A Fine Balance Page 10

  Jillian was seated under a dazzling beam of sunlight like one of those saintly visions where God appears in a golden glow. On the other hand–sunbeams aside--Jillian Penrose was the least saintly image in the universe. She was instead ostentatiously sensual, voluptuous, ripe and earthy, her incandescent hair like flame, her eyes a vivid jungle green, her lips, apple red and as tempting as original sin.

  A sudden, ridiculous little flash of warmth quite separate from lust, spiked through his senses. Odd and unwelcome. Instinctively realigning his sensibilities into a more rational balance, one in which tender feelings were awarded solely to family, he was congratulating himself on having restored his equilibrium when he felt a sharp jab in his back.

  “Is she your new one?”

  He recognized the voice, did a slow half turn. “Watch it babe, or I might tell Bobby you don’t always go to your book club on Thursdays. You suck down Grey Goose martinis at the Little River bar instead.”

  “Jesus, spies everywhere,” Rachel groused.

  He gave their waitress a big, wide smile. “I’m just saying--you have your life and I have mine. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “She’s a looker. Where’s she from? I haven’t seen her before.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Okay, if you’re gonna be that way.”

  “Figure I am.”

  She snorted. “You’re kiddin’ yourself if you think anything’s private in this burg.”

  “A few things are,” he cooly said, trying to re-send his message. “But that could change if you press your luck.”

  Rachel smiled. “Don’t try that cop intimidation stuff on me, Jack. We grew up together, remember? Now, if you’re done admiring the view, how about I see what the mystery lady wants to order? Yours I got memorized.”

  He might as well have saved his breath because Rachel introduced herself to Jillian with a friendly smile, then peppered her with questions as she took her order. Jack was pleasantly surprised though on how well Jillian handled the interrogation. She evaded every query with bland non-answers and did it with unfailing courtesy.

  When Rachel finally left, Jillian offered Jack a droll look. “Ex-girlfriend?”

  “No, just nosy.”

  “I thought maybe you’d chosen this out-of-the-way area for a reason.”

  “God no, no reason other than I wanted to talk to you without a million people watching.” He sighed. “Small town. Everyone feels they have the right to interfere in your life. Give advice.”

  “About me?”

  “About everything. I’ve lived here most of my life. There’re pluses and minuses to knowing everyone. Who’s watching Zeke?”

  An obvious change of subject. He didn’t want to talk about his private life. Understood. “Zeke’s at Larry and Em’s. He loves them. Em bakes cookies for him and Larry takes him to his workshop and they make stuff.”

  A startled look. “His workshop?”

  She smiled. “Not that one. The real one.” Workshop was the local euphemism for a grow room. “Larry makes furniture you know. Really fine things.”

  He nodded. “Right. I knew that.”

  A second of silence. Then another.

  Jack tried to think of something to say other than the inappropriate thoughts churning through his brain.

  Jillian smoothed out the napkin on her lap.

  Then they both started to speak at once.

  Stopped.

  She giggled.

  He made a small disgusted sound. “I’m way the hell out of my depth.”

  “Same here.”

  Simple like that. Plain. She knew. So he muscled aside all the conventional courtesies, the restless dreams and said what he’d promised himself he wouldn’t say, “I don’t suppose you’d have time afterward to go somewhere and”--

  “I have to pick up Zeke soon.”

  He let out a whoosh of air. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have”--

  “It’s okay. I’ve thought about you a lot, hoped that maybe”–a small smile–“you might have remembered me.”

  Her eyes, that shimmering heat; he could feel his erection rise. “Of course I remembered. I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I tried.” He shrugged and the black, long-sleeved, Under Armour shirt he wore shifted over rippling muscle. “No luck though. Total bust.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” A soft little purr contradicted her comment.

