SIX DAYS

by Williams, Mary J.

  Linc was tempted to make a detour on his way home and check on her. He grinned when he imagined their exchange, him on one side of the door, her on the other. He would cajole, and tease, and charm. She would tell him to go to hell. His grin widened. Nothing subtle about Dee.

  Turning off the shower, Linc made his decision. He would check on her tomorrow. Tonight, better to let her sleep.

  “How the hell long does a shower take?” Pete barked as Linc exited the stall.

  Startled, Linc swore his heart stopped for a second. Sending the older man a dirty look, he wrapped a towel around his waist.

  “I thought you went home.”

  “In case you forgot, we leave for Dubai on Monday.” Pete followed him into the locker room. “Might only be an exhibition, but for the money they’ve doled out, the organizers expect you to give an all-out performance.”

  “I’m aware.” Without the least bit of modesty, Linc dropped the towel and dressed.

  “Need to keep your head in the game.

  Barely five foot six in his stocking feet, a perpetual unlit cigar between his strong, white teeth, Pete Winchell was a barrel of a man. Forearms like Popeye and legs like tree trunks, one look could intimidate men twice his size and half his age. Linc put up with all the bluster because underneath, Pete never wavered in his support and friendship. Plus, the man knew tennis, up, down, and all around.

  Pete was the best and worked like the devil until Linc could say the same.

  “What’s your point?” Linc asked as he calmly buttoned his shirt.

  “Tell me where you went today.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Shit! A woman. Should have known.” Silently, Linc ran his fingers through his hair. His lack of response only fueled Pete on. “Been living like a freaking monk for the last month.”

  “In November, you complained I had too many women in my life. Now you bitch there aren’t enough? Make up your mind.”

  Pete dogged Linc’s heels, out of the locker room and toward the exit.

  “One at a time can be just as bad as twenty.”

  “Twenty?” Linc pushed his way through the door, greeted by the blare of a distant police siren. “You give me and my libido too much credit.”

  “Once upon a time, fifty was an understatement.” A stiff breeze hit them the moment they stepped from the building. Pete ignored the cold and how the wind played havoc with the few hairs he had left on his head. “Remember the one time you tried to abstain for the benefit of your game?”

  The memory was burned into Linc’s brain. Worst two months of his life.

  “Women are what wears a man down to the nub.” Pete gave a matter-of-fact shrug. “If you hadn’t sworn off masturbation as well, you’d have been okay.”

  Pete’s straightforward approach to every subject rarely bothered Linc. However, he would prefer not to discuss his sex life in public. The only saving grace, because of the late hour, they were the only ones around to hear.

  “Have I ever let a woman get in the way of tennis?” Linc asked. “Even when I was young and stupid?”

  “Where women are concerned, stupid has nothing to do with age.”

  Linc was a patient man, but even he had his limit.

  “You’re my friend as well as my coach, Pete. I trust you with my career.”

  “After all these years, I should hope so.”

  Linc handed the attendant a tip and slid behind the wheel of his heated car—another plus for members of the Wayside Training Compound was the valet parking. Pete’s boat-like Cadillac waited right behind his sleek Porsche.

  “Until the day my personal life spills over onto the tennis court, keep your nose out.”

  “But—”

  “Enjoy your day off, Pete.”

  “Another email arrived.”

  “I receive them every day. Tons.”

  The bottleneck of crap on his business email address was the reason he hired someone to handle the mess. People he cared about either called his private number or texted.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Another threat?”

  When Pete nodded, Linc sighed. Because of his high-profile, obsessed fans were a part of life. Now and then, obsessed crossed over to crazy.

  “Way to bury the lead.” Linc shut off the engine. “You could have told me sooner.”

  “Told you now,” Pete said with a shrug, handing Linc a paper with the printed-out message. “If I had my way, you wouldn’t know.”

