How to Score (30 page)

An image of a small stucco house flashed on the screen. Beside her, Walter shook his head in annoyance. “She’s gussied up the flower beds with begonias and periwinkles.”

The reporter’s face filled the screen. “A rather unusual mix of people showed up this morning to support the house’s preservation.”

Unusual? They were outright weirdos, Arlene thought as the camera panned the motley group. The camera tightened on a heavyset man wearing a pirate-style headscarf and black clothes with multiple zippers. His arms were covered in tattoos, and his face sported more jewelry than a Zales showcase.

The reporter thrust the microphone in his face. “What brought you out this morning?”

He squinted at the camera with glazed eyes. “Mr. Art Deco is a righteous dude, and we can’t let him be put down by the man, man.” A stud gleamed in his tongue as he spoke. “Hey, do you know where the doughnuts are?”

The reporter turned to a woman next to him, who had hair dark as a black hole, a spiked collar, and black lipstick. “And you?” the reporter asked.

“That little house is an endangered species. It’s the dodo bird of architecture, and we need to protect it.”

The reporter turned to a tiny elderly woman with a face as wrinkled as a shar-pei’s.
She wore a violet sweat suit, a straw hat, and white gloves, and she carried a sign that read “Beauty has no expiration date.”

“Why are you supporting the house?”

“Because it’s a lot like us. It might be old and out of date, but it’s one of a kind and it was made by a master.”

The reporter went back to Sammi. “Obviously, you have a lot of support. What do you think should be done with the house?”

“There are a couple of options. It could be sold to a private owner who would preserve its historical integrity.”

“Yeah. Like you,” Walter muttered.

“Or, better yet,” Sammi continued, “the state historical society or a private museum could take it over so the public could tour and appreciate it.”

“A private museum such as the Phelps Museum?” the reporter asked.

Sammi nodded. “That would be ideal.”

Ideal, indeed! What on earth was the girl thinking?

“Wow. That would be great!” Walter muttered.

“The protest seems to have worked,” the reporter said. “The commission voted to uphold the demolition ban while the issue is studied. For the next three months at least, the little house is safe from the wrecking ball.”

Walter clicked off the TV and turned to Arlene, his eyes hopeful. “Do you think your museum might really be interested in buying the house?”

Arlene pulled her gaze from the blank screen. “Of course not.”

His face fell. “Why not?”

“Because my museum is dedicated to preserving the Phelps legacy, not saving ramshackle little houses all over the town.”

“Maybe it could do both.”

“No.” Arlene vigorously shook her head. “Absolutely not. Chandler shouldn’t have to share the limelight with some architect who designed tract houses.”

“Well, then, maybe the state historical society will be interested in buying it.”

Arlene blew out a derisive huff of air. “That’ll never happen. They’re in the middle of a budget cutback. And even if they did have the money, acquiring a new property would be a long, drawn-out political process that could take years.”

Disappointment registered again on Walter’s face.

“She’s trying to get you to sell it to her, Walter.” It was the sort of ploy oil-lease owners used to play—rousing public sentiment against Phelps Oil, stalling to see if they could get better terms. Chandler had encountered it dozens of times. “She’s trying to pull the wool over your eyes so she can get what she wants.”

“I don’t think Sammi’s like that,” Walter said. “She makes me mad as hell and she has no business interfering, but she’s basically a real nice girl.” He put his napkin in his lap and picked up his fork. “She’s always prompt with her rent, and she takes real good care of the property. She even brought me homemade soup when I had the flu a few months ago.”

“She does nice things in order to get what she wants,” Arlene said, spearing a bite of enchilada. “I know the type.”

Walter looked at her. “Sounds like you’ve had personal experience along these lines.”

“Oh, yes, indeed.”

“Who did that to you, Arlene?”

Chandler.
The thought shocked and alarmed her. No. She didn’t mean that. She couldn’t mean that! She meant his associates and rivals. She shook her head, trying to straighten her thoughts. “I saw it time and time again. People would schmooze and flatter and pretend to care about you, and all the time, they were simply serving their own purposes.”

