Big Guns Out of Uniform (14 page)

Delia waited, but Woodruff said nothing more. “I see,” she responded. “That might make a man's shoulders a tad tight, mightn't it?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Delia hesitated. “It must have been an emotionally difficult experience, too. Do you…well, want to talk about it?”

Woodruff turned slowly from the toolbox, wiping his hands on a rag. “Nothing difficult about it, Doc,” he said. “The bastard had a blade jabbed against my partner's carotid artery. And no, I don't wanna talk about it.”

Delia studied him. “But maybe you should,” she suggested. “It can be cathartic.”

“Ex-Lax can be cathartic,” he said. “That doesn't mean I need a dose. Besides, this isn't that new-age barter shit we've got going here, Doc.”

“Barter?” Delia asked. “What do you mean?”

Woodruff smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “Oh, you know, I fix your car, you weave me a basket or psychoanalyze me?” he said. “I mean, if you'll reconsider that massage, I'll sure take it. But screw the therapy, Doc. Shooting at people—if it's necessary—is what I get paid to do.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “I see.”

“Good,” he said, bending over the engine again. “'Cause I think that's enough chitchat about the office. Now, darlin', when's the last time you had your timing belt replaced?”

Delia wanted to argue, but she sensed it would be unwise. “I don't even know what a timing belt is,” she admitted.

Woodruff reached deep into the bowels of the Volvo and gave something a good yank. “Shit,” he muttered.

Delia sighed. “How bad?” she demanded. “Come on, I'm a big girl, I can take it.”

His arms braced wide on the sides of the engine compartment, Woodruff turned his head, then winked at her. “Can you now, darlin'?” he asked. “That's good to know.”

“Be serious.”

“Oh, this is serious,” he admitted. “Your mechanic was right. You need an overhaul. And you've got a head gasket that's oozing oil faster than Trent Lott. Plus, all your belts are about to start squealing, fraying, or just plain snapping. It also looks like the water pump's leaking, and you've got two broken motor mounts—probably because the damned thing's been idling so rough it's rattled itself loose. And let's not even talk about that exhaust system.”

Delia felt herself wither inside. “Sounds terminal.”

“Nah.” Woodruff brightened. “Should be just enough work to keep a jackleg mechanic like me out of trouble for…oh, about two weeks.”

“But you'll need belts and parts and…and things,” she interjected. “It'll be expensive, won't it?”

Woodruff shook his head. “Labor intensive, but not that expensive—unless you need a new water pump. That'll run you about eighty bucks. The rest of it, all totaled, maybe two-fifty?”

“Oh.” Relief flooded her. “Oh, that's good.”

With motions that were loose and easy, Woodruff ambled across the shed and propped one hip on a tall stool by the workbench. “Still, you gotta think long-term, here, Doc,” he warned, sipping from his coffee. “You need a new car. We can beat and kick another year out of this one, maybe. But that's it.”

“Right. I know. I've been looking.”

He swilled more coffee, the muscles in his throat working up and down. “So, how long you been driving this P.O.S.?” he asked.

“P.O.S.?”

Woodruff shook his head disbelievingly. “Never mind. How long?”

Delia shrugged. “I bought it used after graduate school.”

Woodruff opened his arms wide. “Then it's time to buy your fantasy car, Dr. Delia,” he crooned. “Now dig into the secret recesses of your brain and tell old Saint Nick. What gets your motor running, mechanically speaking?” He winked again.

Delia's face warmed, and not from the coffee. “Oh, I don't know.”

“Aw, come on! Everyone's got a dream machine.”

Delia closed her eyes. “An S80, then,” she whispered, feeling just like a kid on Santa's lap. “A black one—turbocharged—with the fancy wheels.”

Woodruff guffawed, and Delia opened her eyes.

“You're shitting me, right?” he said. “Your fantasy car is another
Volvo
? A four-door sedan?”

“But think about the safety!”

Nick eyed her skeptically over his thermal mug. “Now, why is it, Dr. Delia, I get the very distinct impression there's been way too much safety in your life already?”

“I like Volvos,” she insisted. “I like being safe. I've made up my mind. Talk about something else.”

“Okay, let's start again,” he agreed. “So, Dr. Delia…no boyfriend?” He watched, a little guiltily, as that pretty pink blush lit her face again.

“Boyfriend?” she said on a laugh. “That sounds…quaint. But I don't think I've had a boyfriend since my undergraduate days.”

Nick slid off the stool. “Dr. Delia, you are so not what I expected,” he said, abruptly deciding to go for it. “How many
boyfriends
did you have in college, anyway? No—let's put it this way—how many
relationships
did you have prior to marrying that asshole husband of yours? And yeah, I know he was an asshole, 'cause Basham already told me.”

“Well, I was a grad student!” she protested. “I had other priorities.”

Nick stepped a little closer. “How many?”

Delia blinked. “I'm not sure it's any of your business, but four, maybe five?”

A faint smile curled Nick's mouth. “Yeah, maybe, but you didn't sleep with many of 'em, did you?”

Delia was truly indignant. “Well, I was hardly a virgin when I got married, if that's what you're implying.”

He laughed. “Sugar, there are all kinds of virgins.”

“Well, I had experience!” she said. “Enough, anyway.”

Logically, Delia knew she was right, too. But her experience hadn't kept her husband from straying, had it? Sometimes she felt like such a fraud.

She had dropped her gaze and turned away again. Nick slipped his finger under her chin and gently turned her face back to his. “And they were lucky, lucky guys, Dr. Delia,” he said, softening his tone. “But something tells me you don't see it that way.”