  If Pete had his way, Linc would live in a bubble of training and tennis. Hardly practical. And potentially dangerous. Not that he was worried. According to the police, crackpots rarely acted on their fantasies. However, one was all it took.

  As he read, a frown formed between Linc’s brows. The sender had a vivid imagination with a sexual bent. Weirdos came with the superstar athlete territory.

  “Like the others, send the email to the police.”

  “I did. As usual, they don’t seem impressed.”

  “Neither am I.”

  Frustrated, Pete snatched back the paper.

  “A couple messages was one thing. Since the start of the year, the frequency has increased to one a day.” Pete crumpled the email in his fist. “We need outside help to track the sender.”

  “What do you mean by outside help?”

  “Someone other than the police to investigate and determine if you’re in danger.”

  “As in a private investigator?” Suddenly, Linc’s interest was piqued.

  “Sure,” Pete nodded. “With the right qualifications.”

  “I know just the person.” Linc restarted the car.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t worry,” Linc assured his coach. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”

  “Fine,” Pete grumbled. “Bright and early.”

  With a wave, Linc slammed the door. Shifting into second, he hit the gas. Unlike Pete, he wasn’t worried. What had him as revved as the Porsche’s powerful engine? The emails gave him the perfect excuse to spend time with a certain long-legged P.I. he couldn’t get off his mind.

  The last time Linc was with a woman was on a long weekend in Vermont just before Christmas. She was a cute little Broadway dancer with dreams of stardom and a generous spirit. They skipped the snow in favor of three days of non-stop sex.

  Two weeks later, Linc met Dee. He hadn’t thought of another woman since.

  Linc’s mind raced as he sped along the deserted streets. He needed an excuse to spend time with her, a way to slip under her defenses long enough to earn her trust.

  Dee Wakefield wasn’t the only woman in the world. But for now, until he could get her out of his system, like it or not, Dee was the only woman he wanted.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ~~~~

  DEE EXPECTED TO wake up the next morning with more aches and pains than the night before. To her surprise, she actually felt better. Not tip-top, one hundred percent, ready to run a marathon, or take on the world. But she could roll out of bed with only a groan or two.

  Between the ice/heat treatments, a steady supply of over-the-counter pain relief, and a hearty meal of the best spaghetti and meatballs ever, she could tell her body was on the mend. After a long, lukewarm shower, Dee felt almost human.

  Thank you, Lincoln James.

  Dee admitted she owed Linc a debt of gratitude. However, his motives remained a puzzle. If all he wanted was to get her into bed, why the Florence Nightingale routine? Why expend so much time and effort on a potential one-night stand?

  Even if Linc thought she was a sure thing—especially if he thought the sex was a given—why the good-guy routine? Unless…

  Dee wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and looked herself in the eye. Her instincts screamed he was a good guy, but she couldn’t be certain. In every other part of her life, she trusted her gut. Her love life was a wild card. Partly because she was out of practice. Mostly because
, the one time she let a man get close, he betrayed her trust. Worse, he took something vital. Her belief in herself.

  The road back was hard, both physically and mentally. Along the way, Dee lost her career in the Navy and the people she thought were loyal but deserted her the second the seas grew rough.

  As a civilian, she gained a job she loved and a new group of amazing friends she never expected to find

  After much soul-searching, Dee realized her new path was better than the old one. Her own woman, she answered to no one. She wasn’t obligated by love of country or the oath she took to choke down a protest when her superiors made questionable decisions. She had no superior and if she made a mistake, she paid the price, not hundreds of innocent soldiers and civilians.

  Naked, Dee ran a finger over the long, slightly jagged ridge on her stomach. The scar was camouflaged by a winding, thorn-covered stem ending just below her left breast. Over her heart bloomed a rose, black as night. The tattoo, her first but by no means her last, was a reminder in case she forgot. Love hurts. Sometimes, if the bullet hits an inch one way or the other, love kills.