“Anyone in particular?” Walter’s gaze seemed to go right through her. She had the unsettling feeling that she was being x-rayed, that he was seeing things inside of her that she couldn’t see herself.

“Everyone in general.” She picked up her fork and forced a smile, not wanting to linger on the topic, not wanting to delve any deeper into murky waters. “We’d better eat before our food gets cold.”

But something inside her felt cold already—cold and numb and frozen.

T
he chime of the doorbell, followed by Joe’s deep, frantic barks, jarred Sammi from a deep sleep. Alarmed, she pushed her hair out of her eyes, sat up in bed, and glanced at her bedside clock: 3:55. Who on earth would be ringing the doorbell at this hour?

Climbing out of bed, she headed to the living room and peered out the window. In the dim glow of the porch light, she recognized a tall male figure.
Chase
. Her already racing heart rate amped up its speed.

The three locks on the door clicked noisily as she unfastened them. She grabbed Joe’s collar and pulled the door open. “What’s going on?”

“I’m ready for our date.” His gaze wandered over the Hello Kitty short-shorts and tank she wore to bed, and he grinned. “You, apparently, are not.”

Joe wriggled in a happy dance. Releasing his collar, Sammi pushed a tangled mass of hair out of her eyes. “You said you’d be here at four.”

Chase petted the ridiculously gleeful dog. “Oh, gee, don’t tell me I’m too early.”

“By about twelve hours.”

He glanced at his watch. “Nah, just a couple of minutes. It’s three fifty-eight.”

She squinted at him. “You meant four
in the morning?
”

“Sure. Did I neglect to tell you that?”

She wasn’t buying his expression of wide-eyed innocence. “Yes.” She crossed her arms. “You somehow forgot that little detail.”

“Oh. Well, go get ready.” He made a shooing gesture with his hand. “We don’t want to be late.”

“For what?”

“It’s a surprise.” He handed her a warm Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Here. I had a feeling you’d be needing this.”

Taking the coffee, she hurried to her bathroom, washed her face, brushed her teeth, and pulled her hair into a pony-tail. She pulled out her makeup bag, gazed at her sleep-swollen eyes, then decided against makeup. It was four o’clock in the freaking morning; he’d just have to take her au naturel.

Five minutes later, she was in his car, dressed in jeans, a short-sleeved white sweater, and a scarlet fleece hoodie. She took a sip of coffee, savoring the rich flavor. “Where the heck are we going?”

“If I tell you, it’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Just promise me you’re not taking me to hunt rattlesnakes and get a tattoo.”

He raised a quizzical eyebrow, and she told him about Chloe’s client. He asked about the rally, and she gave him a full report.

“How was your trip to D.C.?” she asked.

He regaled her with tales about the seminar, then asked about her week at work. The conversation drifted to other things, and time flew by. The next time she paid attention to their surroundings, Chase had turned off the highway onto a side road.

He drove down a long, winding stretch of pitch-black asphalt, then pulled into a gravel parking area under a lamppost. “Here we are.”

She strained to see beyond the light from the lamppost. The headlights seemed to be reflecting off water. “Which is where?”

“Lake Eufaula.” Chase killed the engine. “And there’s Fred.”

Oh, great. Chase had invited a third party to join them again. She swallowed down her disappointment as a burly, gray-haired man in an orange hunting vest stepped into the lamppost’s ring of light. “And Fred is…?”

“Our striper guide.”

“Are we also going to have a polka-dot guide?”

Chase grinned. “No. And the plaid guide couldn’t join us, either.”

Laughing, she scrambled out of the car.

“Fred is the best fishing guide in the business,” Chase told her as he introduced them.

“You’re gonna jinx me, tellin’ her that,” the older man said in a deep southern accent. “You two ready to go?”