  He had to suck in a small breath because that luscious purr added inches to his erection and his cock was beginning to call the shots. He mentally cuffed himself in the head hard a couple times, got things under control and managed to pull off a casual tone. “It’s a compliment, believe me. Trouble is, I’m up to my eyeballs in a murder case right now. This isn’t a good time for me to be thinking of you. Not to mention all kinds of other”–he paused, decided, finished with--“personal stuff is complicating my life.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Not really.”

  “Friend?”

  His jaw tightened. “Sort of.”

  “If it matters, I don’t”–a shake of his head curtailed her remark.

  “Our coffee,” he murmured. “That was fast,” he said a second later as Rachel set the cups on the table.

  As their waitress walked away, Jillian leaned forward slightly, made eye contact, and spoke in a rush. “I’m going to say it because if I don’t I might lose my nerve and I’ll kick myself later.”

  He waited while she swallowed, while she let out a breath, while she inhaled again. His adrenaline could have fueled a rocket to the moon.

  “I don’t care if you have a girlfriend,” she finally said in that same fast, breathy flow of words. “I don’t care if you have a dozen. You make me feel something I haven’t felt in years, maybe never, no, actually never. It’s sweet and wild and amazing, beyond crazy and it’s all because of you. There. I’m done. Don’t laugh.”

  “Jesus, as if I would. I’ve been dreaming about you like some wet-behind-the-ears teenager. The feeling’s really--Christ, I don’t know...strange. But I want to see you too.”

  “When?”

  “Now.” To hell with murder cases, personal issues, life in general.

  She didn’t say, We’re seeing each other now, because she knew he didn’t mean that. “I have to pick up Zeke in an hour.”

  He grinned, fast, easy, sure of himself.

  A cool stare. “You better be kidding.”

  “Sorry. That was out of line. Look, you name it–time, place, whatever--I’ll be there. And we’ll take our time; you can have a marathon if you want.”

  “Oh God.” Her face flushed from neck to hairline; she shifted restlessly in her chair. “Don’t say that. Please. Not here.”

  He muttered something under his breath, his nostrils flaring as he dragged in a sharp breath. “I’m freaking out. Seriously. No joke. I’m trying to put the brakes on, but it’s not working,” he said, his voice taut as a bowstring. A pause. Another breath. “I know I shouldn’t say this, but I don’t suppose you could call Larry and”--

  “I’d like to, I’d really would, but he’d wonder. I’m always on time.” Her voice was barely audible, her breathing erratic.

  “Don’t you guys like your coffee?”

  They both twitched like they’d been hit with a cattle prod.

  Jack found his voice first. “We had some business to discuss first. Wade’s taking care of some complicated banking for Jillian.”

  Jillian shot him a furious look.

  He ignored her. Better bank business than what Rachel was probably thinking. “You forgot my extra syrup.”

  “Two, right?” The waitress slid a plate with a veggie omelette toward Jillian and eased two plates off her left arm and a small pitcher of syrup from her baby finger into place before Jack. Spanish omelette, extra peppers and a double stack.

  “Make it three.”

  “That’ll cost extra. It’s not me, it’s Madge.”

  “Not a problem. A
dd a side of bacon while you’re at it.” He watched Rachel until she was out of ear shot. “Sorry, but you don’t want her thinking we’ve got something going,” he said, feeling better now, his lust scaled down to a low-grade fever. “She has the biggest mouth in town.”

  “Maybe I don’t care.”

  He looked up from buttering his pancakes. “Then I’ll tell her when she comes back.”

  “No, don’t!”

  “I will if you want. It doesn’t bother me. Aren’t you going to eat?”

  Was he that callous about his girlfriends, she wondered? And how could he eat when she could barely sit still.

  He looked up. “What?”

  “How can you eat?”

  “I’m really hungry.” He started buttering again.

  “What do you mean it doesn’t bother you?”

  A blue-eyed gaze, mild surprise, quickly gone. “I just want to please you, that’s all. I thought you’d prefer not being the object of gossip, but it’s your call.”

  “I thought you were trying to avoid upsetting your girlfriends.”

