Читать книгу A Little Night Matchmaking - Debrah Morris, Debrah Morris - Страница 12

Trick retrieved his toolbox from the truck. Aiming a flashlight into the car’s greasy innards, he immediately discovered the problem. After making a few quick adjustments, he leaned around the car’s raised hood. “Try it again!”

She turned the key in the ignition, and the ancient engine hiccuped to life. Some engines purred like contented kittens; this one chugged like a rusty lawnmower. That had been left out in the rain. Trick lowered the hood and walked around to the driver’s side window, pulling his handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his hands. Seeing the ketchup stain sent a riveting surge of emotion spiraling through him. He’d experienced a similar reaction when he’d touched Brandy’s cheek. Twice.

He had no idea where the unnerving sensations came from or what they meant in the grand scheme of things. Sorting out emotions was complicated. Owning up to them was messier than the gunk on his handkerchief. Time-consuming. Denying emotions was easy for a man who preferred to keep life neat and simple.

“That should do it.” He stood by the car. An elusive scent made him draw in a deep breath. Cinnamon. Reminded him of something, but before he could figure out what, he noted Brandy’s relieved sigh. Complacency was dangerous, so he added, “For the moment.”

“Mind if I ask what kind of voodoo magic brought my zombie car back to life?” She gazed up at him, her face pale in the street lamp’s hazy glow. He’d seen her in broad daylight and knew the pallor was artificial. Her smooth skin was warm and golden. Now that she was off the defensive, she was neither coy nor seductive. Her delicate features were arresting in their openness.

A man would always know where he stood with her.

He shrugged off the uncomfortable thought. Didn’t even feel like one of his. “No magic required. The battery cables were loose on the terminals. Easily fixed. All I had to do was tighten them.”

She smiled, and he noticed the indentation of a tiny dimple at the left corner of her mouth. Long strands of hair had slipped from an elaborate braid and fluttered in the evening breeze like shiny coffee-colored ribbons. Unlike other pretty women, she seemed unaware of her wholesome appeal. Her name suited her. Like the liqueur, her intrinsic sweetness carried a surprising kick. A man with a weakness for her type would find Brandy Mitchum’s cheeky charm downright intoxicating.

“The cables were loose?” Her dark brows fretted together. “How could that happen?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “All kinds of things go wrong with old cars.”

In the back seat, the little girl clapped a hand over her mouth and giggled.

“Maybe bouncing over those washboard roads today disconnected them,” suggested Brandy.

“Maybe.” Her theory was as good as any. “An old car is a disaster waiting to happen. You should have gotten—”

“I know. The engine tuned.” She held up a hand tipped with bare nails that had probably never had a professional manicure and ticked off the obvious. “The timing adjusted. The brake pads replaced. The leak in the air conditioner line repaired. A new muffler. And oh, how about some new tires while we’re dreaming?”

“That would get you started,” he conceded, “if you don’t mind pouring money down a rat hole.”

“I’m well aware of my vehicular shortcomings. Unfortunately I’ve been a little checkbook-challenged since the move.”

“You’re new to Odessa?”

“We’ve been here a little over a month.”

“We?” Without thinking, he checked the hand resting on the steering wheel. No wedding ring.

If she noticed, she didn’t let on. “Chloe and I. I’m divorced.”

“Ah.” Why was he glad to hear that? Her marital status was irrelevant. Despite the physical reaction that had gut-punched him when he touched her, Brandy Mitchum was not the kind of woman he got involved with. He knew females, and experience told him this one would expect a lot from a man. Like commitment. She should have a big ornate C tattooed on her forehead to warn guys who didn’t possess reliable radar.

Her lack of flirtation is intriguing. Maybe, but only a fool would rise to that challenge. She’ll demand fidelity and promises. Exactly. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. His word was his bond. That’s how he’d gotten where he was. At thirty-seven, he’d maintained his bachelor status by not getting involved with women who wanted more than he was willing to offer.

Which is damned little these days.

Yeah, but who’s keeping score?

Brandy was a mother. Heavily invested in family values. Divorced and unwilling to accept less than her due. No doubt on the prowl for a replacement man. If she hadn’t already staked her claim on a neat little house on a quiet little street with lots of pretty little flowers in the yard and a fluffy puppy for the kid, then she was prospecting for one. He’d met—and run from—women like her before. They needed too much. Loose battery cables today, drippy faucets tomorrow. They were highly skilled at sucking a man into the black hole of domesticity.

