by Elaine Fox
“Heather?” Marcy asked, her voice strained and light. “So you have a chef named Heather now?”
He shook his head, frustrated by her stubbornness. Why did she want so badly to believe he was a jerk?
Because she’d slept with him and then found another woman in his apartment. It made perfect sense.
Because it meant—possibly—that she hadn’t blown him off the other day because of his lack of money, and that elated him.
“I didn’t even know she was coming. She showed up while I was getting my truck from over near the pool hall.” Just the mention of that night roused his senses. She’d been so…so funny and open and incredible. Looking at her now, poised like a cobra ready to strike at any false word, he could hardly believe he’d ever held her as she quivered beneath his touch. “Marcy, I was as surprised to see her as you were. Probably more so.”
Marcy narrowed her eyes. “Most mothers just bring over a bunch of casseroles in Tupperware. Your mother sends a chef? And a steamship round?”
“Yeah, I know.” He tried to laugh and leaned against a nearby parking meter. “Who expects a chef? I certainly didn’t. It’s just my mother. She’s not the kind of person I can explain. We’re…I guess you could say we’re estranged.”
She put one hand on her hip and regarded him skeptically. “She doesn’t seem to be estranged. She sent you a chef named Heather.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets as a chill wind ruffled his hair. Looking down the street in consternation, he continued. “Listen, I told her not to come back. The chef, that is. I wish I had a better explanation, but I don’t.” He shifted his gaze to her, feeling honesty trapped in his chest along with his racing heart. “I’m not lying to you, Marcy. Heather is nobody. Nobody to me, anyway.”
Marcy opened her mouth to protest but he held up a hand to silence her.
“Listen, I know you think you and I are wrong for each other, and maybe you’re right. Trust me, I’ve had some of the same thoughts. But I wouldn’t—really, you have to believe me—I wouldn’t juggle women, as you put it. And I most definitely wouldn’t juggle you.”
She was silent a long time. Then, “Why wouldn’t you juggle me, Truman?” she asked quietly.
A cold sweat broke out across his forehead, despite the chilling breeze. He could not wrest his gaze from hers. “Because…” He stopped, the words lodged in his throat.
Her brows rose, but she looked uncertain.
“Because I respect you, Marcy.”
She laughed, but her eyes were still unsure. “Oldest line in the book, Fleming. Though I guess I’m lucky to get it after the nights of passion, instead of before.”
He pressed his lips together and looked at the ground. God, she was a tough nut to crack.
“If things were different, if you and I came from different places…” He shook his head, a small smile on his lips as he studied her face. She was so feminine and strong and smart. And so damned determined to keep him at bay.
She looked away and he thought he could see her blushing under his gaze. His eyes dropped to her throat as she swallowed.
“Okay, Truman.” She turned back. Her dark eyes glittered in the lights of the city street. “Let’s say I believe you.”
“But you don’t?”
She pulled her coat closer around her. The breeze blew strands of her hair across her face. She tucked them behind her ear with her fingers and looked down the street again.
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter, because we aren’t going to work. We’ve both said it. We both know it.” Her voice was tired, defeated.
He wondered if she felt as sad about that fact as she looked.
“Listen,” he said, glancing at the restaurant behind him. “Let’s pop in here for an Irish coffee, get warmed up, figure out what we’re going to do about Guido, and get past all this.”
If he could just get her to loosen up a little, maybe she’d see that what was important was right here in front of her. Strip away the power suits and the tool belts, the career considerations and the minimum wage issues, and what you had were two people who were dangerously attracted to one another. Two people who wanted each other so badly they threw all caution to the wind. And that was a hell of a lot of caution.
She continued to look down the street and he wished he could see her face.
“Deal?” he asked, bending his knees and tipping his head to catch her eye.
She met his gaze, her own dark and inscrutable. After a second, she smiled slightly. “All right. But only because I’m freezing.”
He smiled and she looked at the ground again.
“How about this place right here?” He swept his hand behind them. “Look, you can see their fine, shiny bar right through the window. I believe I can even see the Jameson’s.”
The wind picked up again and Marcy said, “Brrrr,” and walked past him to the door. “I’m going in. You can stand out here and wax poetic about it if you want.”
Marcy couldn’t believe it. She was sitting across from Truman, they were talking about a subject near and dear to her heart, namely her own safety; she was trying to believe, God help her, that stupid story about his mother hiring a blonde bombshell named Heather as his cook; and all she could do was watch Truman’s lips as he spoke and imagine them nibbling at her ear, leaving a line of kisses down her neck…
“I’m telling you,” his lips were saying, “after I talked to him I was sure Arthur was going to back off. This…”He turned his hands palm up on the bar. “This could well be the work of someone else, someone more…threatening. Truthfully? I’m worried, Marcy.”
She nodded soberly and looked at his hands. She remembered those fingers touching her, exploring her body in exquisite ways, ways most men didn’t know how to explore.
“Is there someone you can stay with for a while?” he continued. “Just until the case is over? I don’t like the idea of them knowing where you live, and that you live alone.”