  “There’s no girlfriends so there’s none to upset.” By his definition; sex was sex. “My divorce was only a year ago so I’m not looking for–well, other than you”–he blew out a breath and stopped.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she said, beet red and mortified. “It’s really none of my business. I just had one of those bitchy ‘men will be men’ moments. I apologize.”

  He wondered whether her marriage hadn’t been so great–like his. Crap–how low was that? He should want her to have had a good marriage, a loving one; he shouldn’t be thinking shitty thoughts about a husband who’d died in Afghanistan.

  “Ben went to Kabul even though I was pregnant, even though he didn’t have to go,” Jillian suddenly said, her voice almost too low to be heard. “So I have some history with men being men, doing what they want. He came back in a coffin.”

  That sure as hell put Sarah’s extracurricular fucking into perspective.

  “I just wanted to explain why I was pressing you.” She ran her finger over the hilt of her knife, lightly traced the hotel logo. “Old frustrations I suppose.”

  He’d already stopped eating; he sat back. “So your husband never saw Zeke.”

  She shook her head, didn’t speak for a moment, the memory more painful that she’d expected. Maybe one never completely forgot. “Ben could have seen his son. He wasn’t in the military. He was a teacher like me. But some of his friends were starting a school in Kabul and”–she lifted her chin in a small mutinous gesture--“Ben liked adventure.”

  Jack didn’t know what to say. The words, selfish prick, came to mind but he hadn’t been a paragon of husbandly virtue so he couldn’t get too righteous.

  Resting her head against the back of her chair, Jillian brushed her hair away from her temples in a restless gesture, her lush breasts beneath the soft, green cashmere of her sweater rising with the movement, the enticing sight extinguishing the last of Jack’s restraint. He surreptitiously glanced at his watch as she dropped her hands and sat up. “I’ll bet you’re wishing you’d never asked me to breakfast when all I do is bitch.”

  “What I’m wishing is that you didn’t have to pick up Zeke so soon.”

  “So you don’t mind whiny women?” But her voice shook a little at the end because he’d leaned forward and lightly traced the curve of her upper lip.

  “It sounds as though you had reason,” he gently said, sitting back. “And if you get too whiny, I’ll think of something to take your mind off your troubles.”

  “How nice.” Hushed and low.

  “It’s not unselfish.”

  “Even better.”

  His brows rose in silent query at the provocative words.

  “You have a certain brute strength I find appealing.”

  His mouth twitched. He should have known; Miss Innocent liked it rough. “Lucky me.”

  “I suppose I’m incredibly shallow to look at you that way, but”–she smiled–“I don’t really care.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with finding someone physically appealing.” He’d tested that premise pretty exclusively since coming home.

  “You’re really sweet though too, and so nice to Zeke.”

  “He’s easy to like. He’s a great kid.” How long were they going to keep doing this dance? Innocence was virgin territory for him.

  “I’m done talking if you don’t mind.”

  His breathing slammed to a stop for a nanosecond. “We should call Larry then.” He spoke with deliberate calm even while every libidinous nerve in his body was amping up major power. “Give him some excuse. Let me call him,” he abruptly said. “I’m good at excuses.”

  A small, nervous look. “Why?”

  She was jumpy as hell and for a flashing second he wondered if part of her appeal was her wholesome purity; rare in his life, more rare in his love life. “In my job you lie all the time,” he explained, holding her gaze, giving her a reassuring smile. “You tell a suspect his friend snitched on him when he didn’t, so he’ll give it up. You pretend you’re a drug dealer to a real drug dealer to set up a bust. You coax a drunk with a gun out of the kitchen where he’s holding his wife hostage by telling him he’s a good guy and you know how he feels. Yada, yada, yada. So do you want to call Larry or should I?”

  She hesitated.

  “I don’t live too far from here,” he said, slow and easy, like coaxing a kid to eat his spinach.

  “How far?”

  That was a yes. She might not know it, but he did. He pulled out his phone.