The take-over started innocently enough. A little project here. Another there. Hang a curtain rod. Rewire a lamp. Then boom. Before God could get the news, a guy was mucking out gutters and cooking burgers on a backyard grill. His time was no longer his own, and all furloughs from the picket fence prison were carefully monitored by the cookie-baking warden. He shuddered at the thought of being locked in for life with no chance of parole.

No way and no thank you. His risk-taking, nomadic lifestyle didn’t mix with family duty. All his time and all his energy was devoted to his demanding job. Job? Who was he kidding? Controlling oil well fires was more of a calling. There were easier ways to make a living. Safer ways, too.

He’d ducked the big C by avoiding complicated relationships and choosing women with no apron strings or expectations. Women whose desires were easily satisfied in the bedroom. His plan had worked so far, so why change a winning play?

And who the hell was he arguing with?

“So you have family here?” He wasn’t sure why he was stalling. He should climb into the truck right now and get the heck out of Dodge.

“No. Just the two of us.”

Did she have to make her situation sound so pitiful? Little mama and forty-pound kid against the world. Good thing he wasn’t in the damsel-saving business. Trick took a step back, equating physical distance with the emotional variety.

“My daddy’s a sheriff.” The little girl piped up from the back seat. “He has a badge and everything.”

“He does, huh?” Chloe the Uncanny was another complication. Like their mothers, kids needed things too. Time, attention, nurturing. He wasn’t bent that way.

Freedom topped the list of his prized possessions. He could pack a bag and leave at a moment’s notice without having to clear his departure with ground control. Exactly the way he liked things. The key to life was traveling light. No strings, no ties and no entanglements. A family would only slow the rocket of his life.

What? You want to die alone? Never knowing real love.

He was happy with the way things were. He didn’t need the ballast of stability and love.

“Yep, her daddy’s a sheriff, all right.” Brandy gave off vibes of calm determination and seemed unaware of Trick’s internal power struggle. She smiled again, flashing the dimple. “Duly elected by the citizens of Slapdown, Texas.”

Sexy in a nonsexual way, Ms. Earnest Working Mom was definitely not his type. Her beat-all kid compounded the problem. Trick couldn’t relate to humans that small or that smart. He didn’t understand children any better now than he had when he’d been one himself, an only child because his parents had feared unleashing another fearless dynamo on the world.

His father had chased oil wells around the world, and his mother had followed, leaving Trick with his widowed grandmother on a farm in the Missouri Ozarks. Granny Bett’s place had been a growing boy’s paradise. Caves to explore, trees to climb, rivers to swim. He’d been as happy as a left-behind child could be, but had joined the family business the second he was old enough to impose his formidable will.

“What?” Brandy frowned. “You’re looking at me funny. Do I have something on my face again?”

“No.” He’d been lost in a maze of memories. This woman was the worst kind of dangerous. Just being near her conjured up thoughts of hearth and home. Longing for family. “I’m sorry. I know we haven’t met before today, but there’s something about you that’s…”

“Familiar?”

“Very.”

“How strange,” she said. “I was thinking the same thing about you. I’m sure we’ve seen each other around town.”

“That’s probably it.”

“Mommy? Can Trick come to our house?”

“No, honey. It’s getting late, and I’m sure he has other things to do.”

“How about tomorrow?”

The kid was persistent; he’d give her that.

“Can Trick eat with us?” Chloe asked.

“No.”

“Well, can he visit?”

“I don’t think so.” As tired as she had to be, Brandy was patient with her daughter’s wheedling questions.

“I want to show him my princess books.”

He leaned down and peered into the back seat. “Sorry, Little Bit. I have to work.”

“Putting out fires.” Little Chloe was as sharp as a brier. He’d only mentioned firefighting in passing.

“That’s right. Oil well fires.” He gazed into Chloe’s wide, dark, knowing eyes, and the door of his heart creaked open against his will, welcoming her to step inside. Scaring the heck out of him.

“Still slaying dragons, Trick?”

He took an involuntary step back. “What?” The child’s innocent question prickled the skin on the back of his neck. Despite the evening heat, chilly fingers crept up his spine. Who were these people? Being with them felt both normal and extraordinary at the same time.

Still slaying dragons, Trick? He’d heard those words before, asked in the same gentle manner. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t remember when. Further proof of how confused and addled the Mitchums made him. “I know you’re a good guesser, Chloe, but where did you come up with that?”

“From my princess storybook.” Tiny, pearled teeth filled her grin. “The handsome prince always slays the dragon.”

“Right.” His taut muscles relaxed, and he let out a relieved breath. Man, Little Bit wasn’t the only one with too much imagination. He was attaching meaning where there was none.

“What does slay mean?” Chloe asked.

