The Sweetheart Racket (13 page)

And she knew he wasn't talking about electronics.

T
aryn adjusted the bodice of the red dress, careful to show the right amount of cleavage without giving the men heart attacks (Summer's words). Although she did dress up when she and her friends went out, she usually did not show so much skin. But now she did feel kind of sexy in this dress. Very sexy, in fact.

And Rick thought so, too, if the low growl-grumble in the back of his throat when she'd met him outside the restaurant had been any indication. Luckily, Summer and Jess hadn't been close enough to see or hear his visceral reaction. They'd gone off to get a table inside.

She squelched a grin. Ever since the earlier kiss, he'd been grumpy. Taryn knew why. There would be no romance between him and Summer, no wedding with ugly bridesmaids, and no perfect children. He wasn't interested in her friend. He was interested in her. The kiss and his body's response proved he wanted her. His current state of frustration confirmed that conclusion.

Where she should be worried, she was oddly content. But the dress was killing him.

With her skimpy cheerleading uniform days behind her, she liked keeping her outfits to mostly jeans and tees for work and skirts and tops for play. This dress was something else. She did a little twirl to flutter out the skirt and felt very feminine, like Marilyn Monroe on the grate.

“I like it,” she said.

“I don't.” He took the A3000 off the seat of his motorcycle. She stepped into range.

“You picked out the dress,” she said innocently.

He slid his fingers under the fabric just enough to clip the device onto the top of her lacy red bra. His teeth gnashed. “I changed my mind.”

She shivered, as his knuckles brushed her skin.

“Too bad. I don't have time to go home and change.” Knowing the dress might be too much for him, she'd avoided meeting him at her house or his motel. Had she been alone with him, without her friends around to counter the effects of the dress, they wouldn't have made it to the restaurant.

She didn't have enough willpower to resist him on her own. Kisses were one thing, full-blown sex was another. The man was a sex magnet; a north to her south. They were driven together by an invisible magnetic force.

It seemed he was having trouble getting the device properly placed in her bra. “Do you need help?”

His fingertips on the skin between her breasts were warm and rough. Naughty images danced through her head like sugarplums at Christmas.

Nope, no spending any more time alone with him.

“I've got this.” He leaned back, closed his eyes for a second, and seemed to pull himself together. Then he adjusted the device one last time and his fingers slid abruptly out of her dress. “No one will see it now.”

Was it wrong to want to ask him to double-check?

Was it wrong that she wanted to see if two people really could have sex on a motorcycle and not fall off?

Yes, it was wrong. So wrong. She pretended to smooth out the dress. “What about the camera?”

“I've already set it up here.” He pointed to the pin on his collar. He put the listening earbud in his ear and the recorder in his shirt pocket. “I didn't want to risk detection by trying to hide it on you.”

He'd left the metal band tees behind and was wearing a medium blue button-up shirt and jeans. The loose fit of the shirt hid his gun. Since the shooting, he'd kept it on him at all times.

She had no room under the dress to wear hers, but she did have pepper spray. Just in case. And her gun was in her purse.

Taryn walked ten feet away and turned her back to him. “Can you hear me?” she said softly.

“Yes.”

“Then we're ready.”

The cafe was already half filled when they entered. It smelled of coffee and baked goods. Jess and Summer had claimed a table and Taryn took one with a clear view of them. Rick veered off at the door and joined the two women. He sat facing her.

Several men looked appreciatively her way. Taryn ignored them. “Can you still hear me?”

He gave a slight nod. She reached for the menu card. Although only two of her dates, based on their profile pictures, somewhat resembled the sketchy Brinkman photo, she knew that many people either posted photos of their much younger selves or pictures that weren't even theirs. With Brinkman and his criminal past, he'd probably be cautious and lean toward the latter.

His previous photos were likely of him, but at angles or Photoshopped to make them shadowy. They couldn't chance missing him due to faulty information.

Taryn didn't have to wait long for her first date. A balding man of about forty-five entered, scanned the room, hustled over, and dropped into the chair beside her. He was sweating from his temples and dabbed his round cheeks with a paper napkin. A smile revealed that his right canine was partially missing and what was left was a brownish stump.