They headed down a dock toward a craft that looked like a wide speedboat. Chase helped her aboard, then sat beside her on a long padded bench. Fred lumbered onto the boat, flipped up a seat cushion, and pulled out a life vest.

He handed it to Sammi. “Better put this on. If you happen to fall overboard, I don’t want you to drown.”

Sammi looked at Chase as she pulled on the life vest. “Where’s yours?”

“Fred doesn’t care if I drown.”

She struggled to adjust the life-vest straps. “With me in the boat, you’re more likely to end up in the water than I am,” she warned.

“I’m not afraid to take my chances.” His tone was teasing, but his gaze was warm. He helped her tighten the top tie of her life vest.

“Maybe you should be,” Sammi said somberly.

“Nah.” He tightened the second strap for her. “I trust you.”

Something about the simple statement made her breath catch. “That might not be wise.”

He snapped her life vest closed and gazed into her eyes. “The thing that’s not wise, Sammi, is not trusting yourself.”

Fred started the engine, and the boat roared across the water. Chilly air slapped Sammi in the face. She shivered, and Chase put his arm around her shoulder. “Cold?” he asked, speaking close to her ear to be heard over the engine.

“A little.”

He rubbed her arm, which made her shiver for an entirely different reason.

Fred sat in the front, steering the craft with one hand while watching his underwater radar. At length, he pulled back the throttle, slowing the boat’s roar to a purr. “We’re coming up on a school of striper,” he called. He killed the engine. The sudden silence was jarring. The waves from the boat’s wake slapped against the sides. “Let’s get the lines in.”

Rising from his seat, Fred pulled two rods and reels from a rack at the front of the boat.

Chase helped Sammi to her feet as Fred handed her one.

“Are you familiar with a rod and reel?” Fred asked.

“We’re vaguely acquainted.” She’d used a rod and reel a couple of times as a kid when her grandfather had taken her fishing. “I wouldn’t say we’re familiar.”

Fred grinned. “Hold the button on the reel, and throw it like this.” He hoisted the reel to the side, gave a quick flick of his wrist, and sent the line soaring. “Then wind it in, nice and steady, and do it again.” The reel clicked as he wound it.

On her first try, the lure didn’t make it out of the boat, but her second cast was surprisingly powerful.

“You’re a natural,” Fred said as she reeled in her line. He looked over at Chase. “Watch out, or she’s gonna fish circles around you.”

“Is this a competitive sport?” Sammi asked.

“Oh, yeah. People fish in tournaments for big money.” A gap in Fred’s teeth gleamed in the dawn light as he grinned. “Of course, everything’s a tournament where Chase’s concerned. He’s competitive about everything.”

“I guess you’ll really hate it when I catch more fish than you, huh?” She threw him a challenging look.

“Not gonna happen.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Sure. But I have to warn you: fish find me irresistible.”

Fish weren’t alone. When he looked at her like that, she found him pretty irresistible, as well. “What are we betting?”

“Winner’s choice.”

Before she could reply, the water around the boat started bubbling.

“What’s going on?” Sammi asked, alarmed.

“We’re in a school of striper, and they’re feeding,” Fred explained.

Sammi’s line went taut, and her rod bent. Adrenaline rushed through her. “Hey—I’ve got one!” she shouted.

“Keep the line tense and reel it in, nice and steady,” Chase advised. He stepped closer, ready to assist, but Sammi had it under control.

A thrill of excitement rushed through her as she lifted the fish from the water. “I’ve caught one!”

“Good going!” Fred bent down and scooped the fish into a net. “And it’s a keeper.”

He just might be
, Sammi thought, glancing at Chase.
He just might be.

By the time they docked at the pier two hours later, the sun was up and the ice chest was loaded with striper. Chase jumped onto the pier and reached out a hand to Sammi.

She took it and climbed out of the boat, then waved to Fred. “Thanks a million! I had a fantastic time.”

“My pleasure,” Fred said. “Any time you want to go again, just give me a call. Chase has my number.”