Blame it on Cupid (21 page)

Shopping wasn't as good as sex. Or love. Or time for herself, or with an adult she cared about. But it was one thing that she most definitely knew how to do—and that meant, for once, feeling darn sure of herself for a change.

“Did Mrs. Innes say I had to do this? When she came over on Monday?”

“Nope.” The meeting with June Innes had gone as well as the other ones.

The guardian
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had unshakeable ideas about what an eleven-year-old girl should and should not do. Nothing Merry said was right or valid or worth a jalapeño pepper. Anything Merry did was a ditto. Worthless. And yeah, those meetings kept weighing on Merry's mind—but this afternoon, that was all a “to hell with it.”

She steered the reluctant turtle—the one all hunched over, illustrating severe depression and horror at being in the mall—toward the escalator.

“Look, Merry. There's a reason why I don't want to go to this dance. Maybe I forgot to tell you. I don't dance.”

“Uh-huh. I know you think that sounds logical. But you haven't even tried dancing yet. For all you know, you could love it. It's very…athletic.”

“But there's another reason.”

“Uh-huh.” At the top of the escalator, she herded Charlie toward the young teen section.

“This is the deal, Mer. The real deal. I like boys more than girls.”

Merry lifted an eyebrow. “Join the club. Me, too. I'm pretty sure that's the way Nature set it up.” There, she'd managed to startle Charlie. But only for a second or two.

“I don't mean
that
kind of liking. I mean there's a reason I don't like being around girls. It's because they're mean. They whisper and laugh behind your back. And they don't
do
anything. They talk about
jewelry.
And clothes. But it's not like they ever
do
anything, like, say, fix a carburetor. Or beat each other at World Triumph. And I don't take Trig yet, you know? Because I'm too young. But I think Trig problems are
interesting.
Not whether some girl ran up and kissed a guy after class. That's just such a yuck.”

“Well,” Merry said, “I admit I was one of those girls who obsessed all day long about movie stars and nail color and who kissed who. But that doesn't mean you have to like that or be like that.” With an eagle eye, she scanned the racks. Then attacked.

Charlie wasn't the only one who could get into military terms. Merry understood missions just fine. The hunt, the recon, the attack, the never leaving a bad sale behind.

“Mer?”

“What, honey?”

“All the girls are
obsessing
about this dance. They're all so stupid. They're driving me crazy. And all they're talking about all the time is what they're going to wear. The dress. How much the stupid dress costs. Bras. Heels. I am
never
wearing bras or heels.”

Merry tactfully didn't mention that especially one side of Charlene's chest was developing a noticeable bump. They'd handle the bra crisis when they came to it, and thankfully, that wasn't today. “Now, Charlie, try to trust me, just a little. I was never going to force you into stilettos. Clothes are the one thing I know. And we're going to find something that you really, really want to wear.”

“Yeah. Like that'll happen.” Charlie found a corner to heave herself into. “I don't see anything wrong with wearing my dad's old stuff. I'm proud of my dad—”

“I know you are. And I'm glad you are.” But Merry was also conscious that June Innes was trying to draw a line in the sand about Charlene's attire, so it seemed as if this upcoming dance was the ideal opportunity to…well, to introduce something different. She
had
to find a way to get Charlene out of those clothes, or at least to wean her away from wearing the military things all the time.

Her theory was to give Charlene a sense of her own personal style. “In the dressing room, you,” Merry ordered.

Charlie's jaw dropped when she saw the heap of clothes on Merry's arm. “You wouldn't make me try on all that stuff. I thought we were friends. I thought you liked me okay.”

“Nah. I like torturing kids. It's my favorite thing. And I'm going to sit right outside, let you try these on yourself. But if you find anything—
anything—
you like, you can just open the door and let me see.”

“I won't,” Charlie assured her.

But just once in a rare while, life turned out the way it needed to.

For the first five minutes, all Merry heard from the other side of the dressing room door was a bunch of rustling and grumping. Then, more rustling—but without the grumping. Then—complete silence.