“You must be Terry? You look younger than forty. Did you have work done?”

And so it began.

* * *

A headache crept into Rick's brain and refused to leave. One after another, a group of dimwits, pervs, and oddballs had come and gone over the past two hours, all of them more focused on Taryn's cleavage than her face. And each time, after a few minutes of this crap, and after confirming they weren't Brinkman, he'd appear at her side, pretending to be a jealous ex and chase them off. Since she had ten “dates” that afternoon, the men couldn't linger.

Number six even stopped on his way out to hit on Summer. She politely and firmly told him to get lost. Rick wasn't so polite.

“That one looks thirty years older than his picture,” Summer said. “Not one of the eight so far has matched their profile photo.”

“I'm glad I don't date,” Jess said.

Rick shut out their conversation. He was focused on Taryn. The latest arrival was leaning over the table, gripping her hand, and grinning like he'd won the lottery, while she worked to discreetly extricate her hand.

“Please let go,” she said through gritted teeth, and tugged.

“I have a house in Cabo, baby doll,” suitor nine said and tried to bring her hand to his lips. “I'll buy you anything you want, if you play nice with me.”

Rick stood.

Jess and Summer pulled him back down. “Don't ruin our fun,” Jess said, smiling. “Watch.”

Taryn stopped tugging and reached for her purse with her free hand. She pulled out a lipstick and worked off the cap.

“I know this nude beach,” the guy continued. “Me, you, naked. Sun, sand in our—” His icky sentiment was cut off by a quick burst of pepper spray to the face. “Ack!”

Like a wasp hit with d-Con, he started to writhe in his chair, letting loose of Taryn, as his hands went to his eyes.

“Bitch!”

A pair of old ladies at a table in the far corner clapped, having watched the procession of dates come and go with interest.

Rick was at her side in a second. He clamped a hand over Number Nine's mouth and dragged him backward off his chair. Across the restaurant they went, past the bathrooms, and out the emergency door, which failed to buzz, thankfully.

He spread the guy out on the ground and made sure he was breathing. He bent and looked into red and watery eyes. The man whimpered.

“When a woman says no, she means no.” Low moans assured him that the dumbass would live, so he went back inside and reclaimed his seat with the women.

Taryn sat with a hint of a serene smile on her perfect mouth, as if nothing had happened, and casually checked her watch, despite curious looks sent her way.

God, she was something else.

In that moment, Rick realized he was toast. He was falling for her and fast. She was everything wrong for him, and everything right: brains, beauty, and fire. But a terrible driver. And an all-out pain in the ass.

Damn, he wanted her.

“He's got it bad,” Jess said, from some far-off place.

“He's hooked,” Summer agreed.

Rick pulled his mind back to his companions. They were both staring at him and smiling.

“I hope Taryn doesn't pick yellow for our bridesmaids' dresses,” Jess said. “I look terrible in yellow.”

“I like peach,” Summer said. “Or blue.”

It took him a moment to get clued in to their conversation. He scowled. “You think you're amusing, do you?”

“We're just calling it like we see it,” Jess said. She and Summer shared a nod. “If you could see the way you look at Taryn, you'd be amused, too.”

The arrival of Number Ten kept him from responding. The guy had slipped past him while he wasn't paying attention, so Rick hadn't gotten a look at his face. From the back, he could be Brinkman. The guy had salt-and-pepper hair and a lean build.

Rick tensed.

“Hi, I'm Terry,” Taryn said and took his hand.

“Chuck. Nice to meet you.”

Chuck? If this was Brinkman, he was using a new alias. Rick glanced at Taryn. Her face revealed nothing.

“You don't look forty, Terry,” Chuck said.

Taryn leaned forward taking him into her confidence. “Don't tell anyone, but I've had work done.”

“You have?” Chuck said, worshipful. “Your surgeon was a genius.”

“Thank you.” While Chuck ordered a coffee, Taryn looked at Rick and winked. He grinned, realized he had an audience, and then frowned without taking his eyes off Taryn.

“Don't say a word, ladies,” he threatened.

Their laughter ground up his nerves.

C
huck turned out to be a bust. Although Chuck and the other men were old enough to be her father, they were not Brinkman.

