Renegade
Kaitlyn Rice
He's the bad boy who's no longer off-limitsShe's the good girl who needs a safe manCould it be the sea-green bandanna knotted in his blond hair? Or maybe it's the quicksilver eyes that sparkle with laughter before they deepen to hurricane-gray.Whatever it is, bad-boy Riley Collins, the idol of Tracy Gilbert's high-school years, is back in town, and too sexy, too dangerous–too close–for Tracy's precarious peace of mind. With all her systems on high alert, and caring for her young daughter uppermost in her mind, she vows to keep her distance.That was the plan–until Tracy's boss assigns her to help Riley get his fledgling business under way. Tracy soon finds that the new business isn't the only thing Riley–or she, for that matter–wants to get going.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re hanging out in my backyard?”
“I came by to see you, Riley,” Tracy said, “and when no one answered the door, I came back to admire the view. It’s better from your yard.”
Riley grinned. “You can swing on my swing set anytime, little girl.”
Tracy’s regard touched on his mouth, then dropped down his torso again. When the blood circled back around to her brain and she homed in on his gleaming eyes, she sighed, resisting another urge to chomp her nails.
“What do you want?” he asked in a voice that was in no way like the one he’d used when she was a child. This was soft, all right, but it was rich with suggestion.
She frowned.
“You said you came to see me,” he reminded her.
She gazed at the hair that moved around his head as he shook it. She’d driven over here to ask him to leave, but now the words seemed harsh. “Don’t get too comfortable in this town,” she said. “And I’m saying that for your own sake. You won’t fit in.”
His eyes darkened ominously. “You don’t think I will?”
“No.”
“Then watch me.”
Dear Reader,
I love a bad boy–good girl story. Riley Collins, the renegade hero in this novel, was fun to write because he’s my favorite kind of bad boy—one who has matured enough to be responsible, but who has kept his adventurous spirit. When I imagine the distant futures of Riley and Tracy, I picture a lifetime of fun and surprises.
In writing this story, I thought a lot about my childhood. I didn’t have a counterpart in my life, but Jacque was Riley’s female counterpart. She was the little girl from two houses down, and my first best friend. Our family situations were very different, and I admired Jacque for her ability to survive and succeed under difficult circumstances. She moved away during my early teen years, and we didn’t keep in touch. I wish we had.
I hope you enjoy Riley and Tracy’s story.
Sincerely,
Kaitlyn Rice
The Renegade
Kaitlyn Rice
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This one is for lifelong friends.
To Jacque, wherever you are: I still think about you.
And to Lisa:
I’m so glad we never lost touch.
Contents
Chapter One (#u1342546d-46f7-5739-883d-48593cfb6031)
Chapter Two (#u6bf71c0f-c5e1-56f0-986b-2dc213a745e1)
Chapter Three (#u81933afe-fb7f-501b-8d6b-01ec45e09ec5)
Chapter Four (#uc1f40713-4eec-5b0c-ae76-337dc09b17b7)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Tracy Gilbert closed her eyes and lifted her face to the soothing spray of the shower. As she allowed the water to flow through her hair for a final rinse, she calculated the time required to do her morning chores. First, the dry cleaner, then the grocery—the list was already in her purse. An hour should do it. Two at the most. If she told the baby-sitter she’d be home by lunchtime, she might be able to squeeze in a quick trim at Cecilia’s shop.
Turning off the tap, Tracy stepped out of the stall. She was just reaching for a towel, when she heard a door slam. Strange—the noise seemed too solid and loud to have come from an interior door. Besides, Hannah should still be asleep and she always left her bedroom door open.
Tracy’s mind scrambled to discount the sound. Claus, her cat, might have jumped down from some high perch. A passing car might have backfired. Yet the sound had been a sharp scrape of wood on wood, a span of quiet and then a jarring boom.
Her alarm grew. Neither Claus nor a car could have made that noise. Horrid possibilities flashed through her mind—a home invasion or, worse, a child kidnapped right from bed. A child lost to his or her family for five or ten years. Perhaps never seen again.
Had she locked the door last night? She thought so, but maybe that was the night before last. Was Hannah in her bed? Tracy took off down the hall, wrapping the towel around herself on the way. When she reached the door of her daughter’s bedroom and looked in, she breathed a sigh of relief. She stood there a moment, only vaguely aware of the puddle accumulating on the floor at her feet.
Hannah was fine. Her tiny, four-year-old frame was sprawled sideways on the narrow bed. Her glossy black hair fell over one cheek; her feet lay butted against the wall. Most important, her back moved gently up and down as she breathed. Slowly. Deeply. She was still asleep.
Now Tracy wished she’d donned her robe. She needed to investigate that sound right now.
“Yoo-hoo, Tracy. You here?”
Tracy gripped the towel at her chest and whirled around. Even though she recognized the voice immediately, her surprise was enough to keep her heart racing.
Her next door neighbor, Nellie Bell, strolled into the hall wearing a white chenille robe and curlers.
“Lord, Nellie, you scared me to death,” Tracy whispered. “What are you doing in here?”
“Sorry,” Nellie said, “but I have news. I started to leave a message on your machine, but I knew you were home so I came on over. I rang the doorbell twice.”
Tracy grabbed a bony arm to direct Nellie back down the hallway. “I gave you my spare key to use when we’re out of town,” she hissed, somewhat annoyed. “Not just anytime. I was in the shower.”
When they reached the living room, Tracy let go of Nellie’s arm, wondering if her duplex neighbor even noticed that she was dripping wet and covered only by a towel. She considered ushering her right out the front door, but knew she’d only be delaying the inevitable. Usually, the best tack with Nellie was to go along with the drama, then send her away with a polite, but firm, goodbye.
Tracy shook her head. “Never mind, Nellie. Wait in here for a minute while I dress. And be quiet. Hannah’s asleep.”
Tracy padded back toward her bedroom, closing the little girl’s door on the way past. While she dressed, she decided that she would ask the landlord to install a dead bolt.
She’d also ask Nellie to return the key. She hoped the news was short and significant. The lovely span of blue sky outside the window made Tracy want to finish her chores early so she could take her little girl to the park.
When she’d brought Hannah home from the central Asian orphanage two years ago, Tracy promised herself that her unmarried status would never be a burden to her child.
Tracy wasn’t twenty-nine and single because she was too vacuous or homely to hold a man’s interest; she was twenty-nine and single because life was too short for big mistakes. When she married, she’d marry forever.
Adopting a child could never be a mistake, so Tracy had made that commitment. She did her best to provide well for Hannah, and she also tried to be an involved parent. That wasn’t always easy. Tracy’s office-manager position at Vanderveer Organizing occupied her weekdays, so she sent Hannah to an excellent day-care center that offered preschool activities. Lately, however, Tracy had been bringing work home in the evenings, too. Hence the need for a diligent handling of weekend chores.
When Tracy returned to the living room, Nellie was sitting on the sofa munching on a doughnut. A white cardboard box containing the rest of the dozen was open on the coffee table in front of her. It looked as if Nellie was settling in. Tracy sighed.
“Here, have a doughnut,” Nellie said, nudging the box. “I didn’t think to bring drinks. Would you mind?”
Tracy held back a groan and started for the kitchen. “Orange juice?”
“That’d be great.”
As she poured the juice, Tracy reminded herself that Nellie was probably just lonely. Besides, this was Kirkwood, Kansas, where major change was generally met with stalwart resistance. Although the student population at Wheatland University caused the town to boom to city size every autumn, permanent residents clung to the ways of their pioneer ancestors. Neighbors talked across fences and borrowed cups of sugar. They lent a hand if a hand was needed. Nellie simply carried that old-fashioned friendliness a step too far.
Make that a few steps. A mile. In fact, she was a total nuisance.
Tracy returned to the living room and set Nellie’s glass of juice on the table. “So what’s the news?”
Nellie finished chewing her doughnut and blurted, “Riley Collins is back!” Then she scanned Tracy’s face with pale, wild eyes.
Tracy’s heart started to race again, but she crossed her arms and waited.
“My friend Ruth saw him at the market early this morning, and he was buying a cartful—cereal, bread, cleaners. He bought out the supply of macaroni and cheese. Like he’s staying.”
Tracy drew a deep breath, summoning every ounce of her patience. This was stunning news, absolutely. She still wanted her neighbor out of here. Maybe even more so now.
“He was probably shopping for his grandma,” Tracy said as she bent down to close the lid to the doughnut box.
Nellie frowned when Tracy placed the box in her lap, but she didn’t stop talking. “Would an old woman use shaving cream and men’s razors?”
“Okay, so he’s visiting for the weekend.” Tracy picked up the full juice glass and walked toward the front door. Just as she expected, Nellie got up and followed her, carrying the box and talking all the way.
“No one would eat a dozen boxes of macaroni and cheese in one weekend. My friend Ruth said he was at the old house all night.”
When Nellie noticed that Tracy had opened the door and was handing her the glass of juice, she frowned again.
“I have my own box of doughnuts in the kitchen,” Tracy lied. “They’ll get stale. You can keep the glass.”
Nellie glanced outside and spoke in a louder voice. “We think Riley Collins is hiding out in that old house.”
Tracy put a finger to her lips. “The Kirkwood grapevine is thriving, isn’t it.”
“Aren’t you upset?” Nellie asked incredulously.
“Riley is ancient history to me,” Tracy said. “And I need to be out the door in twenty minutes.”