She picked up her Irish coffee, pictured Truman’s bedroom, and sucked the last of the whipped cream from the bottom with her straw. “I guess I could stay with my friend Trish. But I really don’t want to do that. She’s just starting to see this new guy…”
“Marcy…” He touched her hand, then quickly crossed his arms over his chest. “I can’t believe she’d mind. I mean, I don’t know her, but if she’s a true friend she’d want to be sure you were safe.”
Marcy nodded and glanced out the window to the street. It was cold out there, and so warm and cozy in here. She never wanted to leave. Never wanted to step back into the world where she was a lawyer and Truman was an aimless laborer, and life’s shoulds and shouldn’ts got so confusing.
“I know, I know,” she said. “Trish already offered to let me stay. But I think she has real feelings for Palmer and I’d hate to be there, cramping her style, when I’d probably be perfectly safe in my own apartment.”
“Palmer?” Truman asked, in a strange voice.
Marcy glanced at his face. “Yeah, Palmer Roe. He’s a really nice guy, and seems to be interested in her too. But you know how it is at the beginnings of a rela—”
She bit off the word and glanced at him through her lashes. Perhaps he thought they were in the beginning of a relationship. No, no of course he wouldn’t, because they weren’t; they’d just decided that. But they were in the beginning of something. Oh God, it was all too confusing. Her feelings about him bounced so wildly back and forth, pro and con, yes and no, they were giving her emotional whiplash. And now here she was stuck in the middle of this sentence with nowhere to go.
But Truman didn’t appear to be noticing. He was lost in some kind of reverie of his own.
“Okay, maybe Trish’s place isn’t the answer,” he said. “But you at least shouldn’t be going out alone. You don’t have any more parties to go to, have you? I mean, not alone, I hope.”
She looked at him, considering. “Actually, I do have a function. A formal party. A week from Friday.
”
“You’re going alone?”
She felt her cheeks warm. Alone? Again? What a loser he must think she is, always without a date. But before she could answer, he continued.
“Because what I’m thinking is, maybe what you should do is go with a bodyguard.”
She laughed. “A bodyguard!”
“I’m serious. No one would have to know but you that’s what he was, but you’d be safer. If someone wanted to get to you—even just to scare you or intimidate you—finding you alone in a frilly dress wearing high heels would be a perfect time to do it. You wouldn’t exactly be mobile, or ready to fight back in that situation.”
Marcy felt her pulse accelerate. “I don’t wear frilly dresses. Besides, I wouldn’t even know where to find a bodyguard.”
“Well…” Truman drummed his fingers on the bar. “Maybe just a big friend. Big male friend, that is.” He sat up straight and sent her a sidelong glance. “Someone to make whoever might be watching you think twice.”
Watching you… The words sent a shiver down Marcy’s spine. She hated the idea of someone, particularly Truman, thinking she couldn’t take care of herself, but what was the harm in being cautious? After all, she had plenty of evidence someone was trying to intimidate her. Getting some protection, even just another pair of eyes on the lookout, would simply be smart.
Besides, maybe Truman would like the idea of becoming a bodyguard and possibly consider that line of work. It would have to have a better future than drifting from construction job to construction job.
“Well,” she said, going for as matter-of-fact a tone as possible, “you’d really be the best one because you know many of the Planners employees. Like you knew Arthur. That was a big help.”
He nodded. “That’s true. I did know Arthur.”
“And it’s not like it would be a date.”
He shook his head. “Definitely not.”
“Because you’d just be there to keep an eye out for…for another Planners…infraction, so to speak.”
He nodded again. “Absolutely.”
“So really, you’re the perfect person. You ever give any thought to being a bodyguard? Could be an interesting career. Probably better money than construction.”
One side of his mouth kicked up. “Trying to better me again, sugar?”
She sighed. “God forbid.”
“So when’s this party?”
“A week from Friday. But I don’t know, Truman. It’s black tie. Would you be comfortable at a function like that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.
“It means it’s formal. You’ll have to get a tux.”
He looked at her, exasperated. “I know what black tie means. I meant…oh, the hell with it. I’ll be fine.” He paused, then added, “In fact, I used to work at The Four Seasons. So I may even know some people there.”
She raised a brow. “You? You used to willingly hobnob with the well-to-do?”
“I wouldn’t call it hobnobbing. I only worked there.” He gave her a sideways glance. “But don’t worry. I’m not gonna go out of my way to talk to anyone. I’ll sink into the background like I’m not even there, so don’t be concerned I’ll embarrass you around your friends.”
She smiled wryly. “They’re not my friends. It’s another firm’s party. I was only invited because I worked with them on a case earlier in the year.”
He looked at her in a way she thought looked almost stricken. “Another law firm?”
“Yeah. Rock ’n’ Roll—uh—Robinson, Rock and Knoll. They’re on Connecticut and L. But the party’s at the Hilton, I think.”
“Jesus,” he muttered, and pushed a hand through his hair.
“What?” She leaned forward.
He straightened. “Nothing.”
“No, what is it?”
“It’s nothing. I just, I think I know someone who worked there. But probably not. Not anymore.”