Taryn was ready to crash by the time she extricated herself from the sweet and charming Chuck and paid her coffee bill. Ten partial cups of the brew had sent her to the bathroom three times and made her slightly manic.

“You're twitching,” Rick said as he walked her out.

“I've had enough caffeine to rev up a sloth.” His hand went to her bare back as he held open the door for her. She liked his touch. She wanted to invite him back to her place to help bring her down from her coffee high, but thought better of it. Sex would only lead to heartache. She already liked Rick too much for her peace of mind.

Besides, Jess and Summer were waiting by the Olds. She couldn't kiss him good night, even if she wanted to.

“Well, good night,” she said and headed to her car.

“Hey, Taryn.” She turned around and found him grinning. “You look damn sexy in that dress.”

* * *

With his compliment cemented in her mind, Taryn longed for the relaxation of a hot bath and a steamy romance novel. Whenever she needed to chill, she liked to read. If she couldn't have Rick in her bed, a wicked duke or hunky FBI agent was the next best thing. Well, sort of.

Overdosed on caffeine and Rick, she had to do something to unwind or risk calling him up and inviting him over. A long, hot bath should do the trick.

Thankfully, there were no teenage suitors on her porch or calls from her ex, as she tromped up the stairs and put her key into the lock. Her fried brain took a full ten seconds to process the sounds of footsteps behind her, and another one or two to figure, wrongly, that one of the wolf cubs next door had indeed found her.

She spun to shoo him off, startled at the massive bulk of the man before her, and dragged her eyes up to his unshaven face; a face she knew well.

She took only a half second to complete a full and almost fatal heart failure.

“Hello, Taryn.”

Alvin the Ape.

She tried to scream but only a strangled squeak came out. However, she did manage through the panicked spinning of her mind to reach into the side pocket of her purse for the lipstick Mace. Closing a fist over the tube, she whipped it out and aimed. She shot him full in the right eye with enough noxious chemicals to take down a grizzly.

Nothing.

She shot him in the left eye.

Again.
Nada
. The third strike was a pitiful stream from the nearly empty can. It hit him midchest.

She was going to die.

He blinked, shook his head, but looked more annoyed than damaged. “I need to talk to you,” he said in his deep, deep, serial-killer voice.

She held up the can and sprayed, sputtering liquid back and forth across his wide face, like a hyped-up mom treating her pasty white kid with spray-on sunscreen at the beach.

Instead of dropping down in pain, Alvin sighed deeply and he reached out. Resigned to death, she slowly placed the empty lipstick can onto his ginormous hairy paw; the same hand that would soon choke the breath out of her.

Twenty-five was a long and successful life, right? She'd had some fun and made friends, and could have slept with Rick, the sexiest man on the planet. He'd wanted her and not Summer. That was enough. She was ready to go to God.

Closing her eyes, she waited.

A second sigh opened them back up.

He was staring at her like she was a moron.

“I'm not here to kill you, though I could if I wanted to. I could break you in half with one hand and not even sprain a finger.” He flexed said hand as proof.

“It is a big hand,” she agreed. What?

He shook his head like a dog. Clumps of drying chemical went flying. “Look, can we talk inside?”

“Sure.” She didn't want to traumatize her next-door neighbors by letting them watch her be murdered. She wasn't entirely convinced that wasn't Alvin's end game despite his assurance, and she couldn't chance the boys taking the opportunity to upload the video to the web. Boys would be boys and all that.

She unlocked the door and led him in. He had to dip his head so as not to conk his forehead on the doorframe.

Taryn thought about her gun. It was in its case in her purse. But she suspected in the time it would take to retrieve it, he'd probably snap off her head. She thought about those many hours of self-defense training. But Alvin was a trained bodyguard, at least six foot seven, and probably had a good one hundred and fifty pounds on her. Why waste the energy trying to raise her foot up over her head to kick him in the groin? A peaceful murdering was preferable over blood and gore.

So she waited and covertly looked around for a weapon.

Alvin crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels. “Willard wants you dead.”

“I know. He said so in court.” Her stomach soured. “It's on record.”

“No. I'm supposed to kill you and make it look like an accident.”

