shaking his head, Linc asked her to scoot up the bed until her back was to the wall. Stacking her pillows, he lay Dee’s leg on the elevated cushion. He looked around the room. “Ice?”

  “No freezer.” Willing away the aches without much success, Dee closed her eyes. “I use the machine down the hall—when it’s working.”

  “One of the perks of motel living?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Aspirin? Tylenol? Advil?” He took a second to consider the options. “I know you have a bullet to bite.”

  “Funny man.” Without opening her eyes, Dee pointed toward the bathroom. “Top shelf.”

  “Here you go.” Linc handed her two tablets and a glass of water. “Most women wouldn’t let a man rummage through their medicine cabinet.”

  “You didn’t have time to rummage.” Dee placed the pills on the back of her tongue before downing the water in three large gulps. “And I’m not most women.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  Sarcasm? Or did Dee detect a hint of something else? Admiration? Interest? Curious if she could read the answer in Linc’s expressive gaze, she cracked one eyelid. All she saw was his back as he disappeared into the hall.

  Dee leaned her head against the wall, settling deeper into the bed and winced. Carefully, she lifted her shirt and groaned. As she touched her ribcage, she swore the burgeoning bruise grew darker by the second. An elbow to her right side, and if the pain above her kidney was any indication, a good blow to the back.

  Foolish, she chided herself. She knew better than to grapple with a wanted drug addict. She tracked down the perp. Protocol dictated she wait for the police. Trouble was, as far as Dee was concerned, when a child was involved, the book of rules and regulations went out the window.

  The moment Dee heard glass break against the wall coupled with raised voices, she didn’t. One kick turned the paper-thin door and candy-ass lock into kindling. Gun in hand, before she could do more than shout, freeze or I’ll shoot, she was attacked by a seventy-five pound, hairpulling, whirling dervish.

  Dee rubbed her head, searching for a bald spot. Other than a sore spot, her follicles seemed to be intact. The little blonde looked like an angel, but her disposition was pure devil. Somehow, she managed to extricate the wildcat without causing lasting harm to either of them. A few bruises for the girl, some minor aches and pains for her.

  Muffling a gasp, Dee shifted as she tried without success to jockey her body into a comfortable position. Okay. Perhaps the aches were worse than she wanted to admit and when she moved a certain way, the pains felt like shards of glass inserted into her flesh.

  No big deal.

  When she told Linc she’d experienced worse, she hadn’t exaggerated. Compared to a gunshot to the gut, today was a freaking walk in the park.

  “Jackpot on the ice,” Linc crowed in triumph as he closed the door, clicking each of the six precision locks into place.

  “Where did you get the canvas tote?” Dee’s confusion mounted when Linc removed a plastic bag filled with ice. “I know you didn’t leave with those. So, unless you have a Ziploc dispenser up your ass, you must be a witch.”

  “Call me sexist, but I prefer the term warlock.” Linc chuckled. “Don’t worry. The only magic I do is on the tennis court. And the bedroom.”

  Dee rolled her eyes. Typical man. Except Linc wasn’t typical. He made the claim in a conversational way, touched with humor. While he alluded to his sexual prowess, he didn’t come across as sleazy or attempt to act on the claim.

  Linc’s demeanor was friendly, not smarmy.

  “Your neighbor supplied the tote and the plastic bags.”

  “My neighbor?”

  “Donna. Friendly lady.” Linc placed the ice on Dee’s swollen shin. “She sends her best.”

  “You know Donna is…” Dee swallowed the word, not sure how Linc would take the revelation.

  “Actually Don?” The side of his mouth quirked upward. “I can tell a man when I see one—even in full drag. Amazing wig, by the way. And the makeup? Stunning. Since she called herself Donna, I figured she preferred the name.”

  The ease in which Linc switched between male and female pronouns told Dee he was comfortable with her neighbor’s lifestyle.

  “Donna works down the street. She has quite a following.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised.” Gently, Linc lay a smaller bag on Dee’s cheek. “She invited me to her show.”

  “What did you say?”

  “The chance to see a six-foot-seven-inch Latino man do a full-on Judy Garland?” Linc’s half-smile turned into a grin. ‘How could I say no? Especially after Donna’s sneak peek rendition of Over the Rainbow.”

  Dee felt her aches and pains wane. Partly the aspirin kicking in, partly the cool relief of the ice. And, she had to admit, part Linc. His tender care and total acceptance of her friend—Donna was one of the kindest, gentlest souls the world had ever known—added up to a soothing panacea to what had been a royal crapfest of a day.

  Maybe she would need to rethink her attitude toward Tuesday. Maybe. The jury was still out but the verdict had taken a turn for the better.

  Dee’s stomach rumbled. Food was never high on her list of priorities. When she was hungry, she filled her stomach with whatever was handy. If she were correct, her cupboard consisted of a half-full coffee canister and a couple of snack cakes. Sounded good. In her estimation, Ding Dongs were manna from heaven.