As Nellie headed toward her own door, she said, sounding put out, “Be that way. I’ll bet you another dozen doughnuts that no one else in town has forgotten him.”
Tracy closed the door and drooped against it.
Nor have I.
Riley Collins—the town’s most notorious delinquent.
The cause of the Gilbert family’s biggest heartache.
And Tracy’s first friend.
Padding back through the living room, Tracy headed down the hall to wake Hannah. The baby-sitter would arrive soon, allowing Tracy to do her away-from-home chores. She’d fit the park visit in after lunch. Later, there was an overflowing laundry basket to contend with, and she’d promised her boss she’d type some reports this weekend. Damn. So little time.
When Tracy noticed her cat sunning on a forbidden windowsill—it was where she displayed a couple of china figurines—she stopped in the middle of the room and glared at him. “Are you up there again, Claus? Down!”
Other than blinking, the big white tomcat didn’t move a muscle. Tracy scooped him up and sank with Claus in her lap into her favorite chair. “I don’t know what he’s thinking, coming back here,” she said. The last time she’d seen Riley, he’d been in some sort of trouble with his father, the equally notorious Otto.
Riley had been out at the curb working on his car that morning, with Otto yelling that he was a good-for-nothing troublemaker from the porch. The next day, Riley had left town in his battered convertible.
That was thirteen years ago. As far as Tracy knew, this was the first time he’d been back.
His leaving town, or rather the way he left town and with whom, had proved his father right. Riley was nothing but trouble.
Tracy put Claus on another windowsill and headed for Hannah’s room. She wouldn’t allow herself to get ruffled. Nellie’s informant could be mistaken. The truth would surface eventually, and Tracy could wait to react.
She didn’t change her mind until she was strolling down aisle five at Dot’s Supermarket. She noticed an entire shelf empty of macaroni-and-cheese boxes, and saw in her mind’s eye a tall, blond man tossing them in his cart.
She had to know. She spun around and nearly crashed into an elderly couple conferring over a bottle of olive oil. She retraced her steps, returning the milk to its case and the apples to the stacks, then left the store.
As her car sped north out of town, she thought about what she’d say. Riley’s return couldn’t be good for anyone but his grandmother, Lydia, and even that was questionable. He had a right to visit Lydia, of course, but he should have no reason to stay. Riley didn’t belong here anymore. Tracy had to make sure he knew that.
But when she rang the doorbell at the old house a few minutes later, no one answered. The ugly beige curtains that had always hung over the large front window were open. Tracy would be able to see movement inside, if there was any.
She pressed the bell again. Still receiving no answer, she stepped off the porch to peek through the garage window. The glass was filthy, but she could see there wasn’t a car inside. Good. If he’d been here, he was gone now.
Tracy jogged back to her car and grabbed the carafe of green tea she’d left in her cup holder. She’d give herself a few minutes to look around. If she wore an old suit to work on Monday, she could scratch the dry cleaning off today’s list and grocery-shop tomorrow.
Hitching up a pant leg, Tracy stepped over the sagging fence to Riley’s backyard. It was hard to believe the child’s swing set was still back here. The primary stripes that had once painted a falsely optimistic picture of children soaring to the sky had long since mutated to flaking paint and rust. She crossed the lawn quickly and set her drink on the seat of the middle swing. Turning to face the hazy blue hills north of town, she grasped the chains of the swing farthest from the house—always her favorite—and wriggled onto the seat.
The plastic was cold. The weatherman had said it would be warm for late April, but even sixty degrees felt cold through her well-worn “Saturday jeans”. The swing seemed solid enough to hold her weight, so she pushed off with her feet and swung forward, toward the hills.
“You’re trespassing.”
Tracy knew the strange flip of her stomach had nothing to do with the motion of the swing. She skidded to a stop and jumped off the seat, then turned around with her heart in her throat.
It was Riley, standing inside the open storm door at the rear of the house holding a coffee cup. It had to be him. Other men may share a similar combination of smoke-gray eyes and dirty-blond hair, but when you added the teasing smile and dare-me-to-care expression, you had to be looking at Riley.
“Riley?” she called, in case her thoughts were somehow affecting her eyesight.
“I’m flattered you remember me,” he said as stepped out and let the door slam behind him.
As if she could have forgotten.
He set his cup on top of a wood box near the door and started across the lawn toward her. As he neared, her throat went dry. Riley had always had a certain heart-wrenching appeal, but he’d improved with age. The eighteen-year-old boy had transformed into every woman’s fantasy of confident good looks and muscular build. His hair was longer now, but rather than shaggy and unkempt, it lay smooth, catching the sunlight and making him look sexy. Dangerously so.
Tracy’s early-morning stint on her exercise bike had been unnecessary. Her heart had been getting a rather rousing workout ever since her shower. She picked up her tea and took a long swig.
When he reached the swing set, Riley looped an arm over the top beam and ogled her with one side of his mouth tilted up. “Criminy. You’ve grown up, little girl.”
“Guess that happens to everyone.” She drank again to wet her throat with the warm liquid, then clutched the carafe against her pounding chest. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”
His gaze shot down her body, and back up. “I’ll say. What’s it been, about a million years?”
The man was too hunky for his own good, and she was tempted to mimic the obvious way he’d checked her out. Instead, she trained her eyes on a lock of hair falling across his forehead. “I was almost sixteen when you left, and I’m twenty-nine now. You were the math whiz.”
“My question was purely rhetorical,” he said. “I’m perfectly aware of how long it’s been. I was the one banished from town, remember?”
“What brings you back now?”
He squinted toward the hills. “There’s no reason to stay away now that Otto is gone.”
“Are you visiting your grandma?”
“Not exactly.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “I’m renovating her house. I’ve just come back from the hardware store.”
Tracy studied the dilapidated two-story he’d grown up in. For at least half a century, that house had sat next to her parents’ limestone cottage. The proximity of the two adjacent, tree-lined lots in the country had fostered strong friendships—and stronger feuds.
For years, Tracy’s mom and stepdad had tried to help Otto and Vanessa Collins aspire to better living. Until the night their son had lured Tracy’s underage sister away from home, and changed everyone’s lives in the process.
“I don’t think it’ll take too much to make it livable,” Riley said, turning around again.
Tracy drank her tea and kept her eyes on the house. It definitely needed work, but she’d thought the Collins family would try to sell it as a fixer upper.
When she realized the significance of what Riley had said, Tracy’s tea seemed to curdle in her throat. She choked out, “You aren’t planning to live out here, are you?”
Riley’s eyes turned dark before he averted them. He began to peel flakes of paint from the top beam. “That makes the most sense to me,” he said as he flicked a piece off his thumbnail. “I can work on the place easier if I’m living in it.”
“And then?”
At her question, the gaze he aimed in her direction was so intense that she turned her eyes away, pretending interest in a pudgy robin hopping across the yard. In her peripheral vision, Tracy noted that he had crossed his arms over his chest. The seeming force of his will eventually caused her to look up. “And then I’ll stop working on it.”
“And keep living here?”
He shrugged.
Tracy shook her head. “You think you can waltz back into Kirkwood now and stay?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Tracy sipped her tea once more and realized the last of it was bitter. She unscrewed the thermos lid and poured the liquid onto the grass, then set the container back on the swing seat. Lifting a hand to her mouth, she clamped the nail of her pinkie finger between her teeth.
When he reached out his hand to pull hers from her mouth, she jerked away.
“Don’t get all bent out of shape,” he said. “I was only trying to stop you from biting your nails.”
“Just don’t touch me,” she said, and her loss of composure sent her eyes careering down his body, over the ribbed white undershirt that clung to a muscled chest and revealed, when his arms were raised to the cross-beam, an inch of enticing bare skin at his flat abdomen, just above the low-slung jeans.
She pulled her shocked eyes up to his glittering ones. The realization that she was drooling over her family’s nemesis didn’t help at all. Clenching her hands into fists, Tracy said, “Otto wasn’t the only one who wanted you gone.”
“Oh, really?”
She held his gaze.
“Did you want me gone?” This was said in the same patient voice he’d used when she was a scrawny girl and he was her not-so-secret crush.
“I was a kid. What did I know?”
“You knew me. Did you try to stand up for me?”
She started picking the paint off the swing set, too, thinking back to the day she’d found out Riley was gone. The phone calls had come first. The high school geometry teacher had called the Gilbert house, looking for Tracy’s older sister, Karen. Riley’s basketball coach had called his house. Neither teenager had made it to school that day, the teachers reported. And in retrospect, no one in either family could remember seeing them the night before.
Within a half hour, the two families had discovered empty closets, missing personal items and not a word of explanation.
Everyone had looked to Tracy then, of course. Karen had been seeing Riley for a couple of months, but Tracy had been his buddy since days of training wheels and tree houses. None of the parents seemed to know how hurt Tracy had been by the first betrayal—when Karen had sought Riley’s attention and he had all too willingly given it.
They didn’t know how left out Tracy had felt every time her best friend parked near the train trestle to do who-knew-what with her sister.
They’d expected Tracy to know everything.
She hadn’t known anything.
Somehow, that seemed to be the biggest betrayal of all.
“Did you defend me?” Riley prompted, grabbing her hand.
She probably would have if she hadn’t been nursing a broken heart. She tried to release her hand again, but he held it firmly, confiscating her attention at the same time.