Before he could answer, Brandy looked over her shoulder. “Slay means to amuse, honey, as in ha, ha, that joke really slays me.”

“Oh.” The little girl frowned. “So princes make dragons laugh?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Chloe slumped in her booster seat to ponder the comedian prince puzzle.

“Thank you, Mr. Templeton.” Brandy’s brisk tone let him know the conversation was over. A good mother, she obviously didn’t want to give her kid nightmares about mythical creatures being run through by princely swords.

The ruse might have worked with an ordinary kid, but Little Bit wouldn’t buy it.

“I appreciate you getting the car running,” Brandy continued. “But I really need to take Chloe home to bed.”

The innocent statement should not have conjured up images of getting her into his bed. But it did.

Get your mind out of the gutter. The value of a good woman goes far beyond physical pleasure.

Never mind where it came from, the suggestion had merit. Nice little mamas weren’t into casual what’s-in-it-for-me sex, and that’s all he had time for these days. And on the fly, at that. He’d better cut and run. Brandy was as tempting as her name, but she was a hair-trigger trap waiting to spring.

He drove the conversation down a safer road. “You’ll keep having mechanical problems. Take my advice and trade this heap in on something more reliable.”

“Right. I’ll add ‘new car’ to my wish list. Item number 4,783.” Her weary tone softened the sarcasm, but he couldn’t help wondering what the other four thousand plus wished-for items included.

A woman alone, working long hours to support a child, didn’t have an easy life. She wasn’t kidding when she said she was used to carrying her own load. Yeah, too bad she had to bear so much on her delicate shoulders. Another unbidden thought seized him. Might be satisfying to ease her burden in some way.

“Good night, Mr. Templeton.” Brandy shifted the transmission into Reverse.

“Call me Trick.” He should let her go before he got into any more trouble.

She shook her head. “I shouldn’t be on a first-name basis with one of my employer’s defendants. Not ethical.”

“I see.” He’d been so distracted by the woman’s disarming dimple and darling daughter that he’d almost forgotten she worked for the law firm suing him on behalf of that idiot Harry Peet. Yet another reason not to get involved.

There was a lot at stake in this lawsuit, and she was the enemy. They couldn’t fraternize. Hell, they shouldn’t even be talking.

“Good night, Ms. Mitchum.” Then as she drove away, he murmured, “I’ll see you in court.”

“Isn’t Trick nice, Mommy? You do think Trick is nice, don’t you?” Due to the late hour, Chloe had skipped her nightly bath. With face washed and teeth brushed, she’d slipped into Powerpuff Girl pajamas before climbing into bed.

“I suppose so.” “Nice” was hardly the word Brandy would choose to describe Trick Templeton. Her daughter had great language skills, but her vocabulary did not include words like mesmerizing and intimidating.

“Can I have a story?”

“Not tonight, baby. Give Mommy a kiss and get to sleep.”

After they exchanged a noisy smooch, Brandy pressed a gentle kiss in the center of Chloe’s palm and folded her fingers over it. The spare kiss was a long-standing tradition they shared, because one wasn’t enough to last through the night. Brandy shivered at the thought of the Midnight Man’s next visit. Would this be the night he got close enough to kiss?

Chloe climbed over the covers to the end of the bed, smacked the air and bounced back to snuggle under the flower-sprigged comforter.

“What was that all about?”

“I had to give Celestian a kiss, too.”

“Oh. Right.” Him, again. Still unsure how to handle the situation, Brandy smoothed the covers over Chloe and stroked damp blond hair from her face. “I guess it’s fun to have an invisible friend.”

“Most of the time,” Chloe corrected.

“Just so you realize he’s not real.”

“But he is real, Mommy.” Chloe grinned as her gaze tracked movement from the bed to the other side of the room.

“In here, sure.” Brandy gently tapped her temple. “He only lives in your imagination.”

“Nope. He’s right over there.” Chloe pulled her arm from under the pink sheet and pointed. “He’s sitting on the toy box now. He’s happy ’cause Trick came tonight. He said he would, but I wasn’t so sure.”

Brandy frowned. This had been a long day, full of strange encounters. Not only was she too tired to deal effectively with this troubling problem, she wasn’t sure what course of action would speed the pretend friend along its natural course. It didn’t seem right to impose her will and insist Chloe admit Celestian wasn’t real. What was the harm in indulging her child’s innocent fantasies a little longer? It was her own fantasies she should be worried about.

Far more disturbing than the new playmate, was her daughter’s unlikely fascination with Trick Templeton. She’d never taken to a strange man the way she’d taken to him. The fact that she’d incorporated Templeton into the fantasy by having Celestian “talk” about him was especially troublesome.