  The wound healed, the scar faded. Dee survived—thrived. Twelve years later, she was better, stronger, smarter. If she avoided relationships, so what? A woman, contrary to what society and her mother claimed, didn’t need to go through life coupled with another human being.

  Dee was happy, most of the time. And, until one fateful New Year’s meeting, content to think of sex as a one-time thing, enjoy the moment and move on.

  Lincoln James was no different from any other man. A bit better looking, a little sexier. She had to admit he was smart. Funny in a subversive kind of way—Dee was a sucker for subversive.

  The gentle side of Linc came as a surprise. Who would expect a world-famous athlete, a man catered to and fawned over, to be tender and caring? Dee didn’t think yesterday was an act. To what purpose? Then again, she hadn’t been in any condition to judge.

  Who was Lincoln James? And why the hell did she care?

  Because he makes me—

  A sharp, decisive knock sounded on the door. The welcome interruption saved Dee. She didn’t know how Linc made her feel, and for now, she was happy to stay in the dark.

  Was she a coward? Dee shrugged into her robe. Yup. And, she would wear the badge with honor.

  Out of habit, Dee took her gun from under her pillow. Last evening, she retrieved the firearm from her jacket before the food Linc ordered arrived. Grabbing her robe, she used the cinched belt as a holster in the small of her back.

  A huge proponent of better safe than sorry, Dee was an expert shot. She’d only discharged her weapon once in civilian life. However, if the situation arose where her life, or the life of someone she cared about, was on the line, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

  Looking through the peephole, she relaxed as she released the multiple locks. She turned the knob, a genuine smile on her lips.

  “Good morning.”

  Destry Benedict gave Dee a silent once-over, her dark eyes sharp and probing as always.

  “You can put the gun away,” the curvy brunette quipped. “Nice shiner, by the way.”

  “I zigged, he zagged.” If anyone would understand the hazards of Dee’s job, it was the youngest Benedict sister, Dee thought as she stowed the Beretta in her desk drawer. “What’s with the bags? Running away from home?”

  With a good-natured chuckle, Destry entered the room. In one hand, she carried a massive red canvas shopping tote, the other pulled a matching suitcase large enough to hold a medium-sized human being. Neither piece sported an obvious manufacturer's label. However, since over Christmas, Dee was gifted with an entire set of the luggage from Andi Benedict’s new Traveler line, she easily recognized the subtle, classy, yet practical design.

  “I come bearing balms for the wounded,” Destry declared as she removed her coat and gloves.

  “Wounded? How did you…?”

  Before the question passed her lips, Dee knew the answer. She wouldn’t have pegged Lincoln James as a gossip.

  “Before you plan your revenge, I admit Linc did rat you out, but with the best of intentions.”

  Again, where Lincoln James was concerned, Dee’s feelings were jumbled. A woman who prided herself on a clear, concise thought process, she didn’t like the fog around her brain. Nor didn’t care for how just the mention of Linc’s name caused the odd tingling in the pit of her stomach.

  “Who did he call?” Dee frowned. “What did he say?”

  Destry deposited the tote near the tiny refrigerator then hefted the suitcase onto the bed.

  “Linc spoke to Mrs. Finch. Seems he wanted a recipe for his chef. As if she would surrender any of her culinary magic—especially to a fancy chef-for-hire,” Destry snorted her laugh. “The restorative power of her chicken soup is the stuff of legends. It’s tasty, too.”

  “He wanted to bring me soup?”

  “I know. Crazy, huh?” Destry shrugged. “If, like my sisters, I was the sentimental type, I’d say the guy was goofy for you.”

  “Goofy?”

  “Calder’s word, not mine. She could be right. After all, if all the guy wanted was to get into your drawers, he’d send flowers. Or candy. Maybe some flashy jewelry. But tell me, what’s seductive about chicken noodle soup?”

  Dee couldn’t say. However, the feeling in her stomach had turned from a mild tickle into a wild flutter.