“How could I?” she asked. “You left with Karen before she finished high school. Otto said—”
“Since when would you believe anything my father said?”
Being close to Riley tangled Tracy’s insides like one of Claus’s pilfered balls of yarn. She needed to escape. Wiggling her hand loose, she said, “Since you proved him right.”
“The people of this never-never land sent me out on the plank before they heard a single word in my defense.”
Tracy edged past him, toward the fence. “You had no business taking my sister to California with you.”
“Maybe she was ready to leave,” Riley said from behind her. “And maybe I was a convenient ticket out.”
“People haven’t forgotten.”
“Then people need to enrich their lives.”
He sounded closer. Tracy turned her head and saw that he was following her across the grass with her forgotten thermos. She scrambled over the fence and turned around. “My mom’s health has been fragile,” she said. “I don’t want her to be upset.”
“Don’t worry,” Riley said with a smile that seemed too sincere to be believable. “I was planning to walk over and visit your mom and stepdad later this afternoon.”
“You can’t.”
He shifted his weight. “I’ve been gone for over thirteen years and I haven’t seen your sister in just as long. Your parents will listen to reason.”
“No, I mean they’re not there,” Tracy said. “They’re on vacation. Dad took Mom to visit relatives.”
Riley gave her a long assessing look, followed by a nod. “Gran said your mom had been in the hospital. Is she okay?”
Tracy felt comfort touch her heart as Riley seemed to slide back into his old role as friend. Until she watched him step closer and recognized how easily he could hop the fence and catch her waist between his potent-looking hands.
The thought was provocative in more ways than one.
She stepped back. “Mom had a scare with pneumonia, but she’s better now.”
“That’s good.” Riley’s crooked smile seemed too open, and he was cupping her tea thermos between his hands with a disturbing familiarity. The last thing she needed was to tie herself up with him again, in friendship or anything else.
He was a stranger now. She wanted him to remain one.
Tracy stared at her thermos, willing him to hand it across so she could leave and sort out her thoughts.
A little more than a year ago, Riley’s father had been caught embezzling funds from the company where he worked. Although that particular news hadn’t been shocking, other things had been.
For one thing, Vanessa had seemed unaffected by her husband’s troubles. She’d filed for divorce and headed south to a friend’s house in Oklahoma City just two days after Otto’s prison term began. For another, Tracy’s parents had learned that Riley’s grandmother actually owned the house.
Lydia Stephenson was quirky but harmless. Since she was content in her retirement-village apartment, the house had been left vacant. Tracy’s mother claimed that sometimes she heard the old place sighing in relief. She’d been looking forward to welcoming new neighbors. It was a good thing she wasn’t home this weekend. Tracy could break the news gently.
Riley rested her thermos on top of the fence post and shot a glance down Tracy’s body again. “Are you going to tell me why you’re hanging out in my backyard?”
“I came to see you,” Tracy said. “I rang the doorbell and—”
“It’s busted. My father was a slob.”
Tracy bit back a retort about Riley having faults of his own. “—And when no one answered, I came back to admire the view. It’s better from your yard.”
Riley grinned. “You can swing on my swing set anytime, little girl.”
Tracy’s regard touched on his mouth and dropped down his torso again. When the blood circled back round to her brain and she homed in on his gleaming eyes, she sighed, resisting another urge to chomp her nails.
“What do you want?” he asked in a voice that was in no way like the one he’d used when she was a child. This voice was soft, all right, but it was rich with suggestion.
She frowned.
“You said you came to see me.”
She gazed at the hair that moved around his head as he shook it. She’d driven all the way over here to ask him to leave, but now the words seemed harsh. “Don’t get comfortable here,” she said as she reached up to snatch her thermos from the post. “And I’m saying that for your sake. You won’t fit in.”
His eyes darkened ominously. “You don’t think I will?”
“No.”
“Then watch me.”
Chapter Two
Riley stood at the fence and watched as Tracy maneuvered her way around the overgrown cedar and across to her parents’ driveway. The lady was worth watching. Her faded jeans emphasized a pair of curvy hips and a small waist. She was so feminine now. So alluring. Deep-chestnut hair bounced around her shoulders as she opened the door of a white sedan and folded her trim body inside. Within seconds, she started the car and roared off down the road.
His attraction to her wasn’t a complete surprise—he’d always found her enchanting. Full lips and expressive eyes on a well-proportioned face made her classically pretty, but he was charmed by more than her looks. She’d always seemed comfortable with her choices and her world. He’d been pleased that a girl with such winning ways had found something about him to admire. But not anymore. His departure all those years ago had taken care of that.
He returned to the back door and grabbed his coffee cup on the way inside. If he’d learned anything from his reckless youth, it was that running away rarely solved a problem. Way back when, Tracy had been one of few who’d believed in him. Her distrust now was only part of the price he’d paid.
Deciding he didn’t need the caffeine, Riley left his full cup of coffee near the kitchen sink and walked through the empty living room. His mother had taken the furniture when she’d moved. She hadn’t wanted to live in a house full of bad memories, but she’d wanted her things. And Riley had left his junk in a storage unit out in California. It was hardly worth the cost of moving it, and for now he was content with necessities. He could always send for his things later. If he decided to stay.
When Grandma Lydia had called to request his help, she’d offered to sell him the place—something she’d never done for his parents. And until Riley’s arrival yesterday afternoon, he’d laughed heartily at the idea.
It was funny, the way he felt about the old house now. He and his parents had moved here from Topeka when he was six, and he’d always hated the place. For one thing, it was too isolated. The only neighbors within walking distance were Tracy’s family. It was said that a community tried to spring to life out here a century ago, but progress had stunted its growth. The dusty rural route in front of the houses had been bisected by a highway curving lazily toward the lake, leaving room for only two.
A bigger factor was the loud and constant criticism he’d received here. Now that his father was gone, the place seemed peaceful. For the first time, it actually seemed like a haven. Maybe he would stay.
He entered the back bedroom, reopened the pail of creamy yellow paint and climbed the ladder to grab his paintbrush. After loosening its bristles against the cleanup rag, he dipped the brush into the pail.
And grinned out the window at the swing. Seeing Tracy there had erased a whole mess of years and as many bad decisions. It returned Riley to days when he’d come flying out of the house, angry at his father for some cruel taunt, and Tracy would chatter innocently from her perch on that same swing. She’d always manage to cheer him up.
The sexual pull that had been new and mysterious that last winter was still there, but it was different now. He was seeing her through the eyes of an experienced man, and she was just as intriguing.
More intriguing.
Coltish legs had become longer and more shapely, budding breasts had bloomed and she’d become a provocative woman. She’d noticed him today, too, in that way. He’d watched her green eyes trail down his body. He’d felt their heat.
Rough-and-tumble tomboy had grown into sizzlinghot babe. Hot enough to make him forget his good intentions and get into trouble. And new trouble would stack on top of the old, sending the town into towering spirals of gossip.
Hurting Tracy again.
Maybe he should fix up the house and move on.
He applied the paintbrush to the edge of the freshly sanded wood of the windowsill. As he was reaching up to tackle the narrow sliver at the top of the sill, a knock sounded at the front door. Sighing, he balanced the brush across the rim of the can, wondering if he’d ever get his painting chore finished.
But on his way down the ladder, he decided Tracy must have returned. No one else would know to knock, would they? He started a mad dash toward the door, then forced himself to slow. Maybe he could drop the defensive attitude and make a more mature impression.
By the time he reached the living room, the door was opening and his grandmother was backing her way in with a brown paper bag under one arm and a plump text under the other. “It’s Gran!” she called in a voice loud enough to carry through the house. “Don’t bother coming to the door.”
“I’m already here,” Riley said from behind her. “If you didn’t want me to answer the door, why did you knock?”
She turned around and set the bag in the middle of the floor. “Even if you are my grandson, you’re a single adult male with a private life,” she said. “I couldn’t barge in.”
“You did barge in,” Riley pointed out as he watched his grandmother pitch the book beside the bag. It was hard to get used to the idea that she was enrolled in college classes, even though he knew she tended to disregard convention.
“My dear grandson, I knocked before I barged,” she said primly. “There’s a fine but distinct difference.”
“Thanks for clarifying that,” Riley said. “Next time I’m doing anything adult or private, I’ll barricade the door.”
“Just like old times,” she said with a nod. “Except I’m glad you aren’t sucking on those cancer sticks anymore.”
Riley grinned. “Same to you, Gran.”
“And we thought we had each other fooled,” she said, returning his smile. “Want some help today?”
Riley shot a glance at the astronomy text on the floor. “You planning to study while you paint?”
“Nope,” she said, lifting her palms. “I figured if I helped you paint and brought you lunch, you might help me cram this afternoon.”
Riley chuckled as he imagined his grandmother’s silvery locks amongst the hundred assorted freshman styles in the astronomy classroom at the university. “I might remember something,” he said. “That class was more interesting than most. I figured I could astound women with my knowledge.”
When his grandmother put her hands on her hips and started tapping a foot, Riley chuckled. “Help me paint. We can talk about the stars after lunch.”
Two hours and six windowsills later, Riley’s grandmother took her bag to the kitchen to pull together lunch. Riley cleaned paintbrushes and hammered lids on cans, then wandered back to check things out.