Delia blinked again, feeling suddenly on the verge of tears. “Well, Sergeant Woodruff, you know what they say,” she snapped. “Those that can, do. And those that can't, teach.”

In response, Nick Woodruff leaned down and braced his well-muscled arms on the porch railing, imprisoning her shoulders between them. “Then teach me something, Dr. Delia,” he whispered, his mouth suddenly hovering over hers.

Delia felt her eyes widen and her breath hitch. And then his lips melted over hers, warm and pliant. He slanted his mouth and nibbled, coaxing her to return the kiss. She did, turning her face fully into his. Lightly he stroked the seam of her lips with his tongue, but went no further. It was a kiss of exquisite tenderness, and it shocked her that so big and brutal a man could be that gentle.

When he broke away, he lifted his mouth just an inch. “Well, Dr. Delia, you sure do kiss just fine,” he murmured, brushing his lips beneath her right eye. “You know what I think the problem is?”

“I wasn't conducting a survey,” said Delia. “But go ahead, take a crack at it.”

Nick laughed softly. “I think your ex was a fool, and probably no damn good in bed,” he said. “And before that, I just don't think you'd ever been with a man who had the experience to appreciate and pay proper homage to your many fine assets.”

Delia cut her eyes up at him. “Now, there's a theory.”

“Could be right, too,” said Nick, still leaning over her. “Now, I'm not saying your textbook knowledge isn't first-rate, 'cause I'm a regular listener, Doc, and you know your stuff. But every once in a while, even a pro needs a little hands-on experience, right?”

Delia closed her eyes, rocked back in her chair, and let her head fall back against the porch railing. “Oh, God, you Southern boys are so full of it!” she said. “Why do I get the feeling this car repair is going to cost me a lot more than two hundred and fifty bucks?”

She could almost feel his flash of irritation. “Look, sugar, what I'm offering now has nothing to do with your car,” he rasped, shifting his body away. “I'll fix it, and gladly. But what I
want
is to take you to bed.”

Delia's breath caught and her stomach bottomed out. “Why?”

“Why?” Exasperation choked his voice. “Because you're damned pretty, that's why. And because that weird tree-hugger getup you're wearing fires every one of my spark plugs, for reasons I can't even begin to explain. And because, quite frankly, Dr. Delia, you look like a troubled, overworked woman who needs her brains fucked out.”

Delia leaped to her feet. “Why, I never—”

“Sugar, I'm half afraid that might be true.”

Delia placed a finger in the middle of his chest. “Nick Woodruff, you are one arrogant man,” she said. “I barely know you.”

“Yeah, and there's a certain attraction in that, don't you think?”

“In casual, semi-anonymous sex?” Delia returned. “I don't think so.”

“Oh, yeah, you do.” Nick set his hands on her shoulders. “I can already see the fire in your eyes. You find the prospect of having wild, mind-blowing, cat-clawing, tie-me-up-and-spank-me sex with a man you hardly know exciting. And darlin', it looks to me like your life could definitely use a little jump-start.”

“Will you please stop expressing everything in automotive terms?” Delia demanded. “And while we're on the subject of spanking—”

“Okay,” he conceded. “No spanking.”

But Delia wasn't finished. “Besides, do you even know what you're talking about? No. No, not when it comes to me, you
don't.
How did we get here, anyway? We just met two days ago! I don't know you. You don't know anything about my lovers. About my sex life. You don't know anything about me, or my marriage, or how good Neville was in bed—”

“Sugar,” growled Nick. “He was named
Neville.
That's one big strike against him right from the get-go.”

Delia set her hands on her hips and looked at him incredulously. “Who
are
you?” she demanded. “I mean,
really?
And where do you get off with this good ole boy schtick of yours? I'd be a fool to have sex with a man I don't know.”

Nick smiled, gave her a courtly bow, tugged two slender leather cases from his front pockets, and thumbed the first open. A silver badge winked in the morning sun. “Robert James Nicholson Woodruff III, at your service, ma'am,” he said in his most melting voice.

She looked at his SBI photo, then the wallet. “So?”

“I'm the third of five children, born to a respectable family and raised in genteel, small-town poverty in South Georgia. My mama's dead, but any of my three sisters will give me a glowing reference. Phone numbers are in the wallet, help yourself. I'm a good Baptist boy who got shipped off to LSU. I was ROTC, graduated with honors, and joined the Army, where I stayed put until the SBI begged to make my acquaintance. I'm not married, I'm not divorced, and I don't hit women, dogs, or children. I don't use drugs or tobacco, and rarely get drunk. I don't have AIDS or the clap or even a bad case of the sniffles at the moment. So there, Dr. Delia, you know all there is to know about me. Want to have sex now?”

God help her, she did. It was so ludicrous, Delia burst into laughter. “This is insane!”

“What's insane about it?”

Delia shook her head and stared into the depths of his backyard. “See, yesterday, I was just this mild-mannered, boring college professor with a piece of junk for a car and a nice row of evergreens in my backyard,” she said. “And now, I'm trapped in some sort of fifth dimension filled with cats, rickety chairs, old cars, and hunky guys who wear their jeans way, way too tight for my comfort level, and the whole bizarre scenario has this weird Randy Newman song playing in the background.”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “Which weird Randy Newman song?” he asked. “And don't say ‘Short People,' Delia, or I swear to God, I really
won't
fix your car.”

Delia hiccuped. “No, the one about good old boys.”

Nick groaned. “Sugar, most all Randy Newman's songs are about good old boys if you listen close enough.”

Delia laughed again, almost hysterically, then half-chanted, half-sang: