Hot Blooded (14 page)

She waited.

“The day he sells it.”

She threw him a smile and motioned to the sloop. “And I always thought guys had love affairs with these things.”

“Some do. But a boat is just like a woman. You’ve got to find the right one. Sometimes you make a mistake. Other times you get lucky.” He was staring at her through the dark lenses. Hard.

“And they say men are like cars—never perfect. Never coming with all the right options.”

“And what are those?” he asked.

“I don’t think I know you well enough to say,” she teased as she climbed off the sloop. Pain shot up her bad ankle, and she winced.

“Are you okay?”

“Just an old war wound kicking up.” The pain lessened as she watched him fiddle with the engine. With pliers, wrenches and other tools she didn’t recognize, he worked on the motor, tried to start the boat, wasn’t satisfied with the sputter that commenced and leaned over the engine again. His old dog waited patiently in the shade of the wheel, brown eyes watching Ty.

Sam tried not to study the way his back curved or the fluidity of his tanned shoulders as he worked. Corded muscles flexed, then relaxed and his cutoffs gaped enough that she saw a slice of white just under his waistband.

Don’t go there,
she silently warned herself,
you don’t even know this guy.
But she couldn’t help noticing the way his thin lips flattened over his teeth or the narrowing of his eyes as he worked.

He tried the engine again and it sputtered unsteadily. “I suppose that’s as good as it’s gonna get until I take her in for major repairs,” he grumbled as he reached under a seat, withdrew a rag and wiped his hands. His smile was irrepressible as he slapped the boom. “Yep, one hell of an investment.”

“Could I get you anything? Some of the wine? Or a beer? If I look hard, I think I could even scrounge up a can of Coke.” Detective Bentz’s warnings about dealing with strangers and changing her locks echoed through her mind, but she steadfastly shoved the policeman’s admonishments out of her head. At least for the time being. Until she learned more about this man.

He climbed off the boat. “I’d better take a rain check.” He looked about to say something, then glanced toward the lake, where a fish jumped, silver scales catching in the sunlight, and seemed to think better of it.

“What?” she asked, intrigued.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I ran into one of our neighbors the other day, the old lady across the street.”

Sam groaned inwardly. “Don’t tell me. She thought you should knock on my door with a box of chocolates or bottle of…” She let her voice fade, remembering the Riesling cooling in the fridge. “Oh. That’s why…”

“Yep.” He raised his hands, palms outward. Sucked in his breath. “Guilty as charged.”

“And the boat?”

“Really did break down.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t fake that.”

“Well, that’s something,” she said, a little stung. Not that he’d really lied, but…

“For the record Edie told me that you were a cross between Meg Ryan and Nicole Kidman and that I’d be out of my mind if I didn’t meet you.” Sam wanted to drop right through the dock as his shaded eyes met hers. “So that’s why I pulled in here, rather than at the dock next door. I had to see for myself.”

“And?”

“Hey, anything I say now is gonna get me into deeper trouble, I think.” He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced away. “If I tell you you’re prettier than either Meg or Nicole, you’ll laugh at me and tell me to get lost. It’ll sound like a come-on line and if I say ‘Nah, the old lady needs her glasses readjusted,’ you’ll be offended. Either way I lose.”

She thought of her nosy neighbor likening Ty to Harrison Ford, Tom Cruise and Clark Gable. “Edie Killingsworth watches too many movies.”

“Nah, she’s just one of those women who can’t stop themselves from matchmaking. She was probably already working you.”

“Maybe. She told you I was single?”

“Implied as much.” He glanced at her ringless left hand. “No hardware.”

“Not for a long time. I’m divorced,” she admitted. And you?”

His lips tightened just a fraction, as if he didn’t want to talk about it, as if he didn’t want to give up too much of himself. “Single.” From the boat, his dog whined. “Hush, Sasquatch, and no, I didn’t name him,” he added, as if reading her mind while thankful to change the subject. “My sister’s prize German shepherd bitch had a litter that was supposed to be purebred. However, when the pups were
born, it was obvious that she had managed to jump the fence before they brought in the show dog to do the honors and father the litter. Anyway, my sister ended up with six paperless pups and I got the runt, this guy here.”