An open can of pork and beans was waiting on the counter with a plastic spoon stuck inside. Beside it lay several thick slices of bologna, a package of cream-filled cupcakes and two rather shriveled-looking plums. “This is the promised lunch?” Riley asked as he watched his grandmother eat a spoonful of beans from the can.
She nodded. “One of my favorites.”
Riley picked up a round of bologna and used it to point toward the can of beans. “Do I just use the same spoon?”
“No.” Lydia nudged the brown paper bag a few inches closer. “There’s a whole can in here with your name on it.”
“How generous.” Riley opened the bag and pulled out the beans. When he located the can opener his grandmother had left near the sink, he realized she was drinking coffee out of the cup he’d left there a while ago. “Isn’t that mine?”
Lydia scrutinized it. “Possibly.”
Riley snorted and opened the cupboard to search for a glass.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I wiped the rim first.”
“There’s no doubt in my mind about which person in the family I take after,” Riley said with a grin as he grabbed a wineglass and swooped across to fill it at the sink.
“You could do worse,” his grandmother said.
Riley lifted his water, and two of the town’s biggest misfits silently toasted the truth: even if no one else recognized their rare form of character, they did.
Honor and propriety were vastly different things.
“The convict my daughter chose for a husband didn’t do you any favors,” Lydia said. “I can almost hear him bellowing some drivel about women belonging in the kitchen and not out shooting hoops.”
She raised her chin and said proudly, “Your grandfather didn’t care if I ever set foot in our kitchen. He loved to cook for me.”
Riley only grunted. He’d scrounged another spoon from the back of a drawer and was chewing a mouthful of the cold, nearly tasteless beans. Leaning against the counter beside the adult who’d likely saved his sanity, he finished eating lunch with her, grateful for her company. When he’d left town to save his self-respect, he’d lost the opportunity to spend time with Lydia. Well, he was here now. The next few months should be a blast.
“Think I can make it?” his grandmother asked. She was perching her bean can on her open palm and nodding toward the trash can.
Riley laughed. “Those scrawny arms won’t lob it halfway.”
She held the can in two hands, then gave a cheeky little hop, threw the can and gloated.
“Lucky shot.” Riley scooped out his last spoonful and chewed while he wiggled his own can out in front of Lydia’s face. Turning his back to the trash can, he tossed it over his shoulder. When he heard the clank of the two cans colliding, he crowed.
And for the next little while, Riley and his sixty-seven-year-old grandmother grabbed cans, plums, spoons and wrappers and performed acrobatic tosses across the room. Most of the time, they each made it. Any misses were met with loud and vigorous hoots from the other. By the time the supply of trash was gone, Riley was ahead by a napkin. Although he didn’t say anything, he made sure his preening was obvious enough to catch notice.
Lydia smiled and looked around the room. Her eyes moved from the coffee cup to the wineglass—the only throwable objects left. After a moment’s consideration, she picked up the coffee cup and poised.
Riley grabbed the cup and returned it to the sink. “You might have noticed I’m not long on dishes here.”
His grandmother cackled as they made their way to the living room. With a limberness belying her years, she scooped the astronomy text from the floor and looked around for a place to sit. “You’re not long on furniture, either,” she said. “You need to fill this place up—unless you’re planning to leave soon.”
“I hope to stay a while, although I’ve already been warned I’m making a mistake.” Riley headed to the back bedroom to fetch two unopened gallon paint cans.
“Who told you that?” Lydia hollered.
“Tracy,” he hollered back. He paused in the bedroom when he noticed that his grandmother’s voice had sounded odd from across the walls. It had a new quality, something not obvious when she was within his sight. As he returned to set the cans a few feet apart in the middle of the living-room floor, he realized what it was—she sounded old.
But she was quiet now, so he picked up a board he’d bought to repair a rotted window and centered it between the cans. “There we have it,” he said, directing a tender smile toward his grandmother. “The amazing, instant study desk.”
“It’s good to know I didn’t waste my money on that fancy California university,” Lydia said as she sat and stretched out her legs beneath the board. She couldn’t be comfortable in that position for long. Criminy, he wouldn’t be comfortable. He’d have to pick up a table and chairs somewhere.
His grandmother didn’t complain, though. She spent a moment perusing a glossy photo of some distant galaxy, then said, “I guess you’ll have to convince her she’s wrong.”
Riley didn’t ask who his grandmother was talking about, because his mind hadn’t completely left Tracy since he’d seen her. “Convincing that woman of anything would be a pleasure,” he said as he attempted to position his legs on the other side of the board. “Is she involved?”
“As in dating?” Lydia flipped through pages until she found the one she’d dog-eared. Then she looked up.
“As in dating, engaged, married, living with…all that brouhaha.”
His grandmother shook her head. “Getting involved with the Gilberts’ youngest daughter would be a mistake,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Who said I was getting involved?” Riley asked. “I asked if she was involved.”
His grandmother arched an eyebrow. “She’s a career woman and a single mom. She doesn’t have time for anything else.”
“Wow, a single mom.” Riley pictured a little girl or boy with Tracy’s hair and eyes. “What sort of career?”
“She works for Booker Vanderveer. He came here from Chicago a few years ago when his wife took a job as a psychology professor. I’m taking her class next fall.”
“Gran, what kind of business is it?”
“Oh, well, why didn’t you ask in the first place? Booker runs an organizing business.” She chuckled. “I’ll be danged if the idea hasn’t caught on. It seems that quite a few college professors and some of the wealthier students are willing to pay through the nose for someone else to clean up their clutter.”
“An organizer…that sounds right. She was always a go-getter.”
“And despite the fact that tongues will flap faster than a flag in the wind, you’re planning to go get ’er?”
Riley snorted at his grandmother’s choice of words, but he wasn’t surprised by the boldness of the question. He also knew an answer wasn’t expected.
He had no idea what he was going to do, but Tracy’s words had felt like a dare. He could live anywhere he pleased, and he’d stay around until Tracy admitted that. Or longer.
“Actually, Booker’s the consultant,” Lydia said, breaking into his thoughts. “I’m pretty sure Tracy just manages the office.”
Frowning at the text lying between them, Riley didn’t comment. He already had the information he needed, and he was developing a plan. He wasn’t sure about the details yet, but he’d find a way to teach Tracy a lesson. Rotating the astronomy book toward his grandmother, he said, “Is this the section causing you problems?”
Lydia nodded, and the two concentrated on astronomy for the next half hour. They’d just read through a page, when his grandmother said, “I suppose you could use her.”
“Use Tracy?” Images invaded Riley’s thoughts.
“M’dear grandson, should you decide to stick around, you could use Vanderveer’s to get your business up and running.”
Riley smiled in response to Lydia’s grin, but he tapped his index finger against her book. “We’re studying now, Gran,” he reminded her. “Besides, I’m a bucket ahead of you.”
But when he noticed the snap of her eyes, he knew he’d never truly catch up to the lightning-quick workings of his grandmother’s mind. Hadn’t she just manipulated him into staying a while?
TRACY STOOD IN LINE at the strip-mall print shop, waiting to pick up a case of forms for Booker. The young woman behind the service desk was working slowly, even for a Monday morning. She’d taken six minutes to fill the first order, and was only now greeting the next customer.
Hannah was beginning to fidget, despite the lemon drop and yo-yo Tracy had found in the depths of her purse and offered as a bribe. The four-year-old bundle of fresh-faced charm and relentless energy was eating the candy with loud smacks, and had just banged the toy into the ankle of the man fifth in line.
Apologizing profusely, Tracy pulled Hannah closer. Even while she swore to herself that tomorrow she’d drop Hannah off at day care before errands, the little girl tried to work the yo-yo again. Of course, she let go of the string and the toy rolled between the legs of the older woman behind them. Hannah dropped to the floor to skitter along after it.
“Hannah, bring me the yo-yo,” Tracy said. When she heard the impatience in her voice, she softened her tone. “I’ll get you to school soon. You won’t miss circle time.”
The little girl’s dark eyes were solemn as she dropped the yo-yo into Tracy’s outstretched hand. Tracy felt a pang of remorse. It wasn’t Hannah’s fault they were running late. It was hers. She’d overslept, which was something she didn’t do. Then again, she hadn’t been herself all weekend.
Another employee appeared from a side door to hasten across the shop, so Tracy grabbed Hannah’s hand and followed him. “I’m here to pick up a case of forms for Vanderveer’s,” she announced to a set of pumping elbows.
He was practically running, but after her statement, he glanced over his shoulder and stopped. “I’m just the passport photographer,” he said in a voice with a timbre that reminded her of Riley’s.
Tracy scowled. Since Saturday morning, Riley’s traits were popping up in every man within her path. The knowledge that he was back in town had thrown her for a loop, despite her best efforts to forget about him.
The photographer was staring at Tracy’s face, probably wondering about the sudden switch from smile to frown.
Tracy gentled her expression. “I don’t mind,” she said, once again assuming a calmness she didn’t feel. Raising an eyebrow, she pulled Hannah close and waited for the man to get the box. Surely, even a passport photographer could make time for something so simple.
“Yes, ma’am,” the man said in a voice that sounded only nervous now. As he hurried around the counter to ask his co-worker where to find the Vanderveer job, Tracy saw a tall, muscular man in hip-hugging jeans pass by the front window.
No. It wasn’t Riley. Just a guy who reminded her of Riley, of course.
Still, in a town the size of Kirkwood, Tracy knew she’d run into him eventually. She didn’t have to have anything to do with him, though. After all, her parents and his parents had avoided one another for years, and they’d been next door neighbors.
Her behavior this weekend had been flighty, at best. She kept imagining what scintillating thing she might say to Riley, even though she had no intention of speaking to him again. It was as if all those years hadn’t passed at all, and she was still a teenager harboring a crush on the boy next door.
Except her imagination had grown up. Instead of substituting herself as the recipient of his kisses down by the train trestle, she was picturing entire weekends spent in bed with him. Heaven knew where Hannah would be during all these misbegotten fantasies.
But Tracy lived in the real world, and Hannah was fine right where she was—at her side.
The little girl had been delighted with the unusual laxity in their routine—especially when she’d been indulged with a three-hour play-clay session yesterday afternoon. Tracy had sat across the table from her, punching a glob of tangerine-colored clay into unrecognizable shapes. Muttering under her breath. Getting up countless times to replay a Beauty and the Beast sound track on the stereo.
Several times this weekend, Tracy had picked up the phone to call her sister in San Diego. She wondered if Karen knew about Riley’s return. Though she’d married her fourth husband several years ago, Karen might still be in touch with Riley. It seemed to Tracy that her sister had never gotten over him. Either that, or she had horrendous taste in men.
“Here you go, ma’am.” The photographer thrust a box against Tracy’s midsection. Gripping it under one arm, Tracy was all the way to the door before she remembered to say thanks and instruct the photographer to send the bill to Vanderveer’s.
Then to summon her daughter.
After she’d put the box in the trunk and Hannah in her child seat, Tracy got in and started the car. Ten minutes later, she realized that she’d driven past the turn for the day-care center and was heading toward the office. She turned at the next corner.
While she circled around the day-care center parking lot, she glanced toward the seat beside her and suddenly realized she’d forgotten to bring Hannah’s little backpack.
Tracy sighed as she pictured it next to the front door of the duplex, with Hannah’s lunch card on top. Exactly where Tracy had put them so she wouldn’t forget. Most of the time, she didn’t. Now she’d have to swing by home and the day care on her lunch break, and the dry cleaning would have to be put off another day.
“I forgot your backpack, Hannah-bean,” Tracy said as she parked. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring it before lunch.”
After she’d dropped Hannah off with a hug and a kiss, Tracy returned to her car and tried to shift her mind to her morning’s work. Since she hadn’t started typing the reports she’d taken home this weekend, she knew she had a tall stack awaiting her. She also had folders to file and phone messages to transcribe, and she wanted to free herself of mundane chores as soon as possible.
Booker had promised to let her sit in on a couple of consultations if she did.
When she passed the Mercedes parked in the first spot in front of Vanderveer’s, Tracy made an immediate turn to claim her regular place next to it—and nearly rammed into the motorcycle parked there.
She slammed on her brakes and flinched, waiting for the impact. She was lucky—she’d missed by inches. Her heart pounding, she threw her car into reverse and backed up, slamming on her brakes when she heard a screech and a honk, and glanced in her rearview mirror.
Now she’d nearly been hit from behind. An angry-looking driver jerked his car around hers, and Tracy tried not to lip-read the names he was calling her. She was ready to retrieve Hannah from day care and go home. Today seemed like a good day to camp out on the living-room floor with a game of Candyland, a double batch of fudge and a half dozen of Hannah’s favorite videos. Every parent and child needed quality time together.
After the driver she’d nearly hit had disappeared back into the traffic, Tracy shifted her car into gear and crawled on past her spot. There wasn’t another vacant space for a couple of blocks.
With a deep sigh, Tracy pulled into it. She wouldn’t even attempt to carry the box of forms so far by herself. She’d have to leave them in the trunk until later, and walk to work in her skirt and heels.
She’d told Booker this type of clothing wasn’t practical for a glorified messenger, but he had prevailed. His favorite saying was that in business, image was everything. He’d said a woman’s femininity was often a viable selling point and had advised Tracy to dress for the job she aspired to rather than the one she had.
Since she had hopes of being promoted to full consultant, she was inclined to bow to his wishes.
The whistle she received from a passing driver as she walked down the busy sidewalk only made her madder. By the time she reached the dusty black motorcycle, she wanted to shove it off its big bad tires. Suddenly, hog seemed an appropriate term. She glared at it as she juggled her armful of reports to one hand and whirled around to go inside.
The door to her boss’s private office was open, so she called out, “I’m here. Did you see the hairy beast who stole my spot? I nearly ran over his motorcycle.”
There was a lengthy pause, then Booker’s voice drifted out. “Come in here, Tracy.”
Tracy threw the reports on her desk and kicked her shoes under her desk before she headed back. “I had to park two blocks away,” she said on the way in. “I’d love to grind my foot into that imbecile’s—”
Tracy stopped when she reached Booker’s doorway. This time, she wasn’t noticing something that reminded her of Riley.
She was seeing Riley, himself.
He was sitting in Booker’s plush client’s chair with a helmet balanced on his knees. He grinned that wicked, lopsided grin as he stared at her feet. “Where were you planning to put those sassy red toes?”
Tracy looked down at her feet. The polish was not red, it was pink. Rowdy Rouge, to be precise. She stuck her thumbnail between her teeth and grimaced at the taste of the anti-nail-biting cream she’d rubbed in this morning. Drawing her hand back down, she looked across at Riley, whose smile had spread to both sides.
He looked out of place in Booker’s office. Even in creased dress pants and a collared shirt, he seemed too dangerous to occupy a space so tame.
Her boss cleared his throat. Tracy dragged her gaze to Booker’s most violent frown. He motioned to her feet and mouthed for her to put her shoes on.
She did the only thing she could do.
She walked in three steps farther and sat in the third chair. “It’s okay, I know him,” she said to Booker.
Then she turned her head slightly and looked down her nose at Riley. “Why are you here?”
Riley’s smile revealed an even row of white teeth. Which held her complete attention until a firm grip on her arm wrenched her out of her chair.
“Excuse us, please.” This was from Booker, who hauled her out the door and all the way across the office. He didn’t stop until they were secluded by the coatrack next to the front door. Leaning close, he said, “What are you doing?”
Tracy tossed her head back toward Booker’s office. “He’s bad news.”
Booker backed up a step and looked at her as if she had a row of Rowdy Rouge toenails growing out of the bridge of her nose. “Oh, really?”
“He probably just came here to torment me.”
“Not exactly.” Booker stood up straight and cleared his throat. “He came to hire you.”
She sniffed. “Why would Riley need a consultant?”
Booker paused, and Tracy finally processed his statement. “You don’t mean hire Vanderveer’s?” she whispered.
Booker had crossed to her desk and was squatting to scavenge around on the floor. “No, I said hire you.”
“What for?” Tracy scowled across the room at the pair of trousered legs she could see inside Booker’s office. Even from this distance, they looked all wrong.
“He’s opening a civil engineering firm, and he wants help getting things going,” Booker said before he dropped to his knees, pulled back her chair and said, “Aha!”
Tracy had never seen her boss from this angle. The bald spot peeking out of his tidy brown hairstyle was disturbing.
Or maybe it was what he’d just said—Riley, starting a business in Kirkwood. Oh, no!
“Office setup, demographics, personal coaching—the works,” Booker said from beneath her desk. He held both of her shoes in one hand and used the seat of her chair to pull himself up.
“But I’ve never done a full consulting job,” Tracy said as she accepted a shoe and bent down to slip it on. “You said it could take another year to work up to that.”
“He said that he wants you, and that he’d pay a full month’s fees up front if you accept the job.”
Tracy stared at the wrinkles in her boss’s herringbone jacket. “You’d let me do it?”
“Let’s put it this way—if you take on the job and handle it well, you’ve got your toenails in the door.” He handed her the second shoe. “But you’d be wise to keep your shoes on at all times, got it?”
Tracy slumped down in her chair with the leftover shoe still in her hand. “Uh-huh.” She peered toward the corner office, oblivious now to the foul taste as she clicked her thumbnail between her teeth. Riley had tucked a leg back beside the chair and was beating his heel against the floor.
Impatiently. Powerfully.
Oh, Lord.
“Tracy, he’s waiting.”
She knew he was.
She slid out of the seat and walked slowly across the room, dangling one brown pump from her wet fingertip. Up and down all the way she glided, as fluidly as a carousel horse. As she stepped inside Booker’s office again, she turned back to her boss and said calmly, “Excuse us, Booker.”
And closed his door behind her.
Chapter Three
Remember, image is everything.
Raising her chin, Tracy dropped the shoe in the middle of Booker’s cherry-wood desk, then claimed his chair, too. When she found the courage to meet Riley’s eyes, she refused to cower. She opened hers wider and said, “My boss is convinced you’re starting a civil engineering company.”
“I am.”
She wasn’t completely surprised. She’d always thought Riley would become successful at something. She just wished he wasn’t planning to do it within her range of notice.
She forced a puff of air through closed lips and claimed a few seconds to collect her thoughts. “Do you know anything about engineering?”
“I did a two-year stint as associate professor of fluid mechanics and hydrology at the University of California at Berkeley,” Riley said with a confidence bordering on boastfulness. “After that, I worked for a couple of firms before I started my own.”
“You started your own?” Tracy parroted, studying Riley’s crisp blue shirt. His perfectly tailored and expensive-looking shirt. She couldn’t remember another man filling one quite so well. “Was it successful?”
He lifted broad shoulders, but she knew the answer.
“If you’ve already got a firm going, why do you need to hire an organizer?”
There was that smile again. “You told me I wouldn’t be accepted here,” he said. “So I figured you were just the lady to straighten my image.”
Tracy studied the helmet he held in his lap. It was glossy, black and spotless. As far as helmets went, it was stunning. But it didn’t fit into the business world.
She moved her eyes up to hair that was a little too long, then looked back into smoke-gray eyes. There was a trace of wildness in them, always had been, even when he was a child.
Riley could never be tamed by anyone.
Least of all her.
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” she said, searching his face again—this time for the confidant she’d known all those years ago.
“Sure you do. You’re a gold-star girl.”
Tracy rolled her eyes. After her first day of kindergarten, Riley had taken it upon himself to walk her home from the bus stop. She’d bragged all the way about the shiny stars she’d found pasted on the crayoned pictures she’d drawn that day. Riley had never let her forget it.
“Riley, please,” she said, lowering her voice. “Booker’s never offered me a chance at promotion before. If I blow it, he may never again. I can’t risk my job. I have a little girl at home.”
Riley looked pointedly at the shoe she’d left on the desk between them. “How old did you say you were?”
She grabbed the shoe. “I’m twenty-nine, as you very well know.”
His eyes returned to hers. “And you’re a gofer?”
She sat up straighter. The shoe in her hand dropped to the floor with a clatter. “My title is office manager.”
“I see,” he said, lifting his eyebrows and nodding as if he was impressed. “You’re a dressed-up gofer.”
Scowling, she busied herself extending her foot to pull her shoe closer and tip it upright so she could slip it on.
“Can you afford not to take this chance?” he said next.
That was her problem—she’d been begging for this chance for more than a year. She wanted and deserved a promotion. The adoption had depleted her savings, and now she was working nonstop to pay her monthly bills. If she or Hannah had any kind of emergency, she’d barely land on her feet.
But she could not work with Riley Collins.
She was well versed in Booker’s views of business savvy. He wouldn’t understand an outright refusal. An opportunity was an opportunity, and you didn’t turn down a client because his regard made you uncomfortable.
And since Tracy couldn’t explain the history of Riley and her sister without sounding like a whiner with a long memory, she’d have to make an appearance of considering the job. Maybe if she got Riley away from this office, she could figure out his game and let him know he wasn’t allowed to make up the rules. It might take a few hours, but the cause was worthwhile. After that, she could work doubly hard to catch up and take a stack of reports home again. If Hannah was allowed to finger paint, she wouldn’t care if her mom spent another evening typing.
With as much ice as she could muster, Tracy said, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to assess your situation to see whether there’s anything I can do for you.” When she finished speaking, her heart was racing.
“Great.” Riley put his motorcycle helmet on the floor, stood up and extended his hand across the desk for a shake.
Tracy looked at his hand, but kept both of hers folded in her lap. She’d taken the same hand in hers often enough in childhood, but that had been a long time ago. Accepting it seemed dangerous now.
She ignored it and stayed seated. “To be fair, I’ll only take the job if I think I can handle it. If you require more expert assistance, Booker will have to handle your needs.”
Finally she stood and pressed her hand into Riley’s. Although the handshake was firm, Tracy knew they were solemnizing a deceptive agreement. And not only on Riley’s end. She was planning to use the loophole she’d just announced to her full advantage.
Booker may have his sights on the bottom line, but taking the job was her choice. Now that Tracy’s toenails were wedged inside the door, she’d find an excuse to send Riley packing and take the next opportunity for promotion.
“I think you’ll find you and I are a perfect fit,” Riley said with a warm squeeze.
Tracy’s eyes flew to his face, wondering if the double entendre was intentional. But his expression made a grand appearance of innocence.
Grand and obviously false.
One look at the upward curl at one corner of his mouth gave that away. She didn’t believe the man had any moments of actual innocence. She tugged her hand away. “Shall we do the initial consult at your office, so I can look around?”
“Absolutely.” Riley patted his shirt pocket, then both pants pockets. Finally he reached across the desk and snatched Booker’s favorite gold-filigree pen and a business card from their holders.
Typical. Hadn’t Riley always taken what he wanted, regardless of the consequences?
He slapped the card blank side up on the desk and scrawled some writing across it. “Here’s the address and phone number,” he said, handing it to her. “The name is Collins Engineering, but I don’t have a sign up yet.”
Tracy put the card in her jacket pocket without reading it. “Will a two o’clock appointment work for you?”
“It will if we’re talking about this afternoon.”
She’d meant this afternoon. She’d meant to get it over with as soon as possible. But suddenly an extra day or two sounded smarter. She’d have time for her stomach to unclench and her heart to slow down. “Oh! No, I meant tomorr—Wednesday. I meant Wednesday.”
“I’d prefer earlier in the week,” Riley said, his eyes twinkling as if he’d won some sort of challenge. “But any afternoon is fine.”
“Then it’s settled.” Tracy stretched out her hand for Booker’s pen. When Riley dropped it in her palm, she opened Booker’s appointment book and made an entry. “I’ll be there at nine o’clock sharp…Thursday morning.” She shot a grin across the desk as she slid the pen back in its holder, and wondered why her little victory felt as false as her smile.
THREE MORNINGS LATER, she knew why.
The delay wasn’t a triumph, it was a curse. The few days’ respite had been counterproductive, and she’d accomplished little beyond chewing her nails to the quick.
Last night, she’d allowed Hannah to help her make cupcakes for the day care’s spring party. Tracy had lost patience before they’d managed to add even two simple ingredients to the mix. Then, after a half hour struggle with dropped eggs and spilled vegetable oil, Tracy had let the cakes burn in the oven. Hannah had been allowed to eat the candy decorations, and Tracy had promised to buy special treats at the grocery store.
She’d been sluggish at work, too. After three days of misplaced files, cutoff phone conversations and computer crashes, Booker had asked if she was short of sleep. She’d made up a litany of other excuses, mostly relating to single parenthood and moon phases, but she knew they weren’t the cause.
She was reminded that first instincts were often best. She should have met Riley at his office ten minutes after he left Booker’s.
Now she was in the basement of her parents’ home watching her mother transfer another bundle of clothes from her suitcase to her washing machine and add a capful of soap. “What time did you get home last night?” she asked, studying her mother’s profile.
Gwen Gilbert had never been less than gorgeous. Even when she was lying in a hospital bed with tubes poking out of absurd places, her blond good looks had seemed graceful. This morning she was stunning, humming under her breath and pink with good cheer. The getaway had worked wonders.
“Matthew and I drove straight through from Cincinnati, so it was well after dark,” her mother said, turning on the water and closing the lid. “But I really wasn’t paying attention to the time.” She began pulling clothes from the dryer.
“Hannah and I came by at dusk,” Tracy said. “I watered your gardens.” And kept an eye on your next door neighbor’s house. Have you noticed him over there yet?
Tracy’s mother wrapped an arm around Tracy’s shoulders, offering a quick squeeze. “Thanks. I don’t regret the extra time we took to see the flower show, but I’m sorry we missed you and Hannah.”
I wondered where he was, and when he trimmed the bush at the corner of the house. Did you notice that?
Her mother started up the stairs. “Let’s take the laundry to the living room,” she said. “We can talk and fold.”
Tracy picked up the laundry basket and followed her mother upstairs to dump the clothes on the sofa. After they’d sorted for a minute, Tracy said, “You had a good time?”
“You’ve asked me that three times,” her mother said. “I’ve answered yes every time. It was wonderful.” Smiling, she matched a pair of white crew socks and rolled them together. “Is something on your mind?”
Tracy caught the neck band of one of her stepdad’s shirts under her chin, folding the arms in. “What do you mean?”
“It’s Thursday morning and you’re not only dressed for work, you’re late for work,” her mother said. “You’re usually punctual. And we were only gone eight days—you could have brought Hannah to visit this evening.”
Tracy smiled as she set the shirt on the arm of the sofa. “I guess you know me.”
“Yes, I do. What’s wrong?”
Did you notice a new crackle in the air around Kirkwood?
“Have you noticed anything going on next door?”
“Next door?”
Both women glanced up as Matthew Gilbert walked into the living room, jangling his keys in his pocket and whistling.
Tracy had been introduced to Matthew when she was ten. She’d liked him from the start, but he’d been “Matthew my mom’s friend” for quite a while. Eventually, he’d married her mother and adopted both girls. He’d been Dad to Tracy ever since.
He paused long enough to plant a kiss atop her mother’s head, continuing his tune on his way to the front door. Apparently, the trip had put him in a good mood, too.
“Dad, wait,” Tracy said.
Matthew’s whistle changed to a grin. “I’ve got a class to teach this morning, Teacup.”
“I have an appointment, too. This’ll only take a minute.”
With the affability that made him eternally popular with freshman chemistry students at the university, her stepdad returned and gave Tracy his undivided attention. “What’ll only take a minute?”
“I wanted to tell you, someone moved into Lydia’s old house while you were gone.”
“We knew someone would buy it,” Matthew said with a frown. “The house needs a little TLC, but it’s structurally sound.”
Tracy sighed. “Riley’s living there.”
Her mother seemed vacant for a minute, then she gasped. “Riley Collins?”
Tracy nodded, watching both her mom and Matthew change from happy to thoughtful. “He’s planning to open a business in town,” she explained.