  “Best thing for your leg is to alternate between cold and hot.” Linc removed a heating pad from the bag.

  “Another gift from Donna?”

  “She’s a lifesaver,” he nodded as he found the electrical outlet near her bed. He removed the bag of ice. “Twenty minutes, then switch.”

  “Okay.” Dee had to admit the heating pad felt good.

  “You want to tell me where else you hurt?”

  “Honestly?”

  “If you never lie to me, I’ll never lie to you.”

  A glib, easily made promise, one Dee had heard before. The memory was like another blow to her body, sharp and unexpected. Her first instinct was to punch back. Linc was an easy target. Tempted as she was to bite off his head, his unsolicited kindness and care shielded him—temporarily—from her wrath.

  Taking a calming breath, Dee ran his words through her head, changing them to suit
her purposes. She wouldn’t lie to Linc. If the day came when he lied to her? All bets were off.

  “A good night’s sleep, and I’ll be right as rain.”

  Linc’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t push. Instead, he took out his phone.

  “You’ll sleep better, and your body will heal faster on a full stomach.”

  “Ding Dongs and coffee?”

  Part question, part plea, Linc’s response was to stand and hit speed dial. While he waited for someone to answer, he opened the lone cupboard in the room, the one located directly over her currently cold, empty coffee pot.

  Dee knew what he found. Mostly empty. What she didn’t expect was the wave of embarrassment.

  “Seriously?” Linc shook his head. “A half-empty box of empty calories and nothing else?”

  “Sugar is energy,” she grumbled. “Besides, I don’t cook.”

  “Neither do I. But I can nuke a can of Campbell’s when necessary.”

  “Don’t own a microwave.” Dee was annoyed—with him and herself—that she felt the need to defend herself. “Who are you calling?”

  “Montebello. Best Italian in the city.” Linc leaned his hip against the counter. “Lasagna? Pizza? I know. Spaghetti and meatballs.”

  Dee’s taste buds wept in anticipation. She wasn’t familiar with the restaurant. However, one thing she did know. The kind of place Linc frequented didn’t deliver to her part of town. Mentally, she cursed him. How dare he dangle a treat on which he couldn’t follow through?

  “Joan? Lincoln James.” He chuckled into the phone. “Sounds like the joint is jumping.”

  After a little friendly schmoozing, Linc rattled off the order, gave her address and room number, and hung up. No argument from Joan. And, no need to leave his credit card information.

  “The perks of fame and fortune?” Dee asked.

  “I know the owner,” Linc shrugged without an ounce of shame. “Wish I could stay. Unfortunately, I have someplace I need to be.”

  A date? Chastising her wayward curiosity, Dee bit her tongue before she asked. None of her business.

  “My coach let me off this afternoon after I promised to work my ass off tonight.”

  Dee was relieved, a feeling she tried to ignore. She failed. Miserably.

  “You pay your coach. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means you’re in charge.”

  “Try telling Pete,” Linc said with a bark of laughter. “Part of his job is to keep my ass motivated, something I needed in my unfocused youth. Took a few hits to my ego—and my bank account—before I realized, to win, the desire can’t come from my coach, or my manager, or my parents.”

  Confused, Dee watched Linc slip on his jacket.

  “Then why keep him on the payroll?”

  “No one gets to the top or stays there, alone. Pete sees things I can’t. Something different in my serve, or a hitch in my backhand.” Linc’s expression became thoughtful. “Behind two sets, the latest hot-shot tennis wunderkind determined to take me down, only I can find the focus and determination to come back and win the match.”

  “How?”

  “Simple.” As his focus returned to Dee, a spark of fire heated his eyes. “I hate to lose.”

  The wise thing would be to let him leave without comment. As smart as she was, now and then, Dee let stupid win.

  “But you do,” Dee goaded. “Everyone loses, now and then.”

  The intense blue of Linc’s eyes deepened.

  “You know what makes me a champion? The best in the world?” Linc waited. When she didn’t respond, his lips curved into a knowing smile. “Win or lose? I. Never. Give. Up.”

  He left with a quiet click of the door. He could have slammed out of the room, and Dee wouldn’t have heard over the wild beat of her heart.

  Linc. Arrogant, yet caring. Self-involved, yet kind. Easy to read, yet frustratingly complicated. Sexy, yet… Hard as she tried, nothing came to her. He was sexy. Period.

  Dee touched her lips and to her consternation, found a smile. Oh boy, she groaned as she pulled the covers over her head. She was in trouble with a capital T.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ~~~~

  BACKHAND. FOREHAND. OVERHEAD smash. Backhand. Forehand. Overhead smash.

  The moves were basic yet essential. Part of a tennis player’s arsenal, whether a beginner or a professional. However, while a weekend warrior could get away with a sloppy ground game, a pro lived or died on the proficiency of his backhand, forehand, overhead smash.

  Once, and only once, Linc spent a sleepless night adding up the number of times he sent the fuzzy little ball over the net with no expectation of a return. The best he could do was an educated guess achieved with a mathematical equation of his own making.