He threw a smile at his dog. “Sarah had already named him. She lives up in Bigfoot country, up around Mt. St. Helens in Washington State. That was twelve years ago.” Ty gave a sharp whistle, the dog bounded out of the boat and raced the length of the dock to stop right at his heels. His tail swept the dusty planks, his tongue lolled from his head and he panted loudly.

“Trained well,” she said, and scratched the old shepherd behind his ears. He froze. His eyes trained on the cat. His muscles quivered. Charon had been stalking across the lawn. Spying the dog, he stopped dead in his tracks at the base of a live oak tree. His black hair stiffened and he glared at the intruder with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Don’t even think about it,” Ty warned. The dog whined a little but stayed put as Charon slunk like a quick black shadow toward the safety of the hedge.

Ty rubbed the shepherd’s big head. “You’d better be on your best behavior, or the lady will throw you out.”

“What makes you think
his
behavior will have any influence on me?” Sam asked, surprised that she was nearly flirting with this stranger. But it felt good to laugh and talk without any restrictions, without worrying about how he would take her comments. If he didn’t like them, tough. He could be on his way. “The dog can do just about anything he wants,” she said. “You, on the other hand, need to be straight with me.”

“Always,” he said quickly. Almost too quickly. He was standing close enough that she had to crane her neck up to look at his face. Crow’s-feet bit into the corners of his eyes, and there was a small scar over one eyebrow. His skin was
tanned and tight, and he looked as tough as leather. Like he could take care of himself and anyone else he wanted to.

Stupidly, her heart pounded a bit. Despite his easy drawl and good looks, he was a stranger—someone unknown, a man who appeared outwardly calm, but beneath the veneer seemed restless.

She reminded herself that somewhere lurking in the streets of New Orleans there was a man who had decided to terrorize her, knew her name, her address and where she worked. A man she didn’t know. One she wouldn’t recognize.

So who was she to say that this man, this
stranger
who lived down the street wasn’t the “John” who had phoned the station during her broadcast or the creep who had sent her the letter and mutilated picture?

“Edie did let it slip that you’re Dr. Sam,” he admitted. “As in Samantha Leeds, beautiful woman, great cook,
and
radio psychologist.”

Her nerves tightened. “So, are you in the market for a shrink?”

“Depends upon who you talk to.” That damnable smile grew irreverently. “Just don’t call my sister. She’d have me signed up for sessions for the rest of my life.” He folded his arms across his chest, stretching the seams of his shirt. “You could retire then.”

“I doubt that you need my help.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” He was toying with her. Flirting again.

“I don’t know you well enough to make an honest evaluation. But if you want to look at ink blots or talk about how your mother didn’t love you, we’d better set up an appointment.”

“I thought you only did the radio stuff.”

“I do. At least for the time being. Maybe you should tune in.”

“I have.” His shadow fell across her crown, and her pulse jumped a little.

“Have you ever called in?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“So what do you think?” She couldn’t keep a nasty little feeling of dread from dripping into her bloodstream.

Ty scratched at the stubble that was beginning to darken his jaw. “Well, I don’t know what to make of it. Seems like a lot of lonely people just calling up to spout off about something. I think they just want to connect with another person or maybe claim their fifteen minutes of fame.”

“Fame or infamy?”

“You tell me.” He was staring at her through those dark lenses, but grabbed a plastic deck chair, twisted it around and straddled it, leaning over the back and pinning her with his hidden gaze. The breeze had died, the sun harsher now, bright beams bouncing off the water. “You seem to be the real thing.”

“How about you?” she asked “How real are you?”

“As real as it gets,” he said, as a speedboat dragging a wake board roared past, creating a wide frothy wake. Laughter rolled across the swells as the kid on the board wiped out. Quickly, the driver of the boat did a sharp 360 in order to retrieve the boy bobbing on the surface. “But then what’s real?”

“Touché,” she said, again getting a glimpse of a more complicated man than showed outwardly. The good-ol’-boy with the aw-shucks charm wasn’t cutting it. No, Ty Wheeler was more than a long, tall Texan with a sexy smile. What was worse, he was getting to her. Big-time. Though it was ludicrous, a part of her was intrigued with this man, wanted to peel off the layers, find out what was hiding beneath the easygoing veneer. But that was foolish. Playing with fire. This man was trouble. And right now she had enough trouble to last her a lifetime.