And then the door opened a crack, and Charlene's head peeked out, making sure no one was in sight before talking to Merry.

“All right,” the kid said irritably, “maybe a couple of these clothes are okay. A little okay.”

The look of her almost brought tears to Merry's eyes. Beneath the stupid brush cut and taciturn-neutral expression was such an adorable girl. Merry had easily found some military styles, because that look was in for the preteens—but these khaki pants actually fit Charlene's cute little butt. The cami, naturally, was already completely covered up by the pale green canvas shirt, so no hint of a developing figure was remotely revealed. But it still looked military. It had the brass buttons on the shoulders and pockets and all.

Merry stepped in, immediately turning into serious mode, perking up the collar, checking the length of the sleeves, thinking Charlie could wear variations of this to school and look
so, so, so
much more normal. But for now she just said, “The shirt kind of needs your dad's belt.”

“His belts are too big,” Charlie said.

Merry shook her head. “Not to wear at your waist. To wear on your hips at an angle.” She looked into Charlie's shy eyes. “I know you don't want to hear this, but you look really great.”

There. A smile. One of those desperately unsure, desperately yearning, desperately vulnerable preteen smiles.

“Really, Charlie,” Merry said. “I wouldn't tell you if it weren't true.”

“Okay. I guess I could wear this stuff.” God, the stress. Charlene sighed as if the weight of the world was pressed on her shoulders. “But that still doesn't mean I want to go to the stupid dance.”

“Charlie.” Merry crouched down, to be on eye level. “Listen to me. If you're telling me it's life and death, I won't make you go. But this is just a couple of hours. No biggie. I get it, that you think you're not going to like it—and maybe you won't. But how bad can a couple hours be?”

Charlene hesitated.

“Did you try on the dark green pants?”

“Yeah, they were okay, too. And that shirt—” She motioned to the off-white one. “That isn't too sucky, either.”

Merry still hadn't heard an answer to the real question, though. “I'm serious, Charl. If this is that traumatic for you, I'll back off. I want you to go, but nothing's worth your being heart-and-soul miserable. If you tell me it's that bad, I'll shut up. I promise.”

“For Pete's sake, you can detox,” Charlene said sourly. “It's not
that
bad. I guess I could go. If I can leave
immediately
after two hours. No more. Not even a minute more.”

They weren't, of course, done. Now that Merry had her size—and her number—she heaped items on the sales counter, paid for those, and then herded Charlene into just a couple more departments. Combat boots just wouldn't do. Neither would heels—not for Charlie—or even dress-up girl shoes. But the shoe department had to have something with a rounded toe that wouldn't look too bad under the pants.

And then, of course, came the hair crisis. The waxed brush cut looked terrible, Merry felt, but Charlene was hopelessly touchy about it, so she'd shut up. Now, though, she was determined to find some little magnet earrings in the shape of stars—like a general's brass stars. With a little jewelry, the hair could look a little punky, more like a style instead of so in-your-face-
guy.

She found the earrings, but she had to pick them out herself, because Charlie balked at going inside the trendy kid jewelry store.

By the time they were done, Merry was yawning, ready for a good hour's nap, and her shoulders were creaking from the weight of all the packages. But man, had they done good.

Charlene was still arguing on the drive home. But not as much.

“Charlie, it's just not that bad.” Merry, stopped at a red light, obeyed the kid's subtle directive to turn right. Who knew? “A dance is just an excuse for a group to be together, do something together. Everybody likes music, right? So. You go, you listen to some music, you drink some of the stupid punch or pop, and you stand around with your friends and watch everybody else. That doesn't sound so torturous, does it?”

“But I don't
have
a bunch of girlfriends to stand around with. And I don't want to stand by myself.”

“Well, of course you don't. But what about all those guys who came over for the sleepover? Can't you hang with some of them? They're probably worried about standing alone, too.”

Charlie didn't say anything else until they pulled in the drive. “I didn't think about that. That I could, like, hang with Quinn. Or Bo.”