  The answer was staggering. Truthfully, Linc stopped counting around the time the sun began to rise. If practice made perfect—or as close as he would ever get—the rewards far outweighed the effort he exerted to achieve his goal.

  As the number-one-ranked tennis player in the world, he could say without qualification that the view was fine indeed. Not that number two, or three, or nineteen weren’t nice neighborhoods to reside.

  Trouble was, Linc reached the top at the age of twenty-one, then tumbled—hard. Ego and lack of discipline were his worse enemies. The road back was long. So many times, he could see the top, taste the sweetness, but had to settle for number two.

  The so-called expert pundits wrote him off.

  Sure, they said, Lincoln James is a great tennis player. But the best? A legend? No. At the age of twenty-nine, time isn’t on his side. He’ll never hit the top again.

  At the age of thirty, Linc proved the naysayers wrong. Next month, on the day he turned thirty-four, the number-one ranking would be his five years running. The feeling of success and accomplishment never got old.

  Crossing to his right, Linc sent a shot zinging into the far court. The ball landed a fraction of an inch from the line, exactly where he planned. The unique spin produced in part by the fact he was lefthanded, part by hours of practice and, finally, a good amount of God-given skill, had baffled his opponents for years. Some tried to copy the motion, but none were successful.

  Linc had mastered the art of the interview. With ease, he walked the fine line between obnoxious arrogance and enviable self-confidence. Known for his easy-going, on-camera charm, he never claimed to be the best, never bad-mouthed a fellow athlete, and never pumped himself up at the detriment of someone else.

  When asked how he remained on top, Linc claimed hard work was the answer. He didn’t lie. He ran his butt off—literally. Between personal trainers, nutritionists, meditation, sports psychologists, and a chef whose menus were designed around his personal body chemistry, nothing was left to chance.

  What Linc didn’t say? The secret he kept to himself? The main reason he reached number one and stayed on the lofty perch for so long? Every time he stepped on the tennis court to face an up-and-comer or wily veteran, he wanted a victory just a little bit more.

  “Time,” Pete Winchell called from his observation post. “Hit the weight room for an hour. Then, please, get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Five more,” Linc called out before Pete could turn off the ball machine.

  Swiping at the sweat on his forehead, he bore down and waited. Another reason he won far more than he lost? A work ethic rivaled by none. Linc’s intensity remained the same from first serve to last shot. As the last ball sailed to his left, he pounced.

  Boom! The yellow projectile rocketed from his racket, over the net. Bam! Game, set, and match.

  Towel around his neck, Linc picked up his bag. He left the court, weaving his way through the halls of the indoor athletic building. The owners offered to waive the pricey membership fees if he agreed to endorse the state-of-the-art facility. His answer, a firm thanks, but no thanks.

  Linc opened his locker, stashed his bag, and headed for the weigh
t room. He wasn’t above lending his name to a product he believed in. And he certainly enjoyed the Wayside Training Compound. However, unlike an energy drink or a line of designer clothing, his job was tennis and the place he trained was sacrosanct.

  The last thing Linc needed were gawkers and autograph seekers in his workout zone.

  One hour to the minute later, muscles humming, he rested one hand against the tiled shower stall and raised his face to the welcome spray of hot water. At the age when many athletes began to suffer wear and tear on their over-stressed bodies, he never felt better.

  In the best shape of his life, Linc believed thirty-four was just a number. However, injuries happened. He could blow out his knee tomorrow. A tendon could snap in his arm. Hell, he could slip on a patch of ice and break his leg. The world held no guarantees, even for a man who treated his body like a freaking temple.

  The end of Linc’s career was a lot closer than the beginning. Though he still loved the game, retirement wasn’t the dirty word it once was. He wasn’t ready, but he was prepared both mentally and financially. Savvy investments and a good head for business meant he wouldn’t have to worry about money.

  As he washed the sweat from his body, Linc cleared his mind. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to Dee Wakefield.

  Intriguing didn’t begin to describe her. The night they met, she looked like a million bucks, glittery and glamorous. Today, she wore jeans and Army boots with equal aplomb. Both times, her personality was tough and abrasive. Both times, he couldn’t resist the urge to find out more.

  Linc’s plan as he waited for her outside the rundown motel, was to ask her out. The second he noticed her ill-disguised limp, he would have done anything in his power to take away her pain.

  A deep frown furrowed Linc’s brow. He knew Dee was a private investigator. He knew she carried a gun. Yet, he didn’t equate her job with danger. He pictured her behind a desk, solving cases on her laptop, not engaged in hand-to-hand combat with dangerous criminals.

  Dee tried to downplay the situation. Linc didn’t doubt her story about the little girl. The parts she left out concerned him. What surprised him was how a strong, take-no-prisoners, gun-toting woman with short choppy, blue-tipped hair and a myriad of badass tattoos brought out a protective side he hadn’t known existed.