  “Wait, stop!” She grabbed his arm.

  Jerking his arm away, he held his phone at shoulder height and punched in some numbers.

  “How do you know Larry’s number?” she hissed.

  “Good memory.” He remembered numbers. Like Rainman. He had no explanation. But it came in handy in his line of work. “Hey Larry, Morg here. Wade’s helping Jillian with that bank thing–she must have told you. Anyway, they’re still going at it so Wade asked me to give you a call. Is Zeke okay for a while longer? He’s watching Lion King? It just started? Are we good then? Thanks.” And he hung up like men did without saying goodbye. Holding up one finger, he dialed again and a second later said, “In case Larry calls, tell him Jillian just left and give me a call.” Dropping the phone into his pocket, he grinned. “How’d I do?”

  “Remind me to never get in your way.”

  “I’m planning on you getting in my way real soon if that’s okay with you?” His gaze was warm, intimate, lush with promise. “How much time do we have?”

  She was beginning to tremble. “Lion King lasts...an hour--twenty minutes.”

  “A favorite?” he casually asked, not sure whether to rush her or slow down.

  “We know...all--the lyrics.”

  It was probably too late to slow down. He glanced at the half-eaten omelette on her plate. “You done?”

  She nodded because she suddenly couldn’t find breath to speak.

  Tossing some bills on the table, he rose from the table, walked over to her chair, pulled it out, and held out his hand.

  “I’d better not,” she whispered.

  Slipping his hand under her arm, he lifted her from the chair, smoothly propelled her to the door and once they were outside, said under his breath, “Smile, we’re running the gossip gauntlet.” The customers in the glass–fronted restaurant were all staring. “Ignore them. I won’t touch you. Come on, everything’s good.” He started walking.

  Preferring not to be left out in the open on her own, she quickly kept pace. “I don’t know why I thought I could do this. I don’t think I can.”

  “We’ll be out of range in a minute. Don’t change your mind or I’ll cry.”

  Startled, she glanced up at him.

  He grinned. “I could.”

  She suddenly smiled. “Liar.”

  “It’s up to you if you want to break my heart.” It stopped him for a second, th
e old fashioned phrase. But she was beside him, he was minutes from his home and soon he’d be making his dreams come true.

  “I wouldn’t want to do that.” She touched his hand, lightly.

  He recognized that slight touch as acquiescence and a sledge-hammer jolt of lust nailed every salacious nerve in his body. But he was too close to the finish line to take chances so he said, polite as hell, “Sweet.”

  “Sweet, really?” Her upturned gaze was wistful.

  “Cross my heart.”

  She smiled. “Even if you don’t mean it, thanks. I feel like I’ve been let out to play for the first time in years.”

  Years? God Almighty. With considerable effort he managed to maintain his composure--conflicting ambitions running riot in his brain. Burning lust at war with an unusual morality.

  “I’m so glad I met you. So very glad,” she softly said, weaving her fingers through his.

  Who could resist? Send the armies home. “Me too,” he said, feeling as if he’d won the lottery when he was the least likely man to indulge in flights of fancy. He also experienced a rare protective impulse, another gross anomaly in his life to date. Fortunately, they reached his car before any more rash eccentricities surfaced to fuck with his head. “Here we are.” Quickly opening the car door, he waited while she got in, then shut her door, walked around the front of the SUV and a moment later, slid behind the wheel.

  He glanced at the clock.

  She noticed. Shivered.

  A quick sideways glance. “Would music help?”

  She didn’t answer; her hands were clutched white-knuckled in her lap.

  “Five minutes,” he tersely said.

  He did it too. Made the ten minute drive in five.

  Without sirens.

  This could have been his first fuck the way he felt, all nerves and scorching lust.

  He’d never wanted any woman as badly as he wanted her.

  Chapter 17

  He was just about to turn into his driveway when he saw Liz’s silver Beemer. It was parked in front of the garage where it shouldn’t have been, where it never was this time of day.