“See? You'd be helping them, too, so they didn't have to worry about being alone.”

“And Jack'll be there, right? So if anything happened, he could take me home. Even if you had to stay there because of being a chaperone and all.”

As Merry scooped up all the packages, she glanced next door. There was no truck in the drive, so Jack wasn't likely home. She hadn't forgotten about Jack being conned into chaperoning with her, that she'd had every intention of letting him off the hook. The whole thing was crazy, his feeling obligated to attend a darn fool thing like this, but now…now, it seemed her thinking had changed.

Certainly there was no seducing a guy in front of a hundred eleven-and twelve-year-olds. In fact, there was nothing remotely suggestive or sexual she could imagine in those ghastly circumstances.

But they
would
be in the same place.

Desire was the creator of invention, wasn't it? Or maybe the quote didn't go quite like that. But close enough, Merry thought. If there was a way to get that man in trouble, she figured she could find it….

J
ACK
'
S CELL BEEPED
just as he was grabbing the keys to the truck. Because he was already running late, he wasn't inclined to answer it—until the caller ID identified Cooper. He most definitely wanted to talk to his son.

“Tell me again why the
hell
you think I should have to do this,” he barked into the receiver.

“Now, Dad. That's exactly why I called, to coach you through this.”

“I do not need coaching, you—” His son's sass damn-near made Jack chuckle. For a second. “Don't mess with me. Somehow you suckered me into going to a dance for a bunch of squirts. I did this when you and Kicker were this age, because that was the parenting thing to do. But this is not my child. Not my problem. And I can't remember why the hell you even wanted me to do this.”

“Because Charlene's a good kid. Only she's kind of been lost since her dad died. And for this particular problem, you're really the only one who can help her.”

“Yeah, like I believe that.” Jack stomped out the back door and aimed for his truck. The night was blacker than tar and colder than a scorned woman, mimicking his mood to a
T.

“Dad. From Charlene's point of view, she's gonna be embarrassed to death if Merry watches her every second. So you can help that, by diverting Merry's attention from watching her all the time. And Merry…she's just too young for this crowd, you know?”

“Too young for eleven-and twelve-year-olds?”

His son sighed, as if exhausted from the effort of communicating with him. “No. Too young for the parent crowd. The golf groupies. The fund-raisers. The Scout dads. Lots of the parents are okay, but she's still
single,
for Pete's sake. She's going to feel like a red flag in a forest. It'd help if she had someone to talk to, someone who didn't make her feel like she was the only lonely flag.”

Damn kid. Jack was all calmed down even before he'd started the truck engine. “When did you get so damned smart, anyway?” he demanded, but the irritation was out of his voice. Coop knew it, too. But instead of his son responding, suddenly there was silence.

“I'm not smart,” his son said.

As if someone punched paternal radar, Jack forgot his annoyance and honed straight on his son. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I hope,” Cooper said. There was a sick note in his voice. Jack heard it.

“Hey,” Jack said sharply, but his son signed off with the usual line about stuff to do/people to see. That was okay, but Jack clicked off the phone, determined this wasn't going to happen another time. The next time he could corner Cooper, he was going to sit on the boy if he had to, but one way or another he had to ferret out whatever was bothering him.

Right now, though, he had other crises on his table.

A sixth-grade dance. Holy hell. But he got it, why his sons wanted him to do this now. Damn good hearts, those boys. Kicker was a little irrepressible and impulsive, Coop too damned self-contained, and both of them total rock heads sometimes. But they did have good hearts.

Besides, he was stuck.

And it wasn't the worst thing he'd ever had to do…spend a couple hours near Merry.

As he walked in the school a few minutes later, he tugged the collar of his shirt, trying to breathe. The kids had tried to disguise the gym, which of course didn't work. A gym was always going to be a gym. But red lights flashed on the dark ceiling, red for Valentine's Day. Some dad had volunteered to be DJ and was choosing discs with a nice, solid, pounding beat. A table was set up with a punch bowl, another with cookies and various types of junk to eat. A line of kids hugged the wall as if glued there, anything to avoid getting on that dance floor and being exposed.