He could only be a neighbor. Even a potential friend wasn’t worth thinking about, and anything else was out of the question. Period.

If her involvement with David had taught her anything, it was that she wasn’t ready for a relationship.

Boy, are you getting ahead of yourself here…you’ve barely met the man and already you’re thinking in terms of a love interest. Get real, Sam.

“You know, usually I don’t socialize with my fans.”

“Who said I was a fan?” He cast a thousand-watt smile her way. “I just mentioned I’d listened to the show.” He inclined his chin toward the
Bright Angel
as it swayed slightly on the swells. “Maybe you’d like to take a ride with me sometime.”

“After everything you’ve told me about the boat? After I’ve helped you fix her. Call me crazy, but I don’t think so.”

“When she’s totally seaworthy.”

“And when will that be?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Probably the next millennium.”

“Call me.” She rattled off her phone number.

“I will,” he said, and stared at her a little longer through his shades. Then, whistling to his dog, he walked back to his sloop. With a final wave, he cast off, leaving Sam barefoot on the dock, arm raised to shade her eyes as she watched him motor off.

The man’s trouble,
she told herself again.
If you’re smart, Sam, you’ll forget him. Right now. Before this flirtation goes any further.

But she had the sinking premonition that it was already too late.

“So what do you think he meant, ‘It’s all your fault’?” Montoya asked as he crushed his paper coffee cup and tossed it over Rick Bentz’s desk to land in the wastebasket in the corner.

“Two points,” Rick said automatically.

“Three, man. That was a trey if I ever saw one. I parked that sucker from downtown.”

“If you say so.” Rick was flipping through the reports on Rosa Gillette and Cherie Bellechamps.

“So—what did the caller mean?” Montoya asked.

“I don’t know.” Rick scratched at his chin as he thought about his interview with the lady psychologist.

“You shouldn’t even be thinking about it, you know. We’ve got enough to handle as it is.”

“I do what Jaskiel tells me to do.” He shoved the reports aside. “Look, Montoya, you and I both know I’m lucky to have this job. That I ended up with an office is unbelievable.”

“You earned it, man. You put in your years.”

“In LA.”

“And you got into some trouble. Big deal. The bottom line is you know your shit; otherwise, you wouldn’t be here, right?”

Montoya was right. Twenty years with the LAPD should have counted for something, but as it was he was lucky to land a job anywhere. To say the recommendations of his superiors in the City of Angels hadn’t been stellar would be a gross understatement. Everyone here knew it. Including Montoya. Not everyone understood the reasons. He cringed as he thought of them…of an unlucky boy who happened to point what turned out to be a toy gun at his partner. Bentz had reacted and a twelve-year-old was dead because of it. His family had sued, rightfully so, and Bentz had been put on probation. He might have regained his badge if he hadn’t poured himself into a bottle for a couple of years. The powers that were at the LAPD decided he was far more trouble than he was worth—a media catastrophe. “Yeah,” he said now, in answer to the younger cop’s question. “I know my shit.”
All of it. And it stinks.

“So don’t give me any crap about you luckin’ out and gettin’ the job. Jaskiel hired you to work on the cases she assigns because she trusts you, and she knows you’ll work your ass off, round the clock. The way I see it, you don’t want any free time anyway. Old man like you, what you got to go home to?” Montoya asked. “Now that your kid is about off to college, you won’t have any reason to go home at night, right?”

“Kristi’s still at home,” Bentz argued, thinking of his daughter, the only family he had left in the world. Kristi’s mother, Jennifer, was dead. She’d divorced Bentz long ago and everyone thought it was the job, which was a big part of it, but there was more, of course, and Bentz was left with one great kid and a secret he’d never share. He, glanced at the double fold frame that sat on his desk. One picture was
of Kristi at five, upon entering kindergarten, the other was her senior picture, taken just last September. It seemed impossible that she was eighteen and soon would be moving up to Baton Rouge. “She’s not off to All Saints until next month.”