“I figured Lydia would try to sell the place,” Matthew said, frowning across at Tracy’s mother.
“Maybe Riley’s buying it,” her mother said.
No one spoke for a minute. Tracy’s green eyes traveled between her mother’s blue ones and her stepdad’s brown ones, waiting for their reactions. They traded the look they’d always traded when they wanted to discuss something in private. Karen had dubbed it the “worried-parent look,” and had compared it to spelling words in front of a toddler.
But Tracy wasn’t a child anymore, and she wanted to know their thoughts. Did the night of Karen and Riley’s departure still bother them as much as it did her? She swallowed. “You won’t mind having him as a neighbor?”
Her mother shrugged.
Tracy shook her head. She’d hoped one of them would say something to help her feel less agitated. If they couldn’t do that, she’d wanted them to say something to make refusing the job her only recourse.
“Riley hurt our family once, but he was young,” Matthew said as he stood up. “It’s ancient history. I’ve got to scoot, but we can talk when you come to dinner on Sunday.”
As her mother walked Matthew out to his car, Tracy checked her watch. Since she was meeting with Riley early, she could go straight to his office in twenty minutes. This morning’s cornflakes felt as if they’d sprouted wings. Tracy was reminded that she was not good at procrastinating.
When her mother returned, Tracy said, “I’m glad you’re okay with this, because I may be working with Riley.”
Her mother blinked. “In what aspect?”
“As an organizer. He went to Booker and asked for me.”
“That’s good, I guess.” Gwen frowned as she tossed another rolled pair of socks onto the done pile.
Tracy frowned, too. “I’m afraid he’s got some ulterior motive. People don’t request a novice.”
“Who knows?” her mother said. “Just be careful, love.”
Right. Just be careful. Solid parenting advice, but not a reason for refusal. Tracy looked at her watch again, and felt her heart take off after the cornflakes.
Ten minutes left.
She swallowed. “He flirts with me,” she stated softly.
Her mother tilted her head. “How so?”
Tracy sighed. “The way a man flirts with a woman.”
Her mother’s frown returned as she began to place the folded clothes back in the basket. “Well, he always liked you, but I wouldn’t flirt back.” She sighed and shook her head. “I’m just glad you’re here and not your sister.”
Right. Tracy was the trustworthy sister. She was the one Riley might tease but would never touch.
“Will Karen care that he’s here?” Tracy wondered aloud.
“I doubt it,” her mother said. “She told me she’s been seeing a marriage counselor. She’s trying to change.”
“She is.” Tracy was skeptical.
“Yes, and as your dad said, it’s ancient history.”
There it was again. The phrase they were all associating with Riley—ancient history. He couldn’t harm her because the harm he’d caused was a long time ago. He shouldn’t upset her because everyone deserved a second chance. He wouldn’t seduce her because she wasn’t the sister he’d seduced before. Tracy knew that’s what they were really saying.
But she also knew Riley would affect her in some profound way she didn’t want affected. And whether anyone said it or not, Riley Collins wasn’t ancient history anymore.
While that worried Tracy plenty, it also pleased some mixed-up inner need in her soul. The fact that he was the hottest man she’d seen in a while was the most troubling realization of all.
Without bothering to check the time, Tracy slipped on her shoes and kissed her mother’s cheek. Judging from the sorry state of her nervous system, it was time to go.
KIRKWOOD’S LARGEST employer was the university, and its biggest claim to fame was the man-made lake and campgrounds nestled in the hills near its northern edge. A constantly rotating collection of college students and university staff ensured a steady economy, but most of the businesses had moved away from downtown to the trendier East Side.
Tracy was familiar with the address Riley had given her. The office space was generous, and it was situated between a pet-grooming shop and an insurance agency. The previous occupant had sold holdover items from the sixties—tie-dyed shirts, incense and hand-dipped candles—before packing up and heading to places unknown.
As Tracy pulled into the parking spot closest to the blacked-out door of the vacated Hippie Hut, she wondered at the absence of Riley’s motorcycle. A chime announced her arrival as soon as she opened the door, but a large light table three feet inside blocked her path. She couldn’t get through unless she got down on her knees and squeezed through a narrow opening underneath the desk.
Even then, successful entry was questionable. Beyond the light table, file cabinets were stacked side by side along the floor. Faint tones of a Pink Floyd song filtered in from somewhere in the background, but Tracy detected no other sounds to give away Riley’s whereabouts.
“Anyone here?” she called, keeping one hand on the door. If he didn’t greet her within twenty seconds, she’d have her excuse to leave. She could explain to Booker that the client was obviously not serious about hiring her services, and get on with her life.
“I’m in back,” Riley said from beyond the chaos.
“I can’t get through.”
“Right. I’ll come to you.”
Tracy set her brand-new leather briefcase on the table and tried not to notice the disarray. Office organization was her particular area of expertise and Booker’s main reason for hiring her. As much as she hated to admit it, she could do this part of the job.
After a moment, she was startled by the repeat of the door chime behind her. She turned around and noted the jeans and red T-shirt Riley had donned for this meeting. Except for the green bandana he’d wrapped around his head, this version of Riley wasn’t vastly different from the teenager she’d known so well.
“Guess you’ll have to come this way,” he said, turning to head back out the door.
She followed him across the storefronts. He strode past the pet-grooming shop without noticing the patron exiting its door, but the woman’s appreciative smile—she’d doubtless noticed Riley’s inarguably buff backside—was enough to make Tracy miss a step. Two miniature schnauzers on matching pink leashes tugged the woman along, and Tracy paused to let the trio trot past.
Riley turned at the opening to an alleyway. When he leaned against the redbrick wall of the building to wait for her, she caught a flash of gold underneath the green cloth. An earring?
He’d transformed to pirate. When she reached his side, he furthered the impression by staring boldly at her with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Only an eye patch, a sword and jug of ale would be necessary to complete the picture.
“How long till you open for business?” she asked as she waited for him to stop staring and start walking.
“Two months, max,” he answered. “I’d like to be set up and operating by midsummer, but I need to hire a crew.”
“Take your time,” she advised. “Two months would be barely enough time to shape up your…uh, ship.”
“Then you’d better work fast.” Riley pushed away from the wall and started down the alley.
He definitely had a stud in one ear. The bandana held his hair back from his face to reveal it. Image coaching might not be Tracy’s greatest strength, but Booker had sent her to classes. She could handle that, too.
The sound of a big dog’s bark caught her attention, and Tracy glanced back toward the front of the alley. She shivered, aware that she and Riley were alone in the shadowed space.
Her attraction to him was undeniable.
When the alley opened onto a back lot full of trash bins and parked cars, Tracy felt a mixture of regret and relief. She knew she shouldn’t relish being alone with him, but the walk had reminded her of the many childhood adventures he’d shared with her. Some days it might be a ring-neck snake they discovered under a rock, other days a fort he’d built in the woods, but she’d often been pulled along behind Riley as he led the way to some new discovery. She’d always felt protected.
Tracy hadn’t felt that way for a long, long time. These days, she was the strong one. Devoted mother, thoughtful daughter, hardworking employee and sympathetic friend.
Noting the gleaming motorcycle Riley had parked near a dented purple delivery door, Tracy wasn’t surprised when he pulled that door open. He stepped out of the way but kept his arm stretched over the doorway so she’d have to enter beneath his arm.
Was he toying with her? Ignoring the notion, she stepped under his arm into a long room that smelled like sandalwood. This must have been the previous occupant’s storeroom.
Riley scooped a pile of folders off a computer chair and tossed them on the floor. “Have a seat,” he said.
With her mind on making a professional appearance, Tracy sat down and crossed her legs at the ankles, then slammed both feet flat on the floor when the chair began to roll across the smooth tile. She’d scarcely regained her equilibrium, when she remembered she’d left her briefcase around front, on the light table.
Yesterday she’d given up six months’ clothing budget and her entire lunch hour to shop for the case. She’d wanted to appear credible when she turned down the job.
But Booker had dubbed her Ms. Superefficient for a reason. She’d take mental notes. Folding her hands in her lap, Tracy waited while Riley turned a metal trash can on its open end and sat down on top. Even at thirty-one, he was too restless to sit on a normal chair, like a normal person.
She pulled her eyes away from his flexed thighs and peeked through the door at the accumulation of boxes and furniture in the front-office space. “Typically, I would spend this time looking around your office,” she announced with a frown. “Then I would write a proposal.”
“You can do that after I clear a pathway,” he said. “Why don’t you start with my image. What would you advise me to do to appear more respectable and professional.”
Of course, his image was the bigger challenge.
“Are you sure you want to open a business here?” Tracy asked, studying his ear stud. When she remembered Nellie’s comment, she added, “You are Otto’s son. People are wondering if you’re hiding out. Or running from something.”
Riley kept his narrowed eyes adhered to hers. “I haven’t seen my father in thirteen years,” he said. And shrugged. “I came back because this is home.”
Tracy knew he’d read her expression when he added, “I know this town hasn’t forgiven my misspent youth, nor my biological tie to Otto. That’s why I’m hiring you.”
“If I were to take the job, you’d have to listen to my advice,” Tracy said with a frown.
He swept a hand down his chest. “Advise away.”
She peered at his earlobe. “Lose the earring.”
He fingered the stud. “This? It’s hardly noticeable.”