Well, this was a turn. She'd thought Willard's threats were as empty as his morality. The bastard. “That's why you're here? I thought you said you wouldn't kill me. Just a minute ago, I heard it. You promised.”

“I'm not . . .” He blinked and sucked in and released a deep breath. It took a moment before he spoke again. “My therapist says that I have anger issues. I'm trying to change.” He scratched his scruffy black beard. “I can't be a better person and murder you, too. So I told Willard no.”

There were moments in life when it felt as if
Candid Camera
was about to pounce. While she waited for Peter Funt to jump out and shout, “Smile, you're on
Candid Camera,
” she wobbled backward into the living room and perched on the arm of the couch.

“I knew Willard was angry.” She met his eyes. “I can't believe this.”

“Believe it.”

Murder. “All this trouble over a rejection and a lawsuit?”

“He thinks you'll be awarded his team. He's seriously pissed. He loves being a team owner. He's been to the White House. He bags groupies. Without the team, he'll have to go back to Utah and raise chickens with his wife, and hang out with the Mormons. His words.”

Wow. Willard was a bigger lunatic than she'd thought. “Do you have evidence of this murder plot?”

“Nope. Just my word.”

Darn. Knowing how close she'd been to real death left her unsettled and ticked off. She took a moment to think it all over. At least she'd been warned. And if Alvin agreed to testify about the murder plot, Willard would be sunk. But first, she wanted him out of her house. After all, who could take the word of a hired assassin that she was safe?

“Well, thank you for the warning.” She pushed off the couch arm and headed for the front door. “My lawyer will be in touch.”

He frowned. “I can't leave.”

“Why not?”

“I have nowhere to go.”

She waited for him to explain. He obliged.

“When we stopped for gas in Atlanta, I took a pee break. When I came out, the bus was gone.” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it over. Gold embossing gave Willard's name and information. “The clerk gave me that.”

Taryn turned it over.

 

Y
OU'RE FIRED
!

 

Willard did have a flair for the dramatic. “Okay. I'm sorry you lost your job, but what does that have to do with me? If you've forgotten, you ejected me and my friends from his bus and left us stranded in the boonies. We could have died of exposure or starvation. That wasn't nice.”

That may have been a bit of an exaggeration, but it had been a hot day and they'd had no water. Death by dehydration had been a real threat.

“I apologize for that.” He managed to look sheepish. “I was much crankier then.”

Taryn's brain hurt. She was chatting up her assassin, in her living room, like they were old friends. She wanted him gone. She wanted a bath. And Heather and Brandon were awaiting their first kiss on her nightstand. She was just getting to the sexy part of the book.

“Alvin. Let's cut to the chase. What do you want?”

“I want to stay here.”

“Are you crazy? No!” She paused. “Was that you I saw the other night, running for the bushes across the street?”

“Maybe. Look, I have nowhere to go and no money.” Despite his size and scary face, he looked sort of pitiful standing there. Still, it wasn't happening. She shook her head.

He made a pinched face, sort of like a baby filling its diaper, and his bottom lip trembled.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to show emotion. My therapist says it's healthy.” He tried to summon up a tear, failed, and gave up. “I walked a long way to get here.”

“You walked from Atlanta?” At his nod, her eyes widened. “That's, like, six hundred miles.”

“Seven hundred and nine. Give or take. I slept in woods and culverts. Do you know there are black bears in Kentucky?”

Shocked, Taryn ran her eyes over him. For the first time she noticed how disheveled he was and that his left big toe poked out of one black dress shoe. Bits of plants and dust stuck to his black suit and an old (and new) sweat stain circled his dress shirt's collar.

His jacket looked a bit chewed.

Pressing a palm to her forehead, she knew Heather and Brandon's love story would have to wait.

Seven hundred and nine miles.

“Just for a few days.”

He smiled. One front tooth was missing.

Alvin was a melting pot of species and cultures and hair. Black tufts of fur stuck up from beneath his shirt collar and on the backs of his hands. And after who knows how many weeks of walking, he was sporting some serious black beard growth, and the last time he'd taken a shower was a mystery. In a squabble with a Kentucky black bear, she was sure he'd be the victor. The bear was probably still licking his wounds.

And now, Alvin was all hers.