Jack tugged at his collar again, still getting a lay of the land as his vision adjusted to the Valentine-red cast on everything. At this age, most of the girls were taller than the guys, which meant if they
did
dance, the guy'd often enough be stuck staring at the girl's chest. If she had a chest. Which was pretty much nip or tuck with the eleven-twelve age group.

He didn't immediately spot Charlene—not because of the gloom—but because he instinctively searched the crowd for Merry. The instant he located her, he found his attention glued there and his feet hustling in that direction.

Damn
went his heart. And his head.

Normally she seemed to dress like…well, he didn't know what she dressed like. Herself, he guessed. Lots of free-spirited prints with dipping necklines, jewelry that danced around when she moved, pants that cupped her butt. Not tonight. He suspected she was trying to look like a proper chaperone type, and she did. The black turtleneck was plain, the skirt sedately swinging at midcalf. All that rich hair was snugged back with some kind of clip.

She was standing at one of the tables, feeding cookies to a tray. Some woman next to her was asking if she'd participate in a fund-raiser. The meetings were every second Monday. Breakfast. Racquet club. A great cause.

“I'd be happy to,” Merry said. “But on Mondays, I'm already at the school for a mentoring thing they asked me to do—”

“But this is early. Really early. Before school starts.”

“Well, I don't mind getting up, but the thing is, I drive Charlene to school, and—” And then she saw him. Damn woman. Her face tilted up, lit up. The smile flashed on brighter than straight UV. “No,” she said, “you're going right home.”

“Huh?” the lady next to her said, but Merry was already winging around the table, aiming straight for him.

“I can't claim I'm not glad you're here. I am. But honestly, Jack, you don't have to do this. I had no idea how bad this was going to be.”

“You're saying the cookies are no good?”

“I'm saying that I wouldn't ask my worst enemy to do this with me. Truthfully I was looking forward to your being here—but that was before. Now I get the whole picture. And I may never recover from the guilt if you feel you have to stay.”

She was so full of hell, she took his breath. Maybe she didn't have the free-spirit clothes on. But her lips were sex-red, her eyes smoky. And he didn't know perfumes, most of the time thought women wore too much of that stuff. But this one was wicked. And she just had a hint of it, around her throat, around her wrists, so that when she moved, he forgot his own name.

“Thanks,” he said. “I confess, I'm not sure how long I'll last. But definitely I don't mind staying for a little while—”

“A little while'd be good. Even a few minutes would save me from the next rash of people asking me to do something for their cause. Everybody here has a cause. What is that? Don't women do regular jobs during the day?”

“They all did. But a lot of them dropped out of the workforce to do the parenting thing. Only they can't sit home or they go stir crazy, so they fill up on doing good stuff for the community.”

“I
know
it's good stuff. I want to be involved. But if this keeps up, I'm going to be busier in Charlene's school than Charlene is. And I can't…oh my God, oh my God.”

“What?” Merry's face had that look—that parent-look like when your toddler gets free from you for the first time and runs out in the road.

“Charlie. She was doing fine, staying over there with a guy friend. One of the boys who slept over, the computer geek with all the cowlicks. Only now she's on the dance floor.
My Charlie.
”

“And that's bad?”

“Bad or good isn't the point. She's with Dougall! Whitmore! The boy she beat up the first week I came here! I thought she couldn't stand him. And he's in eighth grade besides, so he must have come here with someone else, and oh my God—”

He sighed. That was exactly what Cooper coached him about—protecting Charlene from being hovered over. “C'mere.”

“C'mere…where?”

“Dance with me.”

“What?” She squinted as if he'd spoken in Japanese. “Did you say ‘dance with you'? I didn't know you even danced.”