“I noticed it.”
Shivering at the look he slipped down her body, Tracy said, “This is the Midwest. At least some of the folks who are affluent enough to require an engineer’s services have never caught on to male jewelry.”
She noticed Riley’s smirk and said, “If you won’t listen to my advice, we can forget the whole thing.”
When a grin exploded across his face, Tracy realized she’d sounded shrill. She’d probably reminded him of the young girl who’d once spent an hour trying to convince him that a lemonade stand was a good idea—even though their parents were the only probable customers.
Except this time the tone worked. Riley reached up and removed the stud. “What next?”
That was easy enough, but the removal of his earring hadn’t done the job. Maybe the bandana would do the trick. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “The bandana.”
He swiped it off, and a lock of hair fell across his forehead, only making him seem sexier and more piratelike, if that was possible. Tracy frowned as she watched him fold the cloth. “That’s better,” she lied. “But you need a haircut.”
He shrugged, and lifted a hip to slip the green square into his back pocket. “I was overdue, anyway. What else?”
She almost giggled. The next suggestion was the coup de grâce. “The motorcycle.”
His eyes grew serious. “What about it?”
“It doesn’t mesh with a professional appearance, and it would remind most folks of your renegade tendencies.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “What else?”
She leaned in and spoke softly. “Watch what you do. Word gets around, even in a town the size of Kirkwood. But you know that.”
His eyes bored into hers, and she recognized her friend.
She also recognized the pain of betrayal, but she wasn’t sure whose—his or hers.
She hopped off the chair and started pacing. “Attending a few civic events wouldn’t be a bad idea,” she said. “And start looking for pet charities.”
“Sure,” he said, causing her to stop walking and study his face. He sounded too agreeable. “Is that all?”
Tracy noted the angled grin. The laughing eyes. The rise and fall of that muscled chest. She sighed. Some things, she wouldn’t ask him to change. “For now.”
“I can do every single thing you named, except one,” he said as he stood and tipped the trash upright.
“What’s that?”
“I won’t lose the bike.”
She shrugged. “Is it worth having affluent members of the community avoid your business because they think you’re a member of some biker gang?”
“Absolutely.”
She opened her mouth, prepared to argue, but he didn’t give her time.
“I could show you why I want to ride it,” he said.
She laughed. He’d sounded just like the boy who had been her constant companion through childhood. Until he’d reached puberty and discovered other girls.
And then her sister.
Tracy’s smile tightened until her cheeks hurt. “That’s not necessary,” she said, wincing at her prim tone.
Her place in Riley’s adult life was professional, at best. She couldn’t allow herself to feel close to him.
And she needed to get out of here.
She barely had the brainpower to further her plan, but she knew it’d be wise to continue her show of acceptance. As if it were base in a childhood game of tag, she backed up to the purple door and put her hand on the knob. “I’ll send over a fee schedule,” she said as she scanned the room for her car keys. “And give you the weekend to think about it.”
Procrastinating again, but it was the only option she had. Since the office visit hadn’t provided her with a clue to Riley’s motives, she’d have to exhaust a few sources from home. She’d do an Internet search and make a phone call or two, then on Monday morning she could hand Booker a list of all the reasons she couldn’t take the job. Maybe he would take pity on her and do the consultation himself.
Or better yet, maybe Riley would have gotten into trouble by then and left.
The keys were nowhere. Tracy remembered that she’d transferred them to her briefcase after she parked. The same case that was now around front on the light table.
So much for Ms. Superefficient.
“You’d need to know what sort of expenses you would incur by using me,” she said. As Tracy heard the mischosen words fall out of her mouth, she cringed, waiting for the corners of Riley’s mouth to lift.
She wasn’t disappointed. He had his mischievous smile down to a science. “I’m sure you’re worth any price.”
She didn’t return the smile. “Although it does seem as though you could benefit from help with organization, I’m not sure it would be wise for the two of us to team up.”
At his questioning expression, she explained, “This is a big job for an inexperienced organizer.”
He shook his head. “The gold-star girl could have organized this office at fifteen.”
The cornflakes fluttered as Tracy stared out at the clutter of Riley’s front office. He was right. That was the sort of turmoil she could handle. Her fingers were practically itching to sort through binders, revamp the filing system and map out the most efficient use of space.
She offered him a brisk smile. “I’m going back around front to retrieve my briefcase, but you don’t need to walk me out. Will you be here Monday?”
He nodded.
“I’ll call you then,” she promised.
Finally she turned the door handle and stepped outside. Before the door closed between them, she couldn’t resist a final look back.
Her heart quickened at the too-long hair and wickedly handsome expression—just as she’d known it would. And when he winked at her, she felt a definite pang of desire.
Which was exactly the sort of turmoil she couldn’t handle.
Chapter Four
Tracy stared out at the quiet street in front of the duplex. The midevening surge of vehicles and pedestrians on the through street had died down. Most of the neighborhood residents must have returned from their dinners and soccer games and would now be tucked away inside preparing for work or school tomorrow.
Inside the duplex, things weren’t so serene. Oh, Hannah was happy enough. She was in her room listening to music and coloring with a new set of markers. Tracy had brought them out from her secret stash of emergency toys in a ploy to keep Hannah entertained, and it was working beautifully.
Nothing else was. Tracy’s computer search had been useless. Every one of her checks had panned out. R. Collins had been listed in Berkeley’s engineering-course catalog for a two-year stretch; Collins Engineering had been listed as an Oakland Chamber of Commerce member for the past four.
Riley must be on the up-and-up.
And Tracy’s list of pros for taking the job was much longer than her list of cons. That side had only one item, really: he was dangerous.
But if her reason for denying the work was only personal, Booker would never understand. Tracy couldn’t tell her boss that the potential client was too sexy or that her sister had run off with him thirteen years ago. Booker would tell her to go home and put a cool cloth to her head.
Scooping Claus off the printer stand, Tracy nestled him on her lap and stroked his back. The cat’s purr made his pleasure obvious, but Tracy was no less agitated. Unless she came up with a scheme of her own, she was going to spend the next little while working with Riley Collins.
There had to be some other out. If she feigned a sudden and chronic illness, Tracy could call in sick every day until Booker finished the job or hired someone else to do it. But she had only three personal-leave days left. When they ran out, she wouldn’t be paid. Bills would pile up, and she and Hannah could wind up on the street.
Claus jumped down with a thud, and Tracy realized she had stopped petting and was clicking a thumbnail between her teeth. She pulled it away and watched the cat jump back up on the printer stand. Before he crawled into his favorite cubbyhole, he bobbed his head curiously at the cell phone Tracy had set next to the printer.
“You’re right,” Tracy murmured to Claus. “One phone call could provide my excuse. I’ll call Karen.”
Though Tracy’s sister hadn’t been Riley’s girlfriend for long, she’d been close enough to be able to hazard a guess about his motives. Besides, she must have cared a lot for Riley back then. If this new association provoked a single hurt feeling in her sister, Tracy would turn down the job. If Booker wanted to penalize her for protecting a family member, then so be it. She’d keep plodding along at the job she already had.
Listening intently, Tracy heard Hannah singing along to her audiotape. The timing was good. After punching in the string of numbers that would ring Karen’s posh apartment in San Diego, Tracy listened to the phone ring twice and hoped the time difference would put Alan, her brother-in-law, on his after-work jog.
Karen’s voice came on the line, offering a cool hello.
“Hi, Karen. Is this a good time to talk?”
“It’s a great time.” Her sister’s voice warmed.
“Is Alan out running?”
“No, he’s working late.” Karen chuckled. “I’m lounging on the sofa with a glass of wine and a gossip magazine.”
“Sounds relaxing.”
“Yes.” In one syllable, her sister’s voice cooled again. Tracy knew her sister was still nervous about this marriage. Alan provided well for Karen, but he could be controlling. Although Karen seemed willing to comply with his rigid demands for dinner at a specified time, a spotless house and careful upkeep of their clothing, Tracy wondered if her older sister was truly happy. Picturing the handsome but stern man she’d met only once, Tracy asked the question she worried about often: “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. How’s Mom?”
“Better every day.” Tracy carried the phone to her night table in the opposite corner of the bedroom. “She has a new neighb—”
“Hang on,” her sister interrupted.
Tracy heard the closing of a door, followed by a man’s deep voice. Alan must have arrived home. If Tracy guessed correctly, Karen had stuffed her magazine under the sofa cushion and was rushing to the door for a kiss and her husband’s approval.
Tracy stretched across her bed to wait. Evening light slanted across the foot of the bed, illuminating a scattering of stuffed animals Hannah had left there earlier. Alan probably wouldn’t allow a child to play in his room, but Tracy enjoyed her daughter’s company. She was reminded of the main reason she was a single mom. Finding the right man seemed a formidable task. Too many women settled for good enough and hung on despite a lasting discontent. Others, like her sister, kept starting over.
Tracy had given up her prerogative to make that sort of mistake when she’d adopted a child. Hannah deserved a stable home. Tracy wouldn’t upset the precarious balance of their everyday life until she knew the risk was worth taking. And so, men who were clearly wrong were turned down graciously but immediately. These were the men who were too drunk, too dreary, too married or too anything else. The obvious won’t-works. Every once in a while, Tracy went through a hopeful cycle. An exceptional man would have entered her life and made her care enough to think future thoughts—until something happened to move him down to won’t-work status.
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