Marcy felt a cloud of something like jealousy form in her chest. It was a woman, it had to be. Guys didn’t get that look when they talked about other guys they didn’t want to see. He probably dated some woman who worked at the firm. Good God, for all she knew he was still dating someone who worked at that firm. Maybe he had some sort of weird thing for lawyers.
“Look, if it’s some girl you don’t want to see,” she said in a voice that was too hard to seem unconcerned, “then I’ll find myself another bodyguard. I have no intention of being the victim of a jealous ex-lover in addition to whoever Planners has got after me.” She paused, noticing the expression on his face. “What?”
Truman was smirking at her. “It’s not some girl I don’t want to see. Thank you for sounding jealous, though. Does the old ego good.”
She forced a laugh and took a sip from her empty glass, trying to regain her composure. “Like your ego needs any help. Besides, I’m not jealous. Just not in the mood to meet up with any more chefs.” Now she was sounding jealous, she thought, even to herself.
“Actually I was hoping to,” he said, grinning. “What other reason is there to go to one of these things if not for the food?”
They arranged a time to meet—Truman would come to her apartment and they’d take her car—and they left the bar, Marcy reiterating that this was not a date and she would expect to pay him for being her bodyguard.
Truman just smiled and told her he’d see her next Friday.
Marcy drove off with the image of that smile in her head all the way home.
He must have been out of his mind to agree to go to this damn party, Truman thought, pulling his truck noisily up in front of the wrought-iron gate at the house on California Street Thursday night. The muffler was barely hanging on to the exhaust pipe, making him something less than inconspicuous.
Trouble was, he’d already made a big deal about going before she mentioned the damn party was at Rock ’n’ Roll. By then she’d been suspicious he was worried about running into another woman, so he couldn’t back out.
Or at least he didn’t think so at the time. Now he thought he should have done whatever he could to get out of it and convince her she was wrong about him later.
He pulled the truck close to the entry panel and punched in the code. With a well-oiled hum the gates drew open and Truman drove through. He hoped his mother wasn’t home but if she was, she would know he was here from the subtle beep the alarm system gave off at the opening of the gate. Either that or the thunderous noise his truck made every time he pushed on the accelerator.
He parked in the circular drive and sure enough, as Reginald opened the front door, his mother was descending the stairs.
Truman greeted Reginald, inquired about his children, then turned to his mother.
She was dressed to the nines and wore a shocked look on her face. “Truman! What are you doing here?”
Reginald discreetly disappeared into the back hallway.
“You say that like you’re not happy to see me,” he said. He’d anticipated having to ward off her happy assumptions that he was back for good. Not that he’d lived here for many years, but back in the fold, as it were.
“Don’t be silly, I’m always happy to see you.” She waved the question off with a gold-ringed hand and continued to look at him in concern. “But what are you doing here?”
“I’ve just come by to pick something up. Is everything all right?”
“Pick something up?” she asked, her voice a tad higher than normal. “What is it? Do you know just where it is or shall I help you look for it?”
He studied her. She was acting oddly. “What is it, Mother? I’m sorry I didn’t call, but I didn’t think it was necessary. Are you expecting someone?”
She laughed and patted her hair, descending the rest of the stairs, not looking at him. “Expecting someone? Me? Who would I be expecting?”
He shrugged and started for the stairs, entering her cloud of perfume as she reached the foyer. “I don’t know. You’re just acting…strangely.”
&nb
sp; She looked miffed. “I’m acting strangely? You’re living in a slum and I’m acting strangely?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” He stopped next to her and kissed her on the cheek. “What’s gotten into you? You seem nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.” She made a visible effort to calm down. He saw her take a deep breath, then look him up and down with a deep exhale. “I’m so tired of seeing you in those ratty old jeans, Truman. Don’t construction workers ever wear anything nicer?”
“Not often,” he said, mounting the steps. “Not this one.”
She followed him. “Will it take long to find what you’re looking for?”
He paused on the middle landing and turned to give her a bemused look. She stopped several steps below.
“I’m not sure, but I’m starting to think maybe it will. I’m starting to think I might be here until…oh, I don’t know…until the doorbell rings?”
“Oh, all right,” she said, kneading her bejeweled hands together. “Very well, I am expecting someone.”
Truman’s brows rose and he couldn’t stop the grin that broke onto his face. “A male someone? As in a date someone?”
“If you must know, yes.” She ascended the last few steps to meet him. “And if you don’t mind I’d rather him not see my son looking like he was just pulled from a trash heap. He’s a gentleman with class.”
Truman eyed his mother with a smile on his face as they walked toward his old bedroom. “What’s his name? Where’d you meet him? Have you gone out with him before? I think maybe I should stay and make sure his intentions are honorable.”
She opened the door to his bedroom and went in. “Don’t be impertinent. If things work out you’ll meet him eventually. He’s only coming for dinner.”
He cast a playful glance down at her dress. “I don’t know, Mom, you’re looking pretty spiffy. He may want to stay for dessert too.”
“Truman!” she scolded but he saw the blush hit her cheeks. “Calvin is not that kind of man.”
“Believe me, Mother, they’re all that kind of man.”