He didn't usually. At least not unless he'd been liberally plied with liquor. But he couldn't disappoint the squirt, and God knew, his sons were going to put him through an inquisition on anything he did or failed to do. So he just hooked her hand and led her to the dance floor, then spun her around—an easy way to get her into his arms.

The kids all immediately gawked. Both those on the sidelines and those few on the dance floor. But he fixed it so that he could see Charlene—and she couldn't.

“Um, Jack?”

She looked…bemused. Not reluctant to be on the floor with him, not unwilling to dance. He figured Merry'd always be like that, willing to go with an impulse, happy to take on a dare. He wasn't sure how he knew that. It wasn't as if he knew her that well. But…those big, dark eyes had a natural dare-you devilment in them. The cock of her head, the tilt of her shoulders, hell, even the perkiness of her breasts, all had ample female chutzpah. She wasn't afraid of much, his Merry.

Not that she was
his
Merry. The thought just came to him that way. In the possessive. It wasn't his fault. That was how his brain had spilled it out.

“Jack…” she said again, as if aware of failing to catch his attention the first time. “You do know this is a fast song, not a slow one?”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “But I don't do fast songs. You don't care, do you?”

“Um, no. This is just fine.”

Maybe it was fine for
her.
But it was damned disturbing for him to be dancing with her at all. Naturally there was a ton of air space between their bodies. There were a bunch of impressionable kids here, for Pete's sake. None of his body touched hers…except for his hands snugged around her waist. And hers snugged around his neck.

Her fingertips were sort of…playing with him. The very tips of her fingertips sneaked under his hairline, tickled his nape, traced patterns in slow, sassy curves and angles.

Her eyes seemed to be playing with him, too. So did the moist, soft texture of her lips. And the tilt of her head. And her scent—that wicked, subtle scent—seemed to go straight as a bolt to his brain. Nothing was getting through but the sensory input from her.

One of her fingertips stopped teasing for a whole millisecond. “You know, I've been here for weeks now, and I still don't know what you do for a living.”

“I'm a bureaucrat.” The answer was rote. It was always the answer that made people stop asking. Right then, anyway, he was concentrating on keeping those careful inches of separation between their bodies. No body parts had better touch, or God knew what could happen. With all those kids around, he had no choice. He had to be relentlessly disciplined.

“So what does a handsome bureaucrat such as yourself actually do all day?”

“Answer phones. Push paper. Get a paycheck from the government.”

“I so believe you,” she murmured. Her fingertip resumed its wicked, tickling thing again. Enticing him. Muddling with his mind. “Let's try some easier questions. Do you work with lots of people or just a few? Do you have a good boss or a bad boss? Do you work with more women or more men?”

That finger of hers was going to get her in real trouble. “The office is big. But my stuff, I do alone. Sometimes, on a tough project, I'll add one or two others and form a team. Otherwise…there are people around. People to talk to if I'm bored. But I work independently.”

“It must be like project work then.”

“Yeah.” How'd she figure that out?

“So you work all-out like a house afire…then that project's over and you get a break until the next one.”

“Yes.” She stopped with the finger for a second. He let out a sigh of relief. And while he was breathing, he caught a look at Charlene over at the far end of the dance floor. Something about the kid looked different. More like a girl. Sweeter. Cuter. A flush of color. And the boy she was dancing with…Jack's eyes narrowed. The kid had his hand on Charlie's back. Where it belonged. But a little low.

He swung his attention back to Merry. “So what did you do? For work or a career. Before you came here.”

She hesitated. “I ran.”

“Ran?”

“From job to job. I was never fired. I just…left. Any time I felt myself getting attached, getting tied down, I took off.”

Alarm shot through his pulse. She hadn't done anything but answer his question. But it wasn't the kind of answer she'd give a stranger. It was too honest. Too uncomfortable. “So I take it you don't want to be tied down?”

“That's what I told myself for years. But the truth, I think, is that I'd absolutely loved to be tied. I just couldn't let myself be….”

The song ended. She quit talking and dropped her hands from his neck. Talk about heartless. If felt as if the blood was being separated from his veins.