  “I never pictured Linc as the nurturing type—too much raging testosterone.” Destry unzipped the tote. She removed a sealed plastic container. “I’ve seen Mrs. F’s soup used for colds, the flu, and general malaise. But an aphrodisiac? Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

  “You read too much into a simple gesture of kindness.”

  “Please,” Destry scoffed. “Kind is when you help an old lady across the street. True, a phone call doesn’t take much effort, he—”

  “He took care of me.” The words burst from Dee, unbidden. The sudden need to defend Linc’s motives superseded her ingrained sense of privacy. “Yesterday, he brought me aspirin and iced my leg. He borrowed a heating pad and ordered Italian food. How he convinced them to deliver, I don’t know.”

  “GrubHub?” Destry offered.

  “Doubtful.” Dee mentioned the name of the restaurant known for high-end service and a higher-end clientele. “Said he knows the owner.”

  “No lie. Linc is the owner. Or, to be accurate, one of them.”

  “Should have known.”

  “Linc isn’t some pretty-faced dumb jock. Word is he possesses mad business skills. Everything from movie theaters, to amusement parks and many things in between. All thriving, by the way.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Liam.”

  Liam Stanton, the love of Destry’s life, was a whiz with everything financial. He’d built himself a far-reaching international empire. If he claimed Linc was smart with money, she could take the information to the bank.

  “Forget what I or anyone else knows.” Destry continued to pull container after container from the tote. “What did your digging turn up?”

  “Who says I dug? And how much food did Mrs. Finch send? She knows my refrigerator is barely big enough for a carton of milk.”

  “Don’t worry. Nothing is perishable. Per Mrs. F.’s instructions, keep the containers, or pass them on to one of your neighbors.” Destry stashed the empty bag in Dee’s one under-counter cupboard. “And, I know you dug into Linc’s background because I know you.”

  “The only reason I would check him out is if someone paid me.”

  “Unless your interest was personal.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  Dee’s proclamation sounded hollow to her ears. From the look of disbelief Destry gave her, her friend agreed.

  “No crime in checking—just in case. Right?”

  Without asking, Dee poured two cups of coffee.

  “I ma
y have nosed around a little out of curiosity.”

  Destry sipped the dark brew. She was silent, but the glint of triumph in her dark eyes was unmistakable.

  “Don’t gloat.”

  “Me?” Destry batted her long lashes. “Never.”

  “Just wanted to see if I could find anything problematic.”

  “Bet you didn’t.”

  Two things Dee looked for out of the gate. A long and/or violent criminal history. Or a record so clean it squeaked.

  The first—continued trouble with the law—was an obvious clue to someone’s character. The second was harder to gauge. To the untrained eye, clean was good. Dee knew better. She didn’t trust anyone who didn’t have a smudge or two—especially when young and, by definition, stupid.

  “One arrest for public brawling.”

  “How public?”

  Trust Destry, an unrepentant badass, to ask. The fact that Dee thought of the same question proved how alike they were.

  “A dive bar in Key West,” Dee explained. “Took on five burly bikers, according to the file. The reason isn’t public record.”

  “Couple shots of tequila and the wrong song on the jukebox are reason enough in my book.”

  Dee laughed. Sometimes, when she looked at Destry, she saw herself fifteen years ago. Sure, the younger woman possessed a glossy polish nothing could completely camouflage, plus a trust fund big enough to choke a horse. But the kiss-my-butt attitude was Dee to a T.

  “The judge gave Linc two options. Apologize, or three days in jail and a five-thousand-dollar fine.”

  “Apologize?” Destry looked confused. “To the owner of the bar?”

  “No. Linc had his lawyer settle with the owner right away. Said he was sorry, promised to never enter the bar again, and paid for all damages.”

  “Good man.”

  Dee agreed. Even as a young hothead, Linc understood right from wrong. In his eyes, wrong was when he was asked to apologize to the court in general and